You attack and beat yourself up over your inability to see eye to eye with your brother. Eye to eye about what? Everything. Not everything, just things now. The formation and configuration of our immediate family. Who funds what and why. Who goes and does what and where. Who can. Why do you want to see eye to eye with him on that? You just watched a video of yourself dancing and you thought it was awesome, but the truth is if bodies could have Tourette Syndrome, you would probably be the poster boy with Elaine Benes as the prom Queen. Why do you want to see eye to eye with him at all? You are two completely different human beings, down to sexual orientations and the arrangement of your individual eyelashes. You are not supposed to agree. You are about as different as they come between siblings. You do realize this, I hope. You are a stamped coin. Do you get it now? You are never going to see eye to eye about just about everything. If you want to see the other side, you are probably going to have to bend time and space and, last I heard, that shits pretty difficult with a thousand acre facility so good luck trying to do it with a few cubic inches of fatty gray matter.
You don't have to see anything his way. He doesn't have to see anything your way. What is this weird aggression toward a shared emotional experience? It's not there. Stop looking. I don't say that as a warning sign like marking something so damaging and toxic you will die immediately, if not soon after. I say that as a time saver. I say that as a wayfarer. Stop looking. There is nothing at the end of that ocean. There is nothing on the other side of that desert. The globe does not loop around. It is infinite in the darkness beyond the stars. Stop looking. Occasionally whip your binoculars up to your face and take down the range, time, and windage and then duck back down into the reeds. You do love him, but you do hate him too. Not for any particular reason. Just envy. Change positions. Skulls, skin, bones, you do know you wouldn't be able to change circuitry. Can't I? No. Mightn't I? No. Impossible-r-y-ing I? No, and that's definitely not a word or fragment. What the hell is that? I just stroked off for a minute. What were you saying?
I was saying, we're never going to see eye to eye, so stop beating yourself up when you try and do not. You're not a bad person. You're not a flaming heap of garbage to be kept at arms length all of the time. Sometimes you cannot control your volatility. It's a fine problem to have. You don't have to kill him and you don't have to fight him. Just let him be himself and you be yourself and the chips will land where they please and are directed. Your engagement with the world can never be his. It can be emulated. Where's the fun in tracing? Where's the existence in tracing? Do not get angry with yourself for being irrevocably, irreconcilably, different. No, you are not stupid for trying. Anyone in their right mind would see their closest genetic match and want to touch it like a mirror to make sure what they saw was not a reflection. You are me? No. I am me and you are you, and never the two shall meet.
///Dan Deacon - "Feel the Lightning" polishing the brass on warships that will and need never leave Earth. Fear is healthy. A degree of worry is healthy. Don't take it too far.
Clean with alcohol only. Do not attempt to replace blown fuses. Do not remove access panels. Return to certified mechanic for regular maintenance. Made in the USA.
Showing posts with label false hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label false hope. Show all posts
12/19/15
3/31/15
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?
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?
8/2/11
The Right One In
This entry was about a thousand words longer, but I thought about it some more and boiled it down beyond harping.
There are people that are there for you and there are people that think they are there for you. People that listen to you talk and try to participate in your dreams and delusions and end up sounding like hollow eyed parrots. People that try to hug you and have no idea how to actually hug another human being. People that think being there means saying "hey come by anytime" when you're not actually able to get there. Or, saying "sure come and stay as long as you need to except we'll have you moved to a homeless shelter if you don't find a place to stay in fourteen days." Amongst other things, it's just galling and conceited of a person to insist that they're "there" for you when they have no concept of what "being there" actually means to you and they believe themselves to be a saint to you when what they're doing is about as useful as giving a homeless man an end table and saying "my work here is done."
Don't tell me we have everything in common because we both had bad parents and should suddenly be bonded for life with endless stories to tell each other. Suffering maybe universal on a general level of human experience, but personal suffering is just that. Exceptionally personal. Never tell someone, after they tell you explicitly that you have nothing in common, that you have everything in common because you both had a bad dad, or wanted to play sports when you were little. How arrogant do you have to be to tell someone that you know them better then they know themselves. It's just plain stupid.
Don't ever tell me you're there for me and I won't let you in or don't want to be your friend because I'm afraid that you're "there for me," and I'm running away. It's a thing I don't want to dignify with a response.
