Dear (_____)

Dearest OCD,

No.  Okay?  Enough is enough.  And what the hell is that whispering?  Funcussions, am I right?  But seriously though.  No.




Sincerely,

What in the hell is that whispering???  Damnit, am I hearing things again?  Yep. 

P.S. go home OCD... do not make me go get the hose.  

Fear

I haven't been scared in a long time.   I know that I am going deaf from blasting music.  I know that I am forgetting things intentionally from my childhood and some of being an adult.  The methods of deletion are bleeding across boundaries and I'm beginning to forget things I'm supposed to remember.  Long term memory redactions are becoming short term memory blanks.

I don't know where it ends.  I do know I forced the process on myself.  I don't know which part of it is engineered and which part is a symptom of myself .

I'm afraid.  I'm afraid that I may have caught the tiger by its tail or if it has sunk its teeth into my arm and I don't know it yet because I can't see it.

Dear (_____)

Dear bipolarity,

I've fastened my belts and engaged crumple zones and automatic protocols to preserve my innards should operational capacity exceed framework and operational capabilities.  We are pushing toward the sun at about 120% normal power.  Cooling vanes are opened.  I do know it's not the flameout that kills; trying to reset and restart the engine in free fall and the sudden stop of the crash when you can't remember the right sequence in a panic is.  

I don't know why I was built with extra engine parts.  The cockpit rumbles and rattles toward the exosphere.  If we can keep it under 150% we may be able to get a glimpse of the stars after the blue fades.  If we get over 150% there is a real risk the engines will not be gulping air, but vacuum, without enough speed to carry us into orbit and will instead begin a very very very fast descent.  Followed by a fireball.

I don't need readouts to know the ins and outs of you.  What I do need is to see how far we have to go before we see the dust of the Milky Way.

Sincerely,

a pilot

I Know It's Going To Be A Rough Day and That's Okay

I've been trying to arrest my emotions for two days and here we are at day three.  I can't allow life to seize up and die.  This morning, poking the tines of my work into the middle of a sunny side up egg on a piece of medium tough toast with a shake of a salt and a dollop of syrup beside it, I am afraid.  I used to call Annie, I used to call Alexis, I used to call my psychiatrist, my therapist, myself, when fear gripped me.  I haven't been able to eat willingly so I am preparing to chop up an egg into a little toast and see where it goes.  Maybe we will cut up a clementine into quarters and have that in lieu of juice.

My emotions are still all over the place.  Stitched together with some will and a little self motivational glue and a little music.  I know I am going to cry today and I won't be able to stop it, but I will make myself go to work as best I can.  There will be a lot of difficult exchanges of conversations today.  "You look awful."  "Are you okay?"  I know and no.  Walking through hardware stores and to the bank and to the grocery to buy more food to force myself to eat.  I cannot allow myself to curl up and die.  I cannot allow myself to see people.  I have to turn everything inward to generate enough power to keep my sun from collapsing into a singularity.

Hysterical laughter tearing through my lungs and tears staining the floor between my boots while I stand in lines.  Eyes red and sunken and lips cracked from grinning and grimacing.  Doubling over in hacking coughs and dry heaves that will not stop.  Questioning, screaming, begging the snowy sky why there is no magic pill, but there is a magic bullet.  It's not going to be easy.   Please don't talk to me.  I know I am a mess and nothing will help more than time alone.  Thank you for understanding.




///Philip Selway - "Coming Up For Air"

When Is Enough

The difficulty of motivation is obvious to anyone who has bothered to write, or paint, or draw, or work, or invest any part of themselves in an activity or pursuit that is painful, uncomfortable, or plain not easy.

When is enough far enough?  What do I want?  What do I want to accomplish?  What do I need?  What can I disallow myself?  What must I disallow myself?  When I was younger, growing up through early adulthood, I heard so many "no"s.  Everyone and every system telling me what I can not do, where I could not go, who I could not speak to, when I must disappear.  Molded and shaped by the enclosure, dreams fade.  Fade until they're forgotten because it hurt too much to bring it back into consideration every day, every week, every year, to see that not only was I no closer to anything I set out to do to satisfy my soul and mind, but I was further from it than I was the year before.  The mind falling apart.  The costs of keeping it together steadily rising.  People telling you again and again what your ceiling is, not out of a fear of what I could do, but out of a strange compassion for seeing the war fought inside to maintain a level of sanity and "normal" against mental disorders eating away at the fringes of my consciousness.

Can I be content now?  What else do I want?  To be left alone.  There is still a lot of work to do to arrive there.  That may be the only ultimate goal.  To be left alone with the things living inside my head and a few animals to keep me company.  People are out of the question.  They can be trusted, but they are out of the question as quarters draw closer and closer.  There is not enough space now.  That is what I need.  I suppose a bit of both.  Can I be content now?  As long as I can avoid hurting myself too intensely, too viciously, I won't need health insurance.  I will likely only live to 60 or so.  Would it be that far a leap of madness to arrive to that end 15 years early?  No.  Would it be foolish to drag my feet to that end 15, 20, 30 years beyond?  Absolutely.  Don't be absurd.

I can hardly maintain a conscious coherent line of action for 12 hours because I have to lie in bed for 12 hours because I can't sleep for more than two hours at a time before I wake up and need an hour to get back to sleep.  To achieve an eight hour work day, I need four hours to prepare and four to undo the damages, eat, unpack the interactions, bathe, and prepare for sleep.  Every where I look I am losing time in human maintenance that is impossible to make up elsewhere inside the sweep of the clock.  Until I melt down, lose control, and fall apart in a heap of wails, tears, and broken tissue, begging for an end to the insanity of trying to fit myself into these chains of events for money.

How long do you keep smashing your own extremities with a peen hammer before you wake up and decide this is as far as I am willing to go and I am going to learn to live in this tiny cage and make it work because I know I or some around me will die if I try to reach any further.  Life is long.  Many people can race along it's rivers.  I am not one of those people.  I've got no use for your money.  I wish I had no use for your money, is more accurate.  I suppose that is where I am heading.  Retirement is another name for being left alone to leave life in peace and enough isolation to prevent anyone around you from being hurt and to be able to let myself live among the shadows in my head openly and happily with everything I need to survive until my body fails.  Retirement is a pipe dream.  I'll find another way.

When is enough?  When I have my own paid off house in the middle of a thickly wooded wilderness or some cottage at the end of a one lane drive to the vanishing point of a horizon plain?  When I've found a place in the world where I can not be found?  A place to hide and mend and dance with my broken brain and that's all I have to do to continue to see sun's rise?  I don't want to think about it now.  Enough is not yet.  I have to keep chugging along down the damned river, occasionally stopping to fish, at a blisteringly fast (to me) half knot and continue to hope and strive for the best and make due with repairs whenever its engine sputters and dies and hope I don't run out of supplies or the some day passerby who toss me a pipe, wrench, or a handful of wire harness to keep it going until I reach my tributary to one side or the other to glide down and stake claim to a bit of land no one will find for ages after I'm gone.

Who knows when enough is.  I do know I am not close yet and as much as I want now to be that place, it is not.  Wrestling with motivation won't get you killed.  Picking up the hammer eventually will.




///Jon Hopkins - "Candles"

Caps Locked, Similar

I think the biggest thing to get out of the way was talking about how locked up I was becoming.  It still governs everything and every choice that I make.  The way that my mind works.  I don't like to think of it as a disability, it is.  Talking to my eternal optimist.  The children are in the classroom.  It's a bit soggy and untrue, but it is you too!

It really is.  Will you dance with me?  We can have a fabulous time, a gorgeous time, a wonderfurousfantabugloriousshanannigonkulous time.  HAHAHAHA  oh yes, oh yes.  No bass necessary if you are willing to cut a rug.  Down butler street to penn avenue to the point and back up the river trail underneath 40th street bridge and up top on 62nd to watch the sun rise.  Kill em, kill em, kill em, ac dc-s? That was a good drum break.

Some things make me smile and I don't want to back everything over it like trying to kill a raccoon you hit at five A.M. If hand outs are coming out lets enjoy them and be one with the weekend.  No?  Obviously, you have no nerves in your extremities because I defy you to try and find hard drugs that are not spray paint and brick based at this hour.  



