About some of these things, I can’t even read. Much like how you are what you eat, you are what you consume mentally as well. I have not been doing the best in that regard. I could do better to put something good into my ears and eyes. Speak some good things out my mouth. There are times it is just second nature to idly sit by through the day and do nothing. But the fixation on not doing anything is just as much a problem as the not doing anything itself. If I were to really change, what would that look like? Are these all just testaments to how I’m like a battery getting perpetually charged and recharged? Just material—some material thing? I’m listening to “Echoes” by Pink Floyd. The sheer quality of their studio recordings is incredible. I really admire that. It’s also kind of peaceful and profound to me. Their songs let the instrumentation and ambience sing as much as the voices do. “And do I take you by the hand – and lead you through the land – and help me understand the best I can.” Just a kind of a lilting from one line to the next. I am trying not to idolize things so much anymore. It’s very easy to do. Some of their music seems slightly boring to me, in a way. But I also like that about it. I think there is a need for some boredom in things. The problem isn’t in the boring parts. The problem is in how you treat the boring parts. You can either let yourself absorb and come along or stay behind and shut it out with meaning. I’m tired of always looking for meaning in things. I’m too symbolic. I need to just be. Pick and choose. Realize I’m investing in whatever I’m giving my attention to. Give my attention to better things. Don’t judge so much. Let what is be. Be what I am. The watcher watching things. Even now, I am thinking too much. ¶ The light upon the hall calls will I never be the scented reed that smells like waves of fields the winter wrung. Candles lit beneath my feet feel like a cool white whirl of air that courses up my soles into my eyes. No one has to stand alone, and no one has to understand. The way we want the truth to be is wrong. I come to pass my open mind with eyes that see for once beyond myself to where the door is buffering. I see then through the rest and don’t relieve my body of its weight; I am not what I seem; I am to seem. So what with all I think. Right now I am able to feel my own body but do not really ally to it the way I think I often would; maybe I do so more, now. I am typing something out. It is almost ritualistic. At this point in the song, I can almost feel my soul floating through me. Into my body with its veins a little tight, my back arched, on the couch reaching out to the keyboard. The voice is just another sound. The voice is round and comes out loud, even whispering. To what to where my heart connects I pride myself on little things. I have to think or else I have to be. Don’t this don’t that do whatever I say. In the vocal range of Mickey Mouse. Or Alan Watts. Or God. To determine for yourself your own higher power. Mine is a thing, for sure, though I’m not all too aware of what it is. I know I have a name, a true name, I just don’t know what it is really. Or else I don’t relate. I do, however, really enjoy tapping into my own body like this. I do whatever I can whatever I must whatever is necessary to adjust to the harsh this the harsh that the next thing the true fact the big lie the dumb con the wrong place the right on. I know I know I know. No one knows the same. But I do. And I know. And I know. And I know. I am in the process of becoming either crazier or more sane, and I am coming to become less concerned which it will turn out to be. All I have is this little tin crumb of a moment passing by slippage out my hand the one lonely ornery true thing. I get pulled out like I’m doing acid, but I’m over three months sober. Must have some of that in my spine, still. Either way, I love you love you rosy true way out there where beneath all that weight I’m passing on. Sometimes you just have to let yourself tap a little longer into the chaos. Fingers made of words pull the page apart. Then there is no longer any you or I and only the mindless forever, whatever the cause. There are parts to play and I know because this could quite honestly go on for forever, because each forever can contain another one and each one is muddy black tar-soaked clay forming the shape of a person behind the page behind the lens pointing the camera at the thing that becomes the words the very words on the page and even when I have no vision left or hearing or words I will know and be in touch with that still tune going on all the time inside all of us inside everything. There is no respite from the vibration of timeless space. I am my words I am the space they take up I am the space I am in I am space itself I am the fabric of gravity’s reality, maybe reality itself. All you have to do is see your eye. The black hole at the center, sucking the light in. That is how you’ll know. Heavens to Besty. Don’t we all. Jumbling scrabble, scree despondent waiting on a the edge the width of the eye of a needle each little rock, each pebble on the mountainside in space.
How did you get to be so sad? Oh. I know. It’s not so easy, once you’ve gotten used to it. To have become the shadow of yourself. To be cast across the floor while you stand. That is the essence of what I mean, here. My writing is indulgent. It makes me sick. To no end. And I cannot seem to do anything with it the way I once felt I could. I cannot seem to feel about it the way I once did when I’d read it back. I am dramatic, overly. Even now, I am moaning. I cannot get away. But there is a light in the essence of the slow. The seeming freeze that takes hold in the wake of the world ending upright. I don’t know. Sometimes I just have to let my mind lose hold a little. Spout some nonsense so I can feel like I’ve done something. I just want to create something, and be proud of it. Sometimes, I think. That is all I want. I am not the most consistent. I don’t really read. I could do much better with doing a little more of that and a little less probably of writing about how I can’t write. I may just be actualizing all these fears. What I mean to escape keeps confronting me. And I do nothing to service my own ability to face. I’m so sick of it. I want to do something real. I want to make something. The work as a being of its own. I’m so sick of being in my head about who I am. I’m so sick of caring so much what other people think. I’m sick and tired. The expression. I’m sick and tired.
So Thens
So Thens
(bespoke to self on the actualization: life doesn’t have to always make sense. At least say something, so long as it is true.)
Let’s begin with what we were really inspired by. Sitting in AA, the woman with the intellect said something about sitting in the void of not speaking. Biting the tongue until it falls off. So something like some true inspiration may just be able to take hold, now. What is the course of love? How can we know? Jest in Junes, Mays having passed, about the future’s all-wilds. Quest to the beach where sun do shine and waves do splash, hey. I was somewhat aware. I would not let myself make any money or be any responsible, though. Oh, what a life the lazy man leads. Being a loser for the sake of filling a need. And I have been there.
But laid across my open mind, the ocean’s rind of splendid dross as set in buoys floating out beyond the sandbar were just surface spots above the lots of life beneath. The fishes circled fishes circling. I came to orbit on myself a bit more than I’d care to tell. But either way, the end was not in sight. A long-told passage out of time sits wary in a slate of stone and seems to mean that someone’s suffering.
Man, bemoan your little spite; it matters not the cause or care; it only serves to keep you where you are. Just get up for this once today. Control yourself if you can. Exercise the will to live at all. The passage read that if you tried, you at least did that before you died. The passage ended midway, buffering. The stone the stencil pairs its rod a soft dull chisel ´way bespeaks the ending of the things it handed down.
Test
This is a teszt fo shoooo, though, y’know, you edon’t alway