I know myself pretty god damn well (though there's still so much I still learn) and know one knows me better than my former psychiatrist because I've told him things I haven't and will never tell anyone. Don't tell me, ever, that I'm afraid to let you in. Any person can want to be let into your life. Any person can want to be there for you and stand outside the windows of your eyes asking why you treat them so badly because they've been there for you all this time and you never once thanked them. Any person can want to be like you and have everything in common with you. But what it takes to "be there for me", trust, you cannot and have not done. Why should I thank you. When I tell you we have nothing in common, it's because I know myself well enough to be able to say so with certainty. And when it comes to who you let into your life, everything else becomes secondary, as long as you let the right one in, and I'm sorry, but it isn't you.
I'm sorry about that last part. It wasn't written directly to you, but to the person who is causing some problems because they thought and probably still swear to themselves up and down that they are all of those things that I just explained to you, so many people are not. It's grown tiresome, and I just had to get it out of my skull.
Some people really are there for you. Some people can be let into parts of your life. Some people do have things in common with you and me. But most people aren't, can't, and don't and one thing life has taught me through the years is that if you don't let the right one in, it makes it tough to move anything else forward when they start to ask you why you push them away.
Anyway, missed ya. Be back later with more items de arte.
Massive Attack - "Man Next Door" ...from here... onto the night.
There are people that are there for you and there are people that think they are there for you. People that listen to you talk and try to participate in your dreams and delusions and end up sounding like hollow eyed parrots. People that try to hug you and have no idea how to actually hug another human being. People that think being there means saying "hey come by anytime" when you're not actually able to get there. Or, saying "sure come and stay as long as you need to except we'll have you moved to a homeless shelter if you don't find a place to stay in fourteen days." Amongst other things, it's just galling and conceited of a person to insist that they're "there" for you when they have no concept of what "being there" actually means to you and they believe themselves to be a saint to you when what they're doing is about as useful as giving a homeless man an end table and saying "my work here is done."
Don't tell me we have everything in common because we both had bad parents and should suddenly be bonded for life with endless stories to tell each other. Suffering maybe universal on a general level of human experience, but personal suffering is just that. Exceptionally personal. Never tell someone, after they tell you explicitly that you have nothing in common, that you have everything in common because you both had a bad dad, or wanted to play sports when you were little. How arrogant do you have to be to tell someone that you know them better then they know themselves. It's just plain stupid.
Don't ever tell me you're there for me and I won't let you in or don't want to be your friend because I'm afraid that you're "there for me," and I'm running away. It's a thing I don't want to dignify with a response.
I know myself pretty god damn well (though there's still so much I still learn) and know one knows me better than my former psychiatrist because I've told him things I haven't and will never tell anyone. Don't tell me, ever, that I'm afraid to let you in. Any person can want to be let into your life. Any person can want to be there for you and stand outside the windows of your eyes asking why you treat them so badly because they've been there for you all this time and you never once thanked them. Any person can want to be like you and have everything in common with you. But what it takes to "be there for me", trust, you cannot and have not done. Why should I thank you. When I tell you we have nothing in common, it's because I know myself well enough to be able to say so with certainty. And when it comes to who you let into your life, everything else becomes secondary, as long as you let the right one in, and I'm sorry, but it isn't you.
I'm sorry about that last part. It wasn't written directly to you, but to the person who is causing some problems because they thought and probably still swear to themselves up and down that they are all of those things that I just explained to you, so many people are not. It's grown tiresome, and I just had to get it out of my skull.
Some people really are there for you. Some people can be let into parts of your life. Some people do have things in common with you and me. But most people aren't, can't, and don't and one thing life has taught me through the years is that if you don't let the right one in, it makes it tough to move anything else forward when they start to ask you why you push them away.
Anyway, missed ya. Be back later with more items de arte.
Massive Attack - "Man Next Door" ...from here... onto the night.
2/1/11
Year End Retrospective 2009-2011
Somewhere in the middle of all the bullshit and heart break and fucked up bullshit heart break that filled the skies of 2010 like a flock of severely underfed ravens wheeling over a field hospital whose tents all blew away in a freak hurricane after the worst days of shelling the war saw since its start left a record number of open flesh wounds and completely overwhelmed the nursing staffs ability to even begin to sanitize them all, let alone beat the rats back... where was I going with that? Sort of lost track along the way in there. It's been a while since I've written any fiction and sometimes all I do is close my eyes and it comes bubbling up like gold oil in a blue toilet bowl.