///Starkey - (Eris)    up from the depths

The Two Dimensional Garage, Jury Duty, and the Furnace

I continue to not eat.  I don't know why.  Well, I do know why: it's very difficult to do regularly.  In short, it's hard.  That's not a reason.  That doesn't qualify as a reason.  That's an excuse.  It's a reason!  I know it's a reason because I like food.  I like shopping for food.  I like looking at food.  I like cleaning and preparing food.  I simply cannot eat it and I don't know why it is so difficult to get food from in front of me to inside of me.

Eating with people is still so strange and, for the most part, to be avoided.  It's incredibly uncomfortable.  It makes my forearms itch to watch and listen to it.  It's not disgusting, but mechanically it's draining to be around, and then people ask you why you're not eating and it turns into a whole thing and just thinking about it now I want to vomit.  It's difficult to do.  I don't understand it.  I try to do it, the feeding, but even two a day is a break through.  Once is enough.  Get it down and out of the way and forget about it.  Go to bed.  Sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep.  You can't run yourself into trouble if you're asleep.

I'm not sure what.  You can see all of the colors and the sun's light and clouds and birds and it flattens  and smears out to gray.  There are things you have to do.  Things that must be done.  Feeding, washing, resting.  Sometimes it feels like a two dimensional garage.  A plastic play place facsimile of garage where everything is laid out inside white lines.  You get up and everything is numbered in order.  You take this off and put that on, brush this, comb through that, turn knobs here and there, check your fuel gauge, off to work little guy, home, and into bed to lie awake until your brain turns itself off.

There's nothing special.  There's nothing important.  There's nothing pressing.  There's nothing.  The routine is critically important.  The more rigid the better, I used to think.  I'm not so sure.  With familiarity, brutal and starkly lit familiarity, there are fewer opportunities for mistakes, misreadings, miscues, misses.  All of them.  Destructive and damaging misses.  Misses that can affect my relationships with friends or neighbors and strangers.  Fewer opportunities for misses that can lead to depressions and emotional collapses.  Fewer opportunities for problems to arise all across the board, because of something I saw or heard and reacted to or engaged with that later proved to never have existed at all beyond my own eyes.

Brute force coping.  Except even that fails and begins to deteriorate and then you can't be at work and you can't be at home either and you hide from them by sleeping as much as you possibly can and maybe this time when you wake up they'll be gone and they're not and you're quietly terrified and you can't be out of the house for too long, and you can't be awake for too long.  They'll know.  Turn your world into a two dimensional garage and nail the windows shut and paint them black so they can't get inside and they won't be able to tell if anyone is awake at night by candle light.  To be safe and certain.  They'll try to fool you, but you know.  You know what you have to do to live.  It's all laid out by numbers and if something goes missing you know exactly what it is because its outline will be there in its absence.

I've tried for years to understand it.  I say tried, but it is not as though the attempts to understand it have reached their conclusion.  They are ongoing.  It is very difficult to prioritize.  There are many things to complete, and all they all strike me as the same.  Eating or a glass of water are as important as going to work or placing critical phone calls.  As important or as unimportant.  Prioritization has stepped away and I don't know where exactly to.  I want to feel the sensation of hot blood across the surface of my skin.  I am trying to summon the rage that fills and fires the furnace that can push me forward into and through a day or a week.  By the end, there isn't much left.  The weekend or the month's end will be composed of reassembling what is left of the furnace when I have to use it and over use it.  Picking up and bending sections and pieces back into place for having to contain for lengths and lengths of time roiling licks of anger and sheer rage.

I hate myself.  I hate having to force on smiles and eat back tears and shake hands.  I hate that I have so much trouble getting into and keeping jobs.  I'm lucky enough to have a position now that is fairly flexible and accommodating.  I'm afraid of the day the unpredictable nature of my disorder will strike me with no warning with a ferocity and depth of intensity that I.  I just don't want to hurt anyone.  Often I've said my main desire in this life is to be left alone, but that's not because I want to be left alone.

Isolation is the only way.  Every day I know I am going to die alone.  I cannot be married.  I cannot raise children.  I cannot take care of someone else.  I cannot ask someone to help me take care of myself.  I completely understand.  It would not be fair.  Beyond fairness, and the idea that trying to build a home with someone who is afflicted and, for lack of a better word, damaged it would be hazardous on many other levels.  At least isolated there is a very large zone of dead space, neutral space, physically speaking, but isolated there is also a zone of communications that can be closed off and shut down until a time arises when they can be safely used again.  Whatever damage is done is localized and hopefully hidden from those who would be part of relationships tended.  That way when communications and visitations resume they can be pursued with the cues and tips and exchanges of normalcy and proportions near normalcy that govern civil life.

Which brings me to jury duty.  There was the questionaire about all of the reasons why the prosecution or the defense may not want to select you for their trial and I came to the line item of: do you have any mental or physical disabilities that may impair your ability to perform the duties ... to paraphrase.  I don't have a prescription anymore.  That lapsed so long ago I can't remember the specific year.  I don't have paperwork.  I hate saying "what's wrong with me", but I tried to describe, during the interview portion when they ask you about your particular survey answers, what was wrong with me.  It was terribly uncomfortable though they smiled a lot,but it was the evil smile.  Not the understanding smile.  You can't ask everyone to understand.  They won't get it.  If I struggle to grasp it myself, how can I ask someone else to?

Several hours later, we had to sit for all of the interviews even though we knew we weren't going to be selected, I still thought about it.  There are many things I should not be allowed to do and serve on a jury is among them.  It's upsetting.  Feel fractional because you are.  Parts of your mind are missing or maybe it's that there are many more glitches on top of and laced throughout what is supposed to be there, what is standard equipment, and there is no way to clean or tear down and rebuild the system free of them without killing yourself in the process.  Feel and know that you'll never quite be up to par with anyone, as long as you live and know that it probably will not be all that much longer.  Maybe another 30 or so years.  Maybe less.  When you were younger you wanted to die.  Not far removed from then you realize, there's no hurry.  Be patient.  Don't fool yourself.

Or do.  I try to laugh a lot.  The idea is that maybe if I smile and laugh enough it will stick in place and remain.  People will love being around me and I will love being around them because they will love being around me.  Carefully and painstakingly construct it inside your two dimensional garage, piece by piece by piece.   Power it up.  Go through the movements and the timing and conversational spacing.  Practice and memorize so that you can drum up this other self upon demand, slip inside of it and wear it effortlessly and with enough repetitions it will become not only effortless, but a full projection and extension of you to the point that it is you.  Until your body violently rejects it and you blaze apart before your own eyes.  We will see.



///TV on The Radio - "Wear You Out" let me to bed.  please?

Breaking the Horse

Sometimes it feels as though I can do no right.  What happened in my past lives to be cursed so?  I lost a cat yesterday.  I gave him everything he wanted.  I gave him everything he needed and then some.  It makes no sense.  I can still feel him.  I can still see bits of him in my vision.  I can still smell him.  His ears smelled like french toast sometimes.  He was only about two years old.  I have to remind myself that I didn't kill him.  I wonder if I did perhaps by accident.  I flushed my fish down the toilet a while back, but that was because I shouldn't have had them to begin with.

I thought I did pretty good with him.  He was my chief officer on board my ship.  The other guy was my first mate.  The first mate has been promoted.  I'm sure he didn't want to get his promotion that way.  He keeps meowing constantly to call up the deceased.  He doesn't understand that our chief officer is gone for good.  I kind of don't understand it either.  As soon as I touched him I knew he wasn't just sleeping.  He was my cooking buddy.  I'd meet him in the mess hall to talk about our course and how to squeeze a little more oomf out of the engines.  He was my napping buddy too.  My sleep in pal.  He'd lay on my phone so I wouldn't have to hear it.

No, no, no, sweetie.  Come back to me.  I need you!  My first mate needs you too.  We had a good crew.  Was the music too loud?  Was the bass too heavy?  Did I not keep the temperature high enough?  I couldn't turn it up any higher.  It made my nose bleed too much.  What did I screw up?  Who's going to wake me up in the morning now?