2010 had its downs and its ups. I learned a lot of things about myself and about other people. I learned that most people are probably not my friends, but they are polite and a lot of times because they have to be. I come back to that a lot don't I? It feels like a lot. It's one of those things that I have to keep reminding myself because I'm not wired to accept it. In my head it's a circuit breaker that keeps opening and I have to keep going down to the basement to close it and it's a big hassle. Or is it the reverse? The reverse conditions being assigned to ... you get the point.
Back to 2010. 2009 was the break. The complete unraveling of the assumed and constructed reality. 2010 was the rabbit hole. More like the ocean. 2009 was the break from land. The acceptance that what I was leaving I will never return to because it is not only out of my control, but under the influence of things set in motion and built and conceived years in advance of my ever setting foot on the place I had the foolishness to plant a flag, however intensely the pole was thrust into the Earth and however proudly the wind took to my banner. The ground fell through as though my stupid ambition, well stupid is actually the wrong word there... my misinformed ambition were a fist and the dirt was the crust of a 99 cent store brand pot pie in a tinfoil bowl.
It's not to say that 2009 was fundamentally flawed well before it arrived. It is to say that through my and others efforts the collapse of 2009 was delayed for as long as it was because we didn't know just how thin and cheap and empty the ground beneath my feet was back in 2006. Or maybe I knew and I just did not want to believe. I think that's what it was. It was coming apart back then and I wanted to will it together and make it mine and not be the kid with a future and family so far out of line from everyone else he knew, but that kind of thinking is a recipe for catastrophe.
It wasn't all terrible. The collapse was, but there were things that happened apart from it and I tried to separate myself and compartmentalize the personal wildfire from the person I thought people enjoyed hanging out with. There was some success in that. I discovered the most intense smile is the smile mustered in the face of pains that refuse to be denied. Things burned off left and right in 2009 and then the descent to the ocean floor of 2010 was just as eye opening and faith demolishing. Not in faith in religion. That was long gone. There were still lingering faiths in parents that were systematically slaughtered, there was faith in decency that was blown away, then there was faith in systematic accountability that failed, followed by faith in language and reason, give and take, compassion, the senses, right on down to ... well, I don't know exactly where that fire ended or if it's still eating away inside of me.
Sorry I got distracted again. Just talking about it I sometimes think I can feel that fire touching the insides of my skin. It's comforting. That's all I have faith in now. The consuming flame of discovery that burns in the heat of destruction.
2010 was touching the void, but more than that it was my throat constricting and me screaming out, in a voice I wish I had 15 years ago, a simple no. 2010 was learning that I didn't have to take it. Learning that what I thought I needed and what I knew I needed were so far from what I was living and what I was living was so close to complete emotional rape mind fucking physical slavery was hard to deal with. Tracing the roots back to the abuse was even harder. Tracing the branches that grew from those roots was the hardest part. Right around there was when I finally found me. I guess I'm still the same, but I'm conscious in ways I didn't know I could be and it's made some things easier and some things harder, but it has also allowed me to move on. It was more than finally waking up to the actual dimensions of the cage. It was waking up to the universe outside of it, it's history, my history, how I got there, who put me there, what happened to me and because of me while I was inside of it, and who I was. It was like seeing for the first time with absolute clarity the person I was supposed to be, right there in the room with me, understanding that I could never be that person because of what came before, and finally being able to begin to let that go.
2010 was rage and heat. 2011 is going back to the soul that burned down to find the valuables left, if any, and started over again with free eyes. I still have a lot of letting go to do. There is still so much rage that still smolders, but I have the ability now to understand where it's come from and to direct it, at least partially, to where it must go. 2010 was also the discovery of who the people I could understand to be friends really are. One of the major reasons why I'm not dead in a basement in Queens is because of them.
The world is a fucked up place.
2011 I'm still on fire inside my head. I'm still learning to manage paranoid schizophrenia. I'm still trying to be human. The witticism of taking life one day at a time comes to mind. That's complete bullshit. Life is nothing without goals. I have some deaths to look forward to, but closer in I have the rest of Pittsburgh to look forward to and talking to you and with everything else burned to the ground I think that is finally enough to make sunrise so much less a spear through my heart.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves" I can hear myself. They were drowning me... your tracklist is up next. Three finger promise.