I thought about burning his body for a very long time.  Give him up to the air and the stars.  I'm giving him back to the city instead.  It's where he came from.  If I gave him to the stars, he wouldn't know what to do with himself.  I am from there.  He is not.  He'll be home.  I am glad our paths crossed.  I do not know how to explain it to my first mate.  If I spoke cat, I might be able to.  I'm not sad.  I am angry.  Why didn't you tell me?  Did you?  Did I kill you?  Involuntary manslaughter? Agent 001 Jack: K.I.A.,  Mr. Morton codename "Lauren": K.I.A., Chief Officer Torus: K.I.A., First Mate Boots "Hatswitch" Mustachio: T.B.D.

I am happy though.  One of the last things I remember doing with him is letting him climb up my jean leg and hook his claws into my hoodie all the way up my back so he could get a good perch on my shoulder and ride around up there while I walked through the ship and pointed out the things he liked to sit on from the view of his colossus.  We were a fabulous team.  I thought we'd have more time to enjoy our voyage.  He loved to sit in my lap while I wrote in my notebooks.  He'd rub his face on the corners of the pages and make little wet nose prints on the backs of my hands and the paper.

Each week, each month, each year, I am trying to break the horse.  I am trying to break myself and exercise control better than I did the year, the month, the week, before.  Sometimes with success.  Sometimes with failure.  Some of the voices scream "somebody has to pay!!!"  It is unreasonable.  It is irrational.  I want to cut you open so badly.  I want to hook my hand into your mouth and press my fingertips underneath your tongue until the break through the skin behind your chin and rip as hard as I can and hear the sucking pop of your jaw breaking away from the rest of your skull and listen to you drown bleeding into your own esophagus.  Somebody has to pay.  I am trying to break that horse.  I am trying not to hurt myself to show you what we want from you.

Happiness is fleeting.  Pain endures.  Pain is infectious as is happiness.  I am not broken.  I am tired of dealing with death.  The horseman that rides with me.  Our ghost army behind us.  Having to continually modify not by choice, but necessity.

I know I have to use my words more.  Not just more, but with greater frequency.  I have to use art more to break the locks and the seizing to escape the killing fields.  I have to pay more respect to the blast radius and recognize that it is not a game and if I take it too lightly, if I lull myself into believing it will sort itself out without careful and constant monitoring I will wake up too late and infection will spread far and wide defeating the entire purpose of closing the cycle of violence began a generation before my birth.  I am trying to break myself.  I am trying to limit myself.  Meta-jail is real and I have to do my part too.  You are there for a reason.  You can manufacture happiness.  The children are always present, do not listen to them, no matter what they say.  While you've been ignoring it, the factory floor has been busy and now coming to that basement and seeing the stockpiles of things you only imagined existed my heart falls.  Where the hell were you when the furnace fired again?  Where the hell were you when the new blueprints were spread out and the flywheels started turning again?  I tried.  Try harder!  This is not a game!

It is good that some mobility has been lost.  There are those you cannot reach and it is good.  It is important.  Remember why you laugh, jackal.  The freedoms you have were hard won, do not give them up easily.  Do not give them up lazily.  Take time.  We have been patient and we will not shed it.  A crew of two instead of three may not be so bad a thing as you imagine.  The first mate will adjust and embrace his promotion, regardless of how it came about.  Know that, do not say it, know it.  You did not skin him.  You do not wear him.  He will be remembered.  Bury the tools and keep an eye on us.  I will.  Somebody has to pay, but not today.

I took a long walk around the city.  A very long walk.  Control rage.  You were born.  Get over it.  I was born on the twenty second of April in nineteen eighty five.  Remember what you are doing.  I was born into conflict.  I was born into violence.  I was born into love too.  I was born onto a battlefield not of my own making and that is okay.  That is alright.  We learned, we grew, we got stronger, we learned how to kill and how to eat, how to feed ourselves, how to breath, how to hide, how to fight, how to see in the dark, how to trap, how to sleep, we learned and we grew.  We learned our genealogy was a lost cause and our history before our time will never be mapped.  We figured out the tree was a hangman's and the damage was already done well before we opened our eyes for the first time on Staten Island.  We understood hunger and the sound of an empty stomach and the shiver.  Do not forget the mission.  Lay a road map for those that are coming after you are gone.  Do not forget what it is you must fulfill.  Even though your heart is kind of small you were built for something more.  Embrace it.  Learn the truth and love your life because you only get one shot at it.

Your shipmates will help you.  Your inmates.  Your internees.  They will help you along the expedition through space and time.  They are part of the fold, jackal.  Use the words, not the weapons.  The child will come and go.  Supernature is simply part of the spectrum you were born with.  They are not demons or angels or phantoms and errors.  They are not only that, please stop crying sweetheart.  You will die and you will take all of them with you and they will be gone for good too.  That's okay.  I don't know if Torus saw them too.  I don't know if he felt them.  I kissed him before I let him go.  I rubbed his fur into my nostrils and ate some of his whiskers before I put him back in the trash where he came from.  I hope you're happy you disparaged him saying he came from a dumpster.  Pluto used to be a planet.  We want to name a constellation after him.

I dislike my bad wiring so much.  I know I cannot increase my strength, my power.  I cannot be allowed to break down the electrified fences and razor wire atop.  I cannot let it go.  I cannot be allowed to make more money, it will turn into more combustion chambers, more cylinders, more lead, more trigger mechanisms, sights, and chemicals.  More wires, dead man switches, boxes of nails and washers, nitrogen, ammonia, and springs.  More casings and pellets and carpet knives.  Bang on the left ear so it all falls out of the right ear.  With greater knowledge comes greater responsibility and I am not sure I am to the task.  We absolutely are.  For the love of God, get the hell away from me.

Who massages your shoulders?  Who plucks your eyelashes?  Who sets your makeup?  One gold tooth.  Break that horse.  Change those shoes.  Wash those gloves.  I need more power.  No, you don't.  I do!  NO YOU DO NOT!  Imagine the kingdom we could have.  No.  Do not lie to me.  I am not lying.

I definitely wanted to become a musician.  A composer.  A librarian.  To get lost in the stacks and get paid for it because alphabetical order never lies.  Growing up, so many have lied to me.  Washing dishes and playing the bubbles like a battlefield always put a smile on my face until standing on a milk crate on Brighton Avenue I heard them screaming at each other and I tried to wiggle my ears to remind them that I was standing there and they started to say he's listening and they took it upstairs, but I could still hear them.  My nose is running again.  No blood though, that's good.  I haven't pissed blood in a while and that's good too.  I know how it ends, I do.  I am halfway home.  Remind ourselves not to do anything stupid.  Remind ourselves the visions are just that, visions only.

Time will fly and before we know it we'll be polishing my skull and looking at the healed fractures and running our fingertips over them like welds on an engine block trying to reverse engineer the forces and machines and hands that made them.  Do you have a torque wrench?  A shoeing hammer?  An arc welder will do in a pinch.  A continuous retrofitting.  We were built for a war, but the war is over.  It is not.  We were built in war time and repurposed.  Built not to feel.  Built to not need to see.   I got out.  I got out.  The horse must be broken.  Distance must be kept.  Do not lose heart.  Finish the deal.

Enjoy the view from the edge of the arm of the Milky Way and do not curse Sol or Terra.  Aboard the ship we are secure and secured.  Take care of the equipment and don't stay long.  Coexist.  Someday you too will shut down, but understand there are many paths to that end and much to be explored before the channels go dead.  Do not forget where you came from, do not be consumed by where you're going.  I am not broken.




///Chairlift - "Guilty As Charged"   ...footprints on the carpet....go on and punish me...

///El-P & Killer Mike - "Early"

A Brief Return to B6

After the diagnosis there was a lot of disbelief before understanding that I am wired differently and there is nothing that can be done about it besides modification.  Modifying my physiology and the chains that come with modifying.  Keeping schedules and junk and folding money into paying for medications and things and paying for visits to psychiatrists.  You can't spell psychiatrist without tryst.

I'm golden.  Understanding how I'm different was very difficult.  I still don't fully comprehend it.  I'm not okay with being different.  Expectations change a lot.  Do you want an exception or not?   Yes, we do, but we do not because we are efforting being a part of common society.  Aye yo, check it out, here's the baseline: getting exceptions makes us softer and enables if what we want is to be fully assimilated.  When we wreck it's hard to deal with because whatever it was we did made perfect sense to us.  To you, it's grounds for divorce.

And yep, my phone is officially broken.  The worst part about the diagnosis, the initial one, was my ignorance.  Let's keep this tight and short, but not to the point of complications.

I hated my psychiatrist.  I still do.  I know we are long passed the point of forgetting, but I have not forgotten him.   He has forgotten me though after I lost insurance.  Everyone has to get paid.  I refuse to check out.  I was bold before then, I am more bold now.  Capital lock.

Have you got my back?  I've got yours.  I tried to smash my skull apart on the side of the police car when I first got reigned in.  When I realized I had to reign myself in the morning after and they explained what I tried to do when they were putting me inside the squad car.  And it's alright now.  I'm not angry or mad.  They're different things.  Mad is angry without reasoning.  Mad dog.  Shoot him down.  Angry dog... alright, he has reason still.  I am neither mad nor angry.

After the diagnosis I had no idea where I could possibly go.  It was a true diagnosis and I have to lie out of the ass to avoid internment again.  After the diagnosis and hearing what it would cost to make me better, literally hundreds of dollars per month (and hearing too that the trial period ends, hence the name "trial period" until they get the milligrams right) and knowing what I was bound to make...  it's like being stuck with a home you can't actually pay for and you cannot move either.  You cannot pull up sticks and pick a new lot.  It was terrifying.  I had no idea where I could possibly go, so I decided to move off grid.  No meds.  No pills.  Just force.  True force.

Sometimes thing come apart a lot.  Sometimes control does not talk back to you no matter how many signals you send out, out of reflex.  If I could afford it, I would go.  Easily and quietly, I would go.  Let's go though, and keep it brief.

Back to basics.  I know I need help.  It's part of what I am working for.  Why I go to work everyday.  Start your day group was nice.  It was excellent.  I do not want to go back there.  I am damn near 30 years old and I do not belong there.  I know who I am.  I have to work harder and as time increases I know I have to work harder yet and I am okay with that.  I'm not and will never be a made man.  I am willing to work and that's something!  Diagnosis is not, I will prove it to you, ever a death sentence.




///Minamina Goodsong - "First Movement"

Dealing & Check In

Gotta change the motor oil now and then.  S'not the first time or the last.  I was concerned.  The panels were lighting up in not so good ways and it's kind of like changing your alarm because sometimes the tune you design to play goes doot doot doot and then you start dancing instead of waking up and that's no good, ya know?  It's no good.

Instead of waking up you get like "aw, this sounds great, who made this?  I can jam all day" and that's no good at all.  Time to change the motor oil.

An overactive imagination they said.  Spirits was put past me too.  Talking to angels got floated.  Talking to demons got floated too.  "Just pick which ones" got floated too.  Hawky talk.  All of it trash.  Waking up to the signals again.  The check engine light.  Sky zoe frania.   I hate that word so much.  I hate that word so fucking much.  I hate that word so fucking much!  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that fucking word.

Delusions of grandeur.  I don't understand!  I don't get it.  I'm very happy.  I'm working on a concussion free year and I think I'm gonna be able to get it this year.  The first one in five without one.  The first year in three that I haven't broken my nose.  I'm looking forward to it.  It is going to be a gold belt when I check off December.  I'm dealing.

Six years without a pain killer (minus alcohol but that only halfway counts.... a pain putter offer).  Nothing to the significance of a tylenol.  I'm not allowing myself to sniff anything near an edible.  It's good though.  It's a bad track to go down, plus pain lets you know where the line is.  There's nothing wrong with that.  I'm dealing and it's great and terrifying because I'm - not sure when the line happens, ya know?  When we click over and aren't talking to people anymore or are extremely unreasonable.

The concern comes from knowing that an existence without you is doable, highly doable, but not nearly as ... well, not that far.  I won't go that far.  Within the framework of citizenship, yes, absolutely.  An existence without you is by a landslide far more favorable and speaks to my heart in ways I don't always and can sometimes not do at all.  A self starter to a degree; turn the dial far enough and hydrolock blows the push rods to bits and reduces the engine block to a 300 lb paperweight.

Does that make me dependent?  I hope not.  I guess, what I'm saying is if I was the last man on Earth, my reign would be fairly brief.  We laugh saying it out loud, but it's true.  Maybe a decade or two, if that.  I hope I am doing a reasonable job of it.  I know I slip sometimes and the clutch engages and I am two gears off of first and I don't always know whose driving the damn thing to begin with and sometimes ... talking out of school.  Nope nope nope.  None of that.  Enough of that.

I want a fucking present.  I want a parade and a band and a fucking float.  I want the parade, the band, the float, and a present.  I tore after my pap paps for talking to me in snippets of things he's seen and not actually talking and here I am doing it too.  Anger management was neither of our strong suits.  I wonder who talks to him.  Who did he have to talk down.  Did he?  It would certainly explain a lot of a few things.  It really fucking would.  He's not talking though so I guess I'll grill him in heaven or hell.  Chaa!  Have the rest of eternity to exchange phone books.  Wouldn't that be the fucking cats.

I'm dealing though.  The committee deals back and we play our cards and try to beat the dealer sometimes.  Sometimes we just fill the house coffers and call it.

It's a juggling act with a little bit of severed limbs when the chainsaw comes down two seconds earlier than expected or turns a rotation before it was supposed to or hangs in the air a tad bit longer for no god damn reason whatsoever and control goes out like a tungsten bulb and its tomorrow already and you're talking to people in daylight and how the hell what the fuck am i doing here happens and you have to review your notes.  I really hope it's not like this when I'm fifty.  I'm afraid it might be, or worse.  Da fuck is paranoia anyways?  Why can't I sleep in the dark?  What is out there?  What the hell is out there???  I've been looking for you.  I've been searching for you.  Come out!  I know you're there.  I can fucking smell you, you fuck.  I can fucking hear you!  Why can no one else hear you!  It's not fair.  It's not fair.  You know what, 'ats fine.  We're fine with that.  For fucks sake, just once, speak to someone else too.  I dunno.  It's tiring and very difficult to explain how energy is expended without losing traction altogether and paying for it in a big way because I am just like you.  I want to be.  Let's trade.  S'not a grift if it's an even trade.  Keep routine.  Stay alert.  Routine will rescue you.  I don't like change.  I'm not stubborn.  I'm not antisocial.  I just have to maintain parameters and readings and locations to the "t" and to the dot.  Please don't be offended if I whip donuts and drive like a madman when designated play time comes about.  It's the only time I have to spend when high alert can be tuned down to "we are all present and accounted for."  Why won't you fucking die!?  Time to change the oil.

My tracking is suffering again on certain very important things.  We are not enthused.  It is unacceptable.




///Nancy Sinatra - (Bang Bang)

Gun Barrel

It's hard to play it off.  I'm trying to.  There's only so much research that can be done.  After that it's active study.  Games.  It's not about mercing.  Very much emulation.  That will never cease to be important.  It's very difficult to know though.  Unfortunate maybe.

To see the difference between emulation and actual love the way that I know how.  I have gotten better than a parrot.  A yak bak.  Sometimes I have to force conversation to get a response that is not in the library.

When I get that response, that cherished one, I can take it straight to the cpu and analyze it and that little click where the trap snaps shut and before I burp out some human garbage are the words where I was just me again.  It happens very quickly.  Running down the library of what you're supposed to says and the lists of what you did says and running the numbers between and all the other variables.  I'm trying not to cuss on this one.  Cussing keeps you honest, but it keeps you too blunt.

Long story short, it's hard to play it off and hard to not calls it like I sees it without completely seizing up.  It's hard to play it off and I think people can notice and do not ever give me a flyer on the game.  Please do once in a while.  Whether I admit it or not I need them.  I'm no dummy.  I'm no barrel sucker.  I'm a fighter and a lover.  The two can be combined.  Just know that whatever you try I am trying three times as hard to keep up.