2010 had its downs and its ups. I learned a lot of things about myself and about other people. I learned that most people are probably not my friends, but they are polite and a lot of times because they have to be. I come back to that a lot don't I? It feels like a lot. It's one of those things that I have to keep reminding myself because I'm not wired to accept it. In my head it's a circuit breaker that keeps opening and I have to keep going down to the basement to close it and it's a big hassle. Or is it the reverse? The reverse conditions being assigned to ... you get the point.
Back to 2010. 2009 was the break. The complete unraveling of the assumed and constructed reality. 2010 was the rabbit hole. More like the ocean. 2009 was the break from land. The acceptance that what I was leaving I will never return to because it is not only out of my control, but under the influence of things set in motion and built and conceived years in advance of my ever setting foot on the place I had the foolishness to plant a flag, however intensely the pole was thrust into the Earth and however proudly the wind took to my banner. The ground fell through as though my stupid ambition, well stupid is actually the wrong word there... my misinformed ambition were a fist and the dirt was the crust of a 99 cent store brand pot pie in a tinfoil bowl.
It's not to say that 2009 was fundamentally flawed well before it arrived. It is to say that through my and others efforts the collapse of 2009 was delayed for as long as it was because we didn't know just how thin and cheap and empty the ground beneath my feet was back in 2006. Or maybe I knew and I just did not want to believe. I think that's what it was. It was coming apart back then and I wanted to will it together and make it mine and not be the kid with a future and family so far out of line from everyone else he knew, but that kind of thinking is a recipe for catastrophe.
It wasn't all terrible. The collapse was, but there were things that happened apart from it and I tried to separate myself and compartmentalize the personal wildfire from the person I thought people enjoyed hanging out with. There was some success in that. I discovered the most intense smile is the smile mustered in the face of pains that refuse to be denied. Things burned off left and right in 2009 and then the descent to the ocean floor of 2010 was just as eye opening and faith demolishing. Not in faith in religion. That was long gone. There were still lingering faiths in parents that were systematically slaughtered, there was faith in decency that was blown away, then there was faith in systematic accountability that failed, followed by faith in language and reason, give and take, compassion, the senses, right on down to ... well, I don't know exactly where that fire ended or if it's still eating away inside of me.
Sorry I got distracted again. Just talking about it I sometimes think I can feel that fire touching the insides of my skin. It's comforting. That's all I have faith in now. The consuming flame of discovery that burns in the heat of destruction.
2010 was touching the void, but more than that it was my throat constricting and me screaming out, in a voice I wish I had 15 years ago, a simple no. 2010 was learning that I didn't have to take it. Learning that what I thought I needed and what I knew I needed were so far from what I was living and what I was living was so close to complete emotional rape mind fucking physical slavery was hard to deal with. Tracing the roots back to the abuse was even harder. Tracing the branches that grew from those roots was the hardest part. Right around there was when I finally found me. I guess I'm still the same, but I'm conscious in ways I didn't know I could be and it's made some things easier and some things harder, but it has also allowed me to move on. It was more than finally waking up to the actual dimensions of the cage. It was waking up to the universe outside of it, it's history, my history, how I got there, who put me there, what happened to me and because of me while I was inside of it, and who I was. It was like seeing for the first time with absolute clarity the person I was supposed to be, right there in the room with me, understanding that I could never be that person because of what came before, and finally being able to begin to let that go.
2010 was rage and heat. 2011 is going back to the soul that burned down to find the valuables left, if any, and started over again with free eyes. I still have a lot of letting go to do. There is still so much rage that still smolders, but I have the ability now to understand where it's come from and to direct it, at least partially, to where it must go. 2010 was also the discovery of who the people I could understand to be friends really are. One of the major reasons why I'm not dead in a basement in Queens is because of them.
The world is a fucked up place.
2011 I'm still on fire inside my head. I'm still learning to manage paranoid schizophrenia. I'm still trying to be human. The witticism of taking life one day at a time comes to mind. That's complete bullshit. Life is nothing without goals. I have some deaths to look forward to, but closer in I have the rest of Pittsburgh to look forward to and talking to you and with everything else burned to the ground I think that is finally enough to make sunrise so much less a spear through my heart.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves" I can hear myself. They were drowning me... your tracklist is up next. Three finger promise.