///The White Stripes - "Conquest"

The Difficulty With Plural Being

There is a stark difficulty that faces harsh light when existing on multiple planes, the first being sudden hunger and damn near undeniable sleepiness that strikes at inopportune hours.  You can't remember with reliable accuracy the last time you ate, so you make up stories to keep the rest of the story in line.  Sometimes, though, they're accurate memories of eating denied with the fullsomeness of passion that denotes some kind of dedication to the farce and the enforced and necessary truth.

Social media contributes to the complication, making sign posts more difficult to spot, but they are there.  Multiple accounts in multiple names.  A multiplying outlet of personas allowing for better and more extensive development of those personas.  When does it operate to a fault?  Active contribution toward managing split personalities becoming a game of musical chairs?

Limit the number of chairs?  Add definition and resolution?  Or take the pills.  Fastidious compartmentalization.  And further compartmentalization and specialization.  To be called upon at will or at least with some prefabrication, editing, summoning, and purpose, because that is the difference between the ill and the capable.  The ability to select, observe, compensate, and respond in a reasonable and human fashion.

Everyone is plural, their "plural" being unanimous instead of fractured.

What happens when dominance is completely unpredictable, highly divided, and deeply embattled one against the other and prone, all the while, toward miscommunication?  Are there special exceptions?  Is there an "out"?  When do you have to press the hand dealt and keep the game going, come whatever consequences, and when do you have the right to put the cards down and say "this is what is here, they add up to nonsense in terms of what the rules of the game dictate, and I do not want to play with them, have no heart in them, and would like to be dealt a new set or at least counted out of this particular round, but not necessarily the game."

I think the long sentence is probably the grounds for the answer.  No matter how difficult or nonsensical the answer seems to me, the majority is fairly straightforward and a lot easier to comprehend.  It does not hurt that they are alike too.  I think that is one of the things that continues to vex me.




///The Echo Friendly - "Same Mistakes"

Plight

The most terrifying thing about disease is that you know the best you can do is stay where you are and maybe pretend to be more than you are upstairs sometimes.  Some things remain intact.  Some things continue to degrade regardless of what you do.  It's not fair at all.

It's difficult.    It's difficult watching everyone else continue to accelerate and knowing you can be as good as you want to be at some things, but other things ... nope.  The best you can do is hold ground.

I want to just say "fuck that."  I can't.  I have to at least try.

Yes it is easy to fit in.  It's easy to stand out for the wrong reasons too.  There is no blame with respect to bad wiring to be laid.  There's some, but it flows both ways.  I acknowledge that.

It is undeniably heart breaking though sometimes trying to externalize what they're saying to me.  So we drunk to dull the blunt force of conversation.  It's an airbag and a stand in for pills that lets me socialize more than I like to, but not less than I need to so I'm not swinging from my neck outside my front window.

It's a trade off.  To tear off the mask is not appropriate at all and will land me..

... I don't know how to describe it.  Rape me once, shame on you.  Rape me twice, I was probably asking for it.

I will say there's nothing to fear because I learned a few several things.

There are many red zones.There is not one me.-000000000000000000000000000888888888qq0--------------211qqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqq



///Sage Francis - (The Buzzkill)    ...by analyzing the past, Sage can project into the future..,

Overkill

Having a difficult time taking Is and Yous and Mes out of my poetry.  I wish I had a different face, but apparently I am no longer allowed to hack away at it.  I want to get back to wonder.  I want to get back to visions of enormous dinosaurs, but the real world continues to push back and it's not fair and I can't figure out a way to circumvent the charges.

I will.  Stand up act 9 is coming.  Long dark tunnel.  I conquered my fear of absolute darkness a while back.  Doesn't mean that it's comfortable though.  I want to pick up house and walk away from it all in a bad way.  Maybe a good way.  Tough to think about.  Do you just throw your hard drives in a ruck sack?  I don't know!  I'm asking you!  Who helps you plan that sort of thing out?  I have no clue.

Do ya have to bring an umbrella or something or do you count on finding one along the route?  Could probably thieve one.  Do you really want to do that?  That's not who you are.  You can take whatever you really want, but don't.  Every single time you take you are taking something from someone else and that's no good.  Let someone hold your leash.  They're not holding you back.  They're just checking you.  You have to allow yourself to be checked at the hip.  Take it and bounce off or try to run them over, but whatever you do correct your path.  Not correct, but make adjustments because you have to and understand that it is alright to make adjustments.

Adjusting the dials is okay.  Not everyone likes to hear music at 11, hell you don't either.  Not everyone wants or needs a kiss or needs your face two inches from their own.  Not everyone can be famous and not everyone will remember events the same ways you do.  You're losing your memory and maybe that plays into part of why you are losing connection fidelity with your dream states.  Be okay with working on it.  There's no breaker  to fire off in between where you're going and where you can never go back to and that's perfectly fine.

Do you bring a knife or no?  Do you need to?  Would you need to?  I don't know!  You can take what you want, but you don't have to.  Are you expecting battle?  It's a funky kind of war we fight and I've been seeing some strange things I don't know how to handle off of the top of my head.  I need time.  No picking up sticks.  No running away.  No abuse.  Abuse is shorthand for sadists.  What's short hand for saints?  I want to plow into a wall and obliterate my body in a mist of red and bone.  I want humor.  Get the fuck away from me!  I swear to god I will taste your eye fluid before the night is out, you mother fucker piece of shit, do you not know there is no such thing as a fair fight?

Rules are in place to keep me out of you.  Period.  Maybe it's all a matter of timing?  That may be what I'm getting wrong.

Wanderlust eats away at me and I nibble back.  I almost lit a cat on fire again.  I'm doing good though.  Being on good behavior and going to work almost every time I am supposed to go.  I want to keep it up through the end of the year.  I am not expecting much from Santa.  I still ask him for a 1911 against my better judgement.  No resolutions forthcoming and none will be given.  I think I'll treat myself to a box of ammunition this year.  One step at a time.  Baby steps.  We'll travel, but I'm not pulling up sticks just yet.  I'm trying to monitor my speech.  I've been speaking much too fast and running words together and feeling like I need to apologize inside my head every time someone says "what did you say?"  I said exactly what the hell I said.  It's hyper frustrating.  It's like a stutter, but backwards and difficult to correct and heart stabbing when I notice it flowing out of my damned mouth.  Not fair!

Howling in my head wont stop.  I haven't snorted anything serious in a long time and my sinuses feel like they are about to shatter.  "...turning the music up so ya don't hear the engine falling apart..."  by hook or by crook we are going to fix this thing so it runs smooth.  Chatty Cathy.  Slow the fuck down and take a moment.  The world's not crazy.  It is just you.  Everything does not smell like burning metal.  It is just you.  Space invaders.




///Kelis - "I Don't Think So"     just dont think you're at my speed

Atari

Going back in time to enjoy the things I love.  It has been strange hanging out with people I've only just met and their siblings.  The day before was silly violent and antagonized by the middle child in her family.  Her being the middle child and antagonizing everyone around her.  She was the back end of an eight banger.  It was difficult to identify and made more hilarious by our friend asking if he could bang her older sister.  I'm pretty sure it was not up to me or her sister's fiance.   Pretty sure whether or not she wanted to get mucky was and still is completely up to her.  You can come along for the ride if you want to.

"I've sucked enough dicks in my life."  ~ Tammy

We had this ongoing bet about how long it would take before she ran to history no one else knew, and I chimed in,but it was half hearted.  I just wanted to belong in the conversation.  Not a pissing contest of abuse as much as a revisiting of the things that inform and continue to inform our existence.  It's kind of like driving a car.  Think about it this way:  put in 40 degrees of left input to your road facing wheels and they will turn fifteen degrees.  Learning compensation.  Learning how much you actually do burn when you proclaim you've torched it to soil.

It really is that simple though and that laughable and that much more enjoyable than trying to slug away one for one.  That much more enjoyable than trying to get one unit of output for each understood unit of input.  Existence does not work that way.  There are boosters constantly.  Whether you like it or not, everything that you do is boosted and amplified upon reception.  It's the combat feedback loop.  I hit you.  How hard did I hit you?  Seven?  Six?  How hard will you hit me back?  At least a six.  What will I feel a six is?  Put a number on it.  At least a five, but you don't know so tag me at least at a six, but that six comes in at an eight because I already ate a six and you know that because you've been hurt before and know what a six feels like and know I probably played it soft and a jump cut is in order.