5/12/07
and then the telephone started 05/12/07
Subject : and then the telephone started
Posted Date: : May 12, 2007 9:35 PM
the telephone is ringing and im not answering because im busy living at the moment and it requires my attentions.
may 21 i should have more time to do things like sit and ponder. i could have said think but there's something about the word ponder that's reminscent of chucking big smooth rocks into a little lake and hearing the plunk echo off the bottom of a foot bridge while some kid in a wide brimmed twine hat fishes and the sun busies itself with setting.
be back then.
<3
Posted Date: : May 12, 2007 9:35 PM
the telephone is ringing and im not answering because im busy living at the moment and it requires my attentions.
may 21 i should have more time to do things like sit and ponder. i could have said think but there's something about the word ponder that's reminscent of chucking big smooth rocks into a little lake and hearing the plunk echo off the bottom of a foot bridge while some kid in a wide brimmed twine hat fishes and the sun busies itself with setting.
be back then.
<3
3/11/07
starside 03/11/07
Subject : starside
Posted Date: : Mar 11, 2007 4:04 PM
heading out to the maryland colony to visit my little sister and make some cash.
the only thing that makes riding the greyhound interesting is just thinking about it as a space shuttle. a really crappy, really square, really smelly, but moderately inexpensive, space shuttle, and you are the intrepid... uhm... business man being sent out to the stars to double check some standards and regulations issue for your company that didnt have the loose change to send you first class. now thats interesting. like that jetsons movie.
so here's the plan. disembark monday morning. cut down some trees. chill out.... play some games... maybe watch a movie.... eat... sleep... and repeat until friday afternoon.
embarassing moment of the week: i had so much trouble having an orgasm today that i ended up masterbating from around 4 am till like 7.30. either i really suck at masterbating or something is wrong. i probably just need to give the nerve endings a break.
happy/sad moment of the week: anne's spiraling success. its getting out of control. the only way for things to continue at this pace is if she just started finding thousand dollar bills laying around on the sidewalk. its happy because she's worked hard and is already getting to see some benefits... but its also sad... because im not seeing any returns on my efforts yet... and probably wont for another year. ah well. i can wait. im a patient person. and if it takes too long i can at least learn how to cheat the game a little from watching it so long from the sidelines. hopefully cheating wont end up meaning acquiring a drug problem.
funny moment of the week: i was typing some drunken text messages and i dont know how many of them even got sent... but the thing was that i've been missing anne while shes in florida and at the time i was typing the messages i couldnt think of the words i was trying to say. i knew how i felt but there was a tangle of non responsive brain matter between feelings and typing fingertips. so i eventually just admitted i couldnt find the words... and for some reason i felt ashamed. but god damn it, did i try. there are six or seven saved messages that look like a two year old got their hands on refrigerator magnet letters and spilled the box... on a jigsaw puzzle.
///meat beat manifesto - "what does it all mean" a pretty cool song to listen to when youre gettin 'r done. you know moves are never fake. society is a drag so why not drop it?
Posted Date: : Mar 11, 2007 4:04 PM
heading out to the maryland colony to visit my little sister and make some cash.
the only thing that makes riding the greyhound interesting is just thinking about it as a space shuttle. a really crappy, really square, really smelly, but moderately inexpensive, space shuttle, and you are the intrepid... uhm... business man being sent out to the stars to double check some standards and regulations issue for your company that didnt have the loose change to send you first class. now thats interesting. like that jetsons movie.
so here's the plan. disembark monday morning. cut down some trees. chill out.... play some games... maybe watch a movie.... eat... sleep... and repeat until friday afternoon.
embarassing moment of the week: i had so much trouble having an orgasm today that i ended up masterbating from around 4 am till like 7.30. either i really suck at masterbating or something is wrong. i probably just need to give the nerve endings a break.
happy/sad moment of the week: anne's spiraling success. its getting out of control. the only way for things to continue at this pace is if she just started finding thousand dollar bills laying around on the sidewalk. its happy because she's worked hard and is already getting to see some benefits... but its also sad... because im not seeing any returns on my efforts yet... and probably wont for another year. ah well. i can wait. im a patient person. and if it takes too long i can at least learn how to cheat the game a little from watching it so long from the sidelines. hopefully cheating wont end up meaning acquiring a drug problem.
funny moment of the week: i was typing some drunken text messages and i dont know how many of them even got sent... but the thing was that i've been missing anne while shes in florida and at the time i was typing the messages i couldnt think of the words i was trying to say. i knew how i felt but there was a tangle of non responsive brain matter between feelings and typing fingertips. so i eventually just admitted i couldnt find the words... and for some reason i felt ashamed. but god damn it, did i try. there are six or seven saved messages that look like a two year old got their hands on refrigerator magnet letters and spilled the box... on a jigsaw puzzle.
///meat beat manifesto - "what does it all mean" a pretty cool song to listen to when youre gettin 'r done. you know moves are never fake. society is a drag so why not drop it?
1/2/07
karma 01/02/07
Subject : karma
Posted Date: : Jan 2, 2007 11:58 PM
you owe me one. hardcore. this was supposed to be a happy entry. i had the worst field trip of my life. it was a good adventure, but good adventures have hurty endings sometimes...
.... ugh.
more later. go blow yourselves.
and smile. because just when you think you've had the worst day of your life someone actually does. (not that the someone is me, what im trying to say is im still smiling anyway and you should too cuz i know for a fact there is someone out there who had it worse than i did and it pretty much put my troubles into sharp relief)
Posted Date: : Jan 2, 2007 11:58 PM
you owe me one. hardcore. this was supposed to be a happy entry. i had the worst field trip of my life. it was a good adventure, but good adventures have hurty endings sometimes...
.... ugh.
more later. go blow yourselves.
and smile. because just when you think you've had the worst day of your life someone actually does. (not that the someone is me, what im trying to say is im still smiling anyway and you should too cuz i know for a fact there is someone out there who had it worse than i did and it pretty much put my troubles into sharp relief)
12/26/06
home for the hole days 12/26/06
Subject : home for the hole days
Posted Date: : Dec 26, 2006 10:18 AM
thats what they are really. they are days that represent holes; holes in your otherwise "busy" life, holes in your pay checks, holes in your souring days, holes in your routine, just lots and lots of holes. its not all bad.
sometimes its nice to crawl into a hole for a while and watch the world whirl by. im glad that this has been the least superficial christmas ive had the pleasure of living through. we didnt pretend to be super rich. we didnt pretend to have big dreams for big gifts. we didnt make dumb ass christmas lists. and we didnt have to sit through a sermon delivered by my overly pious and ultra conservative father. we just had some time to sit in a hole just big enough for the six of us in my family (mommy daddy sister brother me and sister) and enjoy the close company. its been good.
i like to think im gonna write another book of poetry someday. i want to call it "from the bottom of my well" because i dont have enough perspective to pretend i write for the "everyman." my life as it stands right now is sitting at the bottom of a 60 foot well. every now and then i manage to pull some bricks out and stack them up under me; i get a little closer to daylight, but the trick has been keeping the whole thing from collapsing. the funny thing is that until i get out the clouds over head, the shaft of sunlight, could be anything from a hurricane to a sunrise and im too closed up to know the difference.
im planning on going to new york for new years, but it wont happen. i can feel it already. im just going to go home to pittsburgh. im feelin home sick anyway. its an odd place to feel homesick for three different locations at the same time. hopefully my eventual graduation from college will fix that.
speaking of growing up. i thought i would do so while i was at home. i thought i would be able to say "yeah pop i smoke now and then" or "yes i drink in the afternoon, sometimes a beer goes well with lunch (or breakfast depending on what day it is)," but i didnt. there are a couple of things i fear in this world and one of them is my father's disgust. that's why i dont show him writing. that's why i dont talk about my real life when he's around or even in ear shot. that's why i still have to hide who i am from him. maybe when i can fully support my own god damn weight ill finally be able to tell him that this is what im made of. maybe not.
four more days and it wont matter again because ill be on the greyhound with a fresh pack and limitless potential. or at least potential that can rise to the threshold of possessing a bachelor's degree, cuz i still dont have one yet. << its thoughts like that... they make me angry that everyone will be getting on with their lives come may. angry... but also... heart broken.