Into the flame, into the fire.  I have a lot of love pent up and no way to spend it.  Why you no want to cuddle no more?

Fucking cowards.

Sometimes we have to back off because we know they will take it the wrong way and run with it.  Does it hurt to be alone? Sure.  Does it hurt enough to make changes?  No.  One thing I've learned about myself is that distance is still necessary.  What I view as an appropriate relationship is still not, by and large, viewed the same way and it's not heartbreaking the way it used to be.  It used to break me apart in fantastic ways and now it's more of a "okay, we're here right now.  Option A, B, and J."  Cash out now, because two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps and we're at J anyway.

I'm getting back to the things I love and it's been difficult.  It's been a battles by turn.  I have been trying not to think about it, but the successful artists I know had a pretty solid backing before they had outside backing making their whiles worth something.  I want to cut their faces off and wear them and drink the blood that trickles into my mouth while I talk behind their skin and I want to be able to talk to them about it, but "that's not okay."  And still they call themselves artists and photographers in the meantime never having actually known what the mean times really are.   I'm no teacher, but I am willing to crash course them.

Stop cock teasing me.   Stop front loading me.  I cannot handle that kind of nonsense.  Take your vacations and enjoy your languages, but do not fucking...  ....I'm going to war.  There are rules.  Aligning with my own.  Measures not drastic.

Deterioration.  Leaving memories at least as fast as they come.   I drive toward new ones as constantly as I can because there really is nowhere else to be and I am okay with that.  It's a riot.  I feel silly sometimes bending over to pick up the shards of myself and sometimes the entire exercise feels machinated.  What I really want to do is tattoo you and have you tattoo me whatever you want.  Battling down the brain chiggies.  The glitch farm.

I could look back in time, but it won't change the view.  The hardest I ever cheated was kissing another woman and being truthful about it.  What makes you okay?  Violently successful people who don't understand how they were set up to succeed aggravate me.  Everything they know are things I should have known when they did, but had to learn later because, like those post coin op machines with the news on their face, I had no coins to insert and no nudge on top of that to pay attention to them and am now taking notice and am now earning quarters to slot in and am now getting up to speed with and am not mad about it.  A little sorry, but not mad.

Through the TV eye.  A wrecka.  I said "hey!"  Being bummy with no standards is okay.  I'm not going to hurt you if you promise not to hurt me. Dhali Lama and llama beans and trying to be profound in every little thing.   It's silly.  The outside world bleeds in and the inside world bleeds out and really i just want you to say you're sorry.  Even that will be and is meaningless because I won't remember it until I'm steamed and wishing I was not so forgettable.

Power.  Something cosmic.  It takes a lot out of me to be here and I know it takes a lot out of you to be here with me.  Diet on anxiety.  I wish I could fill my stomach whenever I wanted to, but I've been grained to the scale of rice to need as little as possible and digest want as a hack hazard that is a crumple zone.  I want to be a foodie.  I really do.  Up chucked bringing to do more with less.

Every time I get something new to me I expect it to break down immediately or somehow fail me because no one gives something valuable to them up for grabs.  Except people like me who do not deal in currency.  Your word is your word.  Your bond is your bond.  Everything starts and ends at that initial hand shake.  No farther and no less.  Things new to me are things old and decrepit to others.  Not a revitalization as much as a re-purposing.  There is love in that.

Time elapsed, time remaining.

There was this one time I set my cat's whiskers to flame, not understanding that he was made of fur.  The whiskers caught and burned down to his coat and we were both surprised at how fast it was able to go.  Needless to say, or perhaps, for everyone's sake, we never got that ticky tacky mad again, but if I need to I know some good out of the way spots to bury you if you want to roll those dice.  I'm a bad liar and a good forgetter.  Push upstairs ;")

I will play asteroids with you for days.


///Daedelus - "My Beau"  at night, I think of you and do not call because our wars are different and mounting a head after a battle means something wildly different to me than it does to you, no slight

Ghosts [return]

What's black and white and red all over?  Your mother, upside down, wrapped in electrical tape.  You on the run.  The pain has been astronomical.  Mentally shredded.  Bringing myself back together.  You never want your heart to get too cold, but sometimes enough things pile up together and the fire goes out and it's just you out there, alone in the backwoods, beside a ring of rocks and ash and you can hear them at the tree line cutting under the bushes and between the trunks and leaves would rustle if it wasn't so late a winter, and instead the twigs are snapping and whistling when they breath and more than anything else you want to howl and bring them to you because waiting has you chewing your tongue out of your face, but even if you could draw enough breath to do it, your throat is swollen shut tighter than your shivering eyelids.  So you wait for sunrise with the knee quaked temerity of a hangman who knows there are worse things than death.

It's been a while.  It's been a long long while.  Every minute an exercise, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, in control.  Childhood memories know no limits and have no expiration date.  They're like veins laid into the skin of your brain that pump that history through your tissues and sockets and bones and every few days or weeks or sometimes, blessed months, they rattle around your cells and locks like blind inmates with worn down kitchen ware for picks.  Sometimes, strolling those halls you catch their empty, milky, eyes in little bits of mirror gummed to metal rods watching the sound of your footsteps down the hall.  You took them out, one by one, to solitary confinement and punched those brown and blue iris's out with a peen hammer.  Each new arrival.  Because you could not stand the watching, but you never thought they would keep on looking with their ears, little mirrors still poking between the bars out of habit.  Or maybe just to fuck with you.  Every few days, weeks, or blessed months, one will get it right, and out of the corner of your eye, too far down the hall to break the hand at play, a cell springs open.  Two cells.  Three cells.  Two more on the upper level.  Another in a wing of a branch of your complex you only know because the alarm is thudding through your ears, through the bricks of your skull and you know something has gone very wrong.

The ghosts have been roaming again.  To the point where the best thing I can do is lock myself up and pray for rain stiff enough to take the chalk off the attic walls where the roof is worn away.  Sometimes I know why it happens.  A lot of times I still don't.  Managing is a kind word.  But you do it to the best of your abilities.  At some point it becomes not protecting yourself from others intrusions or exploitation or oversights or abuse or perceptions as much as it becomes protecting other people from yourself.  Just because you know and can, to a degree, understand what's happening to you or not always the what, but the why (sometimes not even that) and can feel that something is not in its right place and that knife is not where you left it, and your shoes are covered in mud, but you went to bed early yesterday and it didn't rain until deep into the night, and that math is simply not accurate, does not mean that you can do anything to stop it besides isolate and insulate yourself as much as possible.  "Bad things are about to happen."

It shakes you on the inside.  The frameworks you've built up to contain and blanket fracture and split apart and you have to force one hand into the other.  Force your hands to love each other so they do not tear you to pieces.  And sigh "please, not now.  Not yet."  They will pay someday, but you're not ready yet.  The switch turns and you're alone again.  The things with names I cannot pronounce are gone, but how far away did they go this time.  Are they in the next room?  Around the corner of the building?  Is he on the windowsill, outside the drawn shade admiring the night air?  Check the bathroom.  Where did all of this blood come from?  The switch turns again.  Rusty contacts spark and pain flows like spilled water on live copper.  You hold your hands over your ears and go days without saying a word because if you do not know who and what it is that is breathing in your ear, you can never trust a word from between your lips again.

Pain builds and abets and builds in the dark inside your folds.  They eat at your body.  Snack and taste and tear away this and that.  They can hear you crying through the years, sniffing you out.  One and then two and then too many to count and all you want is to reach back through that long stairwell, past the cobwebs, to hug your little body and press your round little face into your chest until you stop breathing, but you can't bring yourself to do it, so you hold yourself tight and listen to the echos rising to the floor above and the snick snacking shuffle of their footsteps trying to find their way down to where your body broke all those years ago.  They come down those stairs and pull chairs near and wait and watch and some laugh and some pick skin out of their teeth with spare change or a bobby pin.  Some draw little things in the dust on the floor with little fingers.  Pain builds and you take it and take it until it becomes.