Posted Date: : Dec 26, 2006 10:18 AM
thats what they are really. they are days that represent holes; holes in your otherwise "busy" life, holes in your pay checks, holes in your souring days, holes in your routine, just lots and lots of holes. its not all bad.
sometimes its nice to crawl into a hole for a while and watch the world whirl by. im glad that this has been the least superficial christmas ive had the pleasure of living through. we didnt pretend to be super rich. we didnt pretend to have big dreams for big gifts. we didnt make dumb ass christmas lists. and we didnt have to sit through a sermon delivered by my overly pious and ultra conservative father. we just had some time to sit in a hole just big enough for the six of us in my family (mommy daddy sister brother me and sister) and enjoy the close company. its been good.
i like to think im gonna write another book of poetry someday. i want to call it "from the bottom of my well" because i dont have enough perspective to pretend i write for the "everyman." my life as it stands right now is sitting at the bottom of a 60 foot well. every now and then i manage to pull some bricks out and stack them up under me; i get a little closer to daylight, but the trick has been keeping the whole thing from collapsing. the funny thing is that until i get out the clouds over head, the shaft of sunlight, could be anything from a hurricane to a sunrise and im too closed up to know the difference.
im planning on going to new york for new years, but it wont happen. i can feel it already. im just going to go home to pittsburgh. im feelin home sick anyway. its an odd place to feel homesick for three different locations at the same time. hopefully my eventual graduation from college will fix that.
speaking of growing up. i thought i would do so while i was at home. i thought i would be able to say "yeah pop i smoke now and then" or "yes i drink in the afternoon, sometimes a beer goes well with lunch (or breakfast depending on what day it is)," but i didnt. there are a couple of things i fear in this world and one of them is my father's disgust. that's why i dont show him writing. that's why i dont talk about my real life when he's around or even in ear shot. that's why i still have to hide who i am from him. maybe when i can fully support my own god damn weight ill finally be able to tell him that this is what im made of. maybe not.
four more days and it wont matter again because ill be on the greyhound with a fresh pack and limitless potential. or at least potential that can rise to the threshold of possessing a bachelor's degree, cuz i still dont have one yet. << its thoughts like that... they make me angry that everyone will be getting on with their lives come may. angry... but also... heart broken.
11/30/06
fear of wanting 11/30/06
Subject : fear of wanting
Posted Date: : Nov 30, 2006 10:40 AM
so what happend many eves ago: was probably nomal. probably not so weird as i thought it was. ive always been confused to a degree. confused sexually. essentially a late night of drinking left two boys passed out on my couch. and i wanted to give them both blow jobs. really badly at the time. other strange things happend that night, at least they felt strange.
ultimately i didnt, which was probably for the best. i think i have a fear of wanting. wanting to know that the people i love are cared for. i dont think i want to be trash. i want to be loved and to love as much as the next person. im just also very passionate and there isnt much place for that where ive tried to jam it in. anxiety. grappling with what is and what i want. i have an overwhelming desire to do things right, but also to do things my way, and my way never seems to be the right way. i keep screwing up. so much so that it gets hard to feel which way is down. so much so that it gets hard to feel. to know.
when that happens its nice to have someone to point the way for you. but sometimes there's no one who knows the way any better than you do. and then confusion sets in.
Posted Date: : Nov 30, 2006 10:40 AM
so what happend many eves ago: was probably nomal. probably not so weird as i thought it was. ive always been confused to a degree. confused sexually. essentially a late night of drinking left two boys passed out on my couch. and i wanted to give them both blow jobs. really badly at the time. other strange things happend that night, at least they felt strange.
ultimately i didnt, which was probably for the best. i think i have a fear of wanting. wanting to know that the people i love are cared for. i dont think i want to be trash. i want to be loved and to love as much as the next person. im just also very passionate and there isnt much place for that where ive tried to jam it in. anxiety. grappling with what is and what i want. i have an overwhelming desire to do things right, but also to do things my way, and my way never seems to be the right way. i keep screwing up. so much so that it gets hard to feel which way is down. so much so that it gets hard to feel. to know.
when that happens its nice to have someone to point the way for you. but sometimes there's no one who knows the way any better than you do. and then confusion sets in.