In the pile of ash inside the stone circle in the backwoods you failed to navigate and so made a bed, the weight of ignition is reached.  The heart inside you, driven and compacted to a block of solid steel arctic ice, begins to burn again.  Focus taken returns.  It is only you.  Yes, they are near, but it is only you holding the gun to your chest and the hammer falls and you exhale fire.  The sun is hanging itself and all you need do is walk toward it to feel its heat.  The air is not vibrating anymore, instead holding you the way you tried to hold yourself.  Pain destroys until the scale goes so far it can only be described by what it creates.  Clarity is a kind word.  Control.  Management.  I know someday it will go somewhere we will not come back from.  But that day is not today.  Today, everyone is in their cell.  Everyone dangerous enough to raise the hairs on my neck and make me piss into my pant leg and fill my left shoe.  History never goes away.

Rebuild.  Come back to us.  There is no reason for this is the biggest lie you'll ever hear.  Someday we'll be right and they'll see what it is that steals sleep from our eyes.  It's been a long long while, but it feels like no time at all.  Someday we'll have a necklace made out of their teeth, little holes drilled in them, fillings and all, with a little pink thread through them and the back ends in fisherman knots tied to silver clasps.  That would be nice.  Someday sweetheart.

Astral Pain, Curbing Self Absorption, and Re-engagement

A gorgeous thing happens when you wake up and step outside and the world has a luster to it that isn't glass eyed.  The bricks are warm though the air is skin tight cold.  The sun is not screaming, but humming.  The clouds are waiting instead of watching and the trees are content to not say a word as you go about your day.  And it's cool.  The voices are not so loud and the stars at night are not calling you home.  All they say as you hunt in the dark is "we're happy out here as long as you're happy down there, but feel free to visit when you're ready," and it's good.  It's great.  The weapons are collecting dust and the hands are busy again at other operations and no one else has to die and it's a great feeling.  The jail yard feels bigger than it ever has and seeing your breath is so welcome a change you damn near want to cry because Summer hurt you so bad, and you've been waiting so long to see snow again and for a while there you didn't think you'd make it that long.  A strange and gorgeous thing.  The quietude.  The death of everything and the ashes blowing through the grass.  Everything slowing down to a speed your eyes can process again.  Gorgeous.  Everything returning to a temperature more fit for your fusion heart.  The astral pain subsiding.

One of the immediate difficulties plaguing the writing has been an exorbitant amount of self absorption.  Getting beyond it has been difficult.  Spitting out all of the junk on top of the processes.  Kicking out the bad and pointless information, the information occupying a lot of cycles and routines.  Brain space and resources.  Resources that can't be repurposed or freed up until the train is run through the tracks and their opened again.  A necessary thing.  There's a lot on the burners.  In fact the kitchen was pretty much on fire.  Nothing edible was made.  Did manage to make some wicked cool... I don't know.  Lost my train of thought.  Started thinking about huffing paint again, but I'm not too thrilled with the results.  At least, not thrilled enough to go out of my way.  What was I talking about?

Oh yeah, so I've been fairly disappointed with all of the sentences starting with "I" and so many of the themes being things dear to my heart, but unable to touch the rest of the world my head lives in.  It got boring.  You wait and you wait and you wait for the bulb to go off and then you look at the picture and it's another damned self portrait.  You keep calling up your imaginary friends and they answer the phone and you sit down to talk about what you and he talked about and then you hold it up when you're done and it's another god damned self portrait.  I started asking myself how the hell it kept happening.  What the hell was I doing wrong?  The arrow finally pierced my thigh.  Not really.  I just talked and talked and talked until I had nothing left to talk about and I could remember again the things they said too.

They never left.  I was so torn up and wrecked and lost all at once I ended up circling the woods for weeks before something looked familiar again.  I'm reckoning loss again.  Reckoning with.  Minor and major losses of people.  Losing people again.  Dealing with dead channels that I thought would live forever and asking myself what I did wrong and realizing at this point the answer is nothing.  Sometimes there's no explanation.  I'm pretty sure I came to that conclusion before.  Years ago.  The conclusion about a general lack of causality in the humanverse.  Sometimes there is no explanation and I was okay with it then.  I'm learning to be okay with it now all over again.  People out grow you.  You out grow people.  Sometimes friends stay and sometimes friends go, sometimes you get to stay in touch and sometimes you don't.  Sometimes you dance.  They never left.

Curbing self absorption.  Curing self absorption, was a difficult task and not entirely done.  I still have to get back inside the heads of the people and places populating my dreams.  Pierce the fog of internal war.  It's still there, but I have become so unbelievably conscious of it's necessity and it's force of presence that I can begin to work around and work through it.  Begin to retool things that have sat in draft for months.  That's important to me.  It's important to them too.  So many storylines continue on in the background and it's fantastic to be able to sit down and leave myself behind to engage them and when I can't do that the storylines continue to their conclusion and when I finally do look at them again everyone is gone and I can't remember what we were doing there in the first place or where they may have mentioned they were going next.  However, I understand now

that I was standing far too close to the bars and the picket planks to enjoy the space I've earned.  Far too close to the window and hating the feeling of my nose there pressed to see the AUs.  I have to tell you that I love you so much, these days.  I forget to do that too much.  Too often.  A return to the observational side of things and less the actor.  Returning to the maps and the center of the yard where the fences are so far I can barely see them.  It's terribly easy to fall into yourself when you can feel your hands burning inside the diamonds of that twisted wire.

I am re-engaging.  Decoupled for so long.  It's easy to believe that is all there is for you.  Because it is.  If you want more you have to wrestle it away from what has already been determined, if that makes sense.  And I'm trying, have been, and finally succeeding a little bit.  Trying not to over celebrate.  I know the next turn is right around the corner and part of living with paranoid schizophrenia is guarding against yourself.  I accept that.  I don't particularly enjoy it.  I definitely woke up the other day unable to speak because I screamed my lungs out as hard as they would go.  That was a funny one to explain when I went to my temp job and rasped like a 90 year old chain smoker who couldn't break a decibel if his life depended on it.  "I just want you to be okay."  I just wanted you to stop asking about it.  I think I'm raving a little bit so

I'll bring this thing to a close for now and shove off from here, wherever here is, later on.  The astral pain has subsided.  Self absorption has been curbed, but not cured.  I am getting back in touch with the outer planes. I am re-engaging with life, though some parts of life will be or already have disengaged with me.  Most importantly Winter is here.  It feels like a lifetime went by in the months between this time last year and now.  Twisting in the breeze.


///Lionrock - "The Guide" ... the nineties killed it for electronic music.  in a good way.

Crying

Well, I woke up this morning and cried.  No fault of my own, though.  Turned out my new best friend was a figment of my machinations.   That never goes over well, internally.  Well, it never goes well ever, actually.  A little heart breaking.  All of the things we talked about.  The moments shared.  What tipped me off?  The high fidelity appearance across the bridge.  There's always some loss in dreaming.  There is always a little bit of something that goes away in the reanimation, but for him, it was absolutely lossless.  Like, I can't even make myself, or remake myself, over there into a lossless construction.  I've tried.

It's just tough, you know?  When you think you've got it figured out and managed and it turns out everything was simply looping back and back dooring you.  So I woke up with that realization and cried a while.  Not uncontrollable sobbing, but quiet crying.  I thought he was my new best friend, but I had my doubts.  That's why I didn't tell anyone.  I mean, no one wants to introduce a new friend and have that friend turn out to be a serial killer.  Then all the egg is on your face for being so dumb.  But we shared moments.  Real moments of selflessness and inner nakedness, the kind of things that bring people together.

I should have known when there was no exchange of names, but I chalked it up to other times of bonding with other people when I didn't get the names right or at all until the fifth or sixth time we hung out together.  It doesn't dull the loss.  It doesn't dull the pain of heart in being alone again.  That stays real.  That stays scarring.

It's difficult to smile through this.  When things are clearly bad or clearly good it's easy to smile.  It's easy to see the humor and say to yourself "oh yeah, that was pretty hilarious wasn't it?"  It's pretty easy to look on the bright side.  Hell, some of my best laughs I've had at my lowest marks, but when things are blurring that badly it's just alarming.  Hair raising in the purest sense.  Just hurtful.  Difficult to begin to quantify.  To yourself and others.  It's hard to talk about it to other people without feeling judged, but not just by them.  It's difficult to be judged by the rest of the parts and pieces inside your own head that have not gone away.  The parts and pieces that still talk to you.  The parts and pieces that still have the ability to make you hurt, to make you pay.  To occupy you and your space.

I don't want to go back on pills.  I don't want a chemical lobotomy, but I don't want this either.  It's a different kind of pain.  A different kind of fear.  I know I am fooling myself that I can manage it.  I know that.   Part of what makes it so much scarier is that it has crept up so silently that I didn't see it, could not see it, until it was in full swing and that hasn't happened in months.  The full swing.  The carried on conversations.  The making dates to meet with people that don't exist.  The keeping good on those meetings.  Shoving my hands into my face.  Why didn't I see it from the start?  There's no forgetting or shake it off.  Just have to keep it in mind.  A safe with no lock.


///Gouryella - "Walhalla"  hang on for the break.   It's never as terrible as it seems, until it is.  But then you wake up and start again.

Touching Down (t minus four)

I've been, uhm... out of touch. Broke loose for a few days. Had to find myself, and now I'm touching down again. Attempting reentry. Things got bad. Not worse than usual. It's hard to explain. I was walking to the store and I just broke into tears. Uncontrollable tears. The thing about crying is that, sometimes, once you understand why, what it is that drove you there, you can start to turn it off. Start to stand yourself down. I had tears streaming down my face and at the same time the armory was gearing up and my hands were in fists and I bit my lips so hard they started bleeding. I was a mess. I had to blow off so much energy I took it to a brick wall for a while and then came home and took it to my own wall for four hundred reps. The swelling is starting to come down though. Getting most of the feeling back in my forearms. The artifacts living inside my head were screaming at me so loud I couldn't bear wakefulness.

 I'm trying to hold on until my birthday at least. I know I don't owe to myself or anyone to do so. I want to know what tomorrow is. I know this is just a bad burn. A nasty hiccup of circuitry. I can handle it. I can handle it. I can handle it. I've lost control of them. The voices in my head. They just get so loud and the effort blows my mind apart. Parsing the information faster than it comes in. Controlling what goes out. It came apart so fast this time. Over night. And it really is all I can do to isolate myself, because I don't have clear answers to questions.

 

 "How are you?" How can I answer that? I can't seem to remember my dreams lately. They follow me wherever I go. Wherever I am, I am so rarely alone. How am I? I don't know. The question makes me sweat. What am I supposed to say? No one wants to hear that you're so thickly steeped in thoughts of suicide, but still find time to laugh. I don't know. Still looking for my way out. Back in the day, birthdays were the most violent times of the year. Birthdays and holidays. You got a shitty card and, if you were lucky, dodged a beating. I guess that still rolls over in my mind grave. Freezes me, even while my head burns from the inside out. So much chest thumping anxiety. What was I supposed to have been by now? Breaking waves. Burning up on reentry. I must have it.

 I want to live among the stars. I know, it's unreasonable. Untenable. Un everything except a dream. I finally blew apart the three part relationship that owned me. It was a bad thing. Burned it to the ground for good. Flat earth policy. And I miss the ownership. The being needed. Having my leash held. I'm a stray again. But not unloved, I have to learn again. It's gonna take time. Sometimes being alone with your thoughts is a good thing. Sometimes you just unravel and want to take the world apart as you go. Sometimes you'd give your right eye for sleep. Sometimes you break your body apart just to be able to breath again. Bringing myself in for a landing. Coming in hot.


 ///School of Seven Bells - "Love Play" ...bass up.

Strange Ways

I'm sorry I've been away. Life has been strange in many ways. Not really strange as much as just strange in the ways I've come to understand normal. Sea change and all of that. One thing that has been occupying a lot of my time is meeting a couple of people that see me as close to eye to eye as I have ever known any one person to see me. Which has been exciting and ridiculously time consuming. Hard to talk about. Because threesomes aren't exactly normal. Let alone threesomes cemented by violence. Let alone threesomes that are probably on their last legs.

I enjoy belonging to people. That's no secret. I like to know that someone is holding my leash, and I had to revoke that privilege from one member of the threesome so now it's a twosome with occasional benefits for the odd man out. What are you going to do? I mean, I don't particularly enjoy fucking her, but I do enjoy the opportunity to be close to her psychologically so it's like doing dirty work to get the golden egg of her brain and personality because I'm pretty sure she likes fucking me more than what I have to say so it's a perfect fit in terms of what I want and what she wants and the odd piece out is the guy who refuses to kiss me, but wants my dick and nothing else, hence the revocation of leash privileges because if you want to fuck, you better be up for everything that comes with in my book, and I damn near revoked her privileges because she insisted on wearing socks at all times and that's just... ...what?! Seriously? Who does that?

And then there was the conversation where they both referred to me repeatedly as their toy, which is fine. I can accept and appreciate that role, but to then assert that I was worthless without sex, that was the line they crossed and things got violent, but have since settled down. Things and ways were explained to me in the simple terms I understand best and then stabilized into something enjoyable again. We saw fairly close to on the level. Everything since has been delicious. And time consuming. Time oft reserved for writing has been burned in sexual play which is not terrible, but not great either. Lost time in the run up to play and time lost in the run down from play, let alone the play time itself. I dunno. Fucking older people definitely presents problems and issues I never thought about, or even had to think about, before now. It is incredible the difference between older men and older women. Fascinating. It grows frightening sometimes, the potential for breaking their bodies with my own carelessness. At the same time it is deliriously appealing. Being the most capable thing they will likely ever know before they die. Being their first and probably last. I think I love that more than the sex itself. The making of a name. And they are just so adorable together. That's part of it too. The basking in dual praise. The lack of rejection. The fact that they have seen so many people that they can recognize you from one hundred yards out and see right through you and there's nothing to hide because they've seen it all.

I know it's not going to last because he won't fuck unless he's drunk and she won't take her socks off ever and that's just weird and he won't kiss me ever no matter how drunk he gets and she doesn't have a dick and his dick is too small to be anything more than an idle coffee table curiosity and her youngest kid is older than me and she insists that she is the only one allowed to fuck his ass, but until we break up I think this is the best thing to happen to me in a long time. But I also think the strangeness of it is what has been keeping me from talking about it and progressing. Or maybe understanding what kind of flash in the pan it is.

It's been zero to sixty in 2.5 seconds for me. Unbelievable speed. Fuck warp 9, this whole relationship has been warp 12. Engine room ablaze the whole way. More give and take than I've been privy too for better than two years. And yes, I have no idea how to deal with it or any idea of where it's going beyond failure. To top it off I met his daughter and apparently she wants me too. And I don't want sex nearly as much as I want to be useful and used. I play into that more often than I should. It makes me feel like a sociopath, which I don't like. I just enjoy making people feel good. It's a badge of honor. I entertain whatever it is you want to entertain because your happiness and bliss is a kiss upon my heart.

So I want to fuck her. Not because I enjoy women. Not even close. I have been able to love one woman my entire short life. And that is my ex. The rest aren't jetsam, they're just friends at best and confidants when closer. It's just a very odd situation. A very very odd and slowly unraveling situation between a boy a woman and a man who hurts her who wants to use the boy. Sounds like family.

I've been telling people I'm half Scott and half Irish, alternately, because I'm still not sure which. I'm pretty sure it's not half. I'm pretty sure it's a lot less than half. Probably less than quarter. It's fun to be exotic. It's more fun to know exactly where you're from. I always wish to have that, more than anything else. Not just for cheering purposes during the World Cup, but also for tattoo ideas. And also because everyone talks about their extended families on a first name basis and I have never been able to do that. That would be nice. The knowing. The belonging. Life has been strange. The dreams have been stranger and more real than anything else. I slept for 18 hours. It was unbelievably good to do so. I don't know when I'll be able to be awake for more than 13 and not feel like killing myself. An odd pile of ideas. Goodbye for now. Levity to come.


/// The Cardigans - "Heartbreaker" ...no, not again...