2/8/06
why i hate myspace writers 02/08/06
Subject : Why I hate Myspace Writers
Posted Date: : Feb 8, 2006 4:37 PM
on second thought... i dont mind having to click through five levels of bullshit to get to the writing communities.... the REAL issue here is that none of the writers or at least only a select handful of them are actually worth associating with. fuck 'em, they all suck.
there's nothing wrong with being a self styled writer. what makes it wrong as all hell is when someone proclaims themself a writer and all they do is churn out whatever is bubbling on top of their brain without giving it a second thought. i cant count how many times ive asked people if they ever revise and the answer comes back "i revise as i write." what the fuck does that mean! does that mean they never have to do second drafts because its always perfect word for word as it hits the page. jeeeeezus, i hate hobbyist writers because they make career writers that havent made it yet look like assholes. perfectionist, arrogant assholes. which is untrue for at least half of us.
gah!!!! think about it... if you found a way to eliminate every hobbyist and aching heart pre puber and old ass retired wench knob with too much time on his/her hands and an internet connection, you would thin the field down immediately to college students, career writers, and thinking adolescents. this would, over night, eliminate 1599 of the 1605 groups and would improve the quality, be it a niche group or a broad multi-topical group, of the remaining 6 groups drastically.
so fuck 'em. fuck all of them dabblers and shit scrawlers. someone should just hand them a stick and point them to a hole in the ground full of feces and tell them to stir, because thats all they do when they think they're "contributing." theyre just stirring around the same pot of used up pointless crap the person immediately before them shat out in a different color and texture with the words "comments please," or "first post, be nice" or "suggestions welcome."
The second worst part to all of this is the fucking encouragement loop these dabblers have going. when someone writes shit i call it what it is because they need to know that publishing something to the community means that youve done some work on it and its not just a spray of mucus from a brain sneeze that happend the night before. what the dabblers do however is discredit everything i say by immediately patting their fellow/fellette on the back and saying things like "great job", "i really loved that one", "good metaphor." FUCKING SHIT FACE. stop enabling the bastards and lay down some laws of what it means to be a writer!!! shits gotta stop somewhere.
what i hate the most about myspace is the piss poor quality of the writing groups, what i hate second most are the pointless bits of encouragement that keep them going, revolving doors of no talent hacks and their no talent hack readers.
Posted Date: : Feb 8, 2006 4:37 PM
on second thought... i dont mind having to click through five levels of bullshit to get to the writing communities.... the REAL issue here is that none of the writers or at least only a select handful of them are actually worth associating with. fuck 'em, they all suck.
there's nothing wrong with being a self styled writer. what makes it wrong as all hell is when someone proclaims themself a writer and all they do is churn out whatever is bubbling on top of their brain without giving it a second thought. i cant count how many times ive asked people if they ever revise and the answer comes back "i revise as i write." what the fuck does that mean! does that mean they never have to do second drafts because its always perfect word for word as it hits the page. jeeeeezus, i hate hobbyist writers because they make career writers that havent made it yet look like assholes. perfectionist, arrogant assholes. which is untrue for at least half of us.
gah!!!! think about it... if you found a way to eliminate every hobbyist and aching heart pre puber and old ass retired wench knob with too much time on his/her hands and an internet connection, you would thin the field down immediately to college students, career writers, and thinking adolescents. this would, over night, eliminate 1599 of the 1605 groups and would improve the quality, be it a niche group or a broad multi-topical group, of the remaining 6 groups drastically.
so fuck 'em. fuck all of them dabblers and shit scrawlers. someone should just hand them a stick and point them to a hole in the ground full of feces and tell them to stir, because thats all they do when they think they're "contributing." theyre just stirring around the same pot of used up pointless crap the person immediately before them shat out in a different color and texture with the words "comments please," or "first post, be nice" or "suggestions welcome."
The second worst part to all of this is the fucking encouragement loop these dabblers have going. when someone writes shit i call it what it is because they need to know that publishing something to the community means that youve done some work on it and its not just a spray of mucus from a brain sneeze that happend the night before. what the dabblers do however is discredit everything i say by immediately patting their fellow/fellette on the back and saying things like "great job", "i really loved that one", "good metaphor." FUCKING SHIT FACE. stop enabling the bastards and lay down some laws of what it means to be a writer!!! shits gotta stop somewhere.
what i hate the most about myspace is the piss poor quality of the writing groups, what i hate second most are the pointless bits of encouragement that keep them going, revolving doors of no talent hacks and their no talent hack readers.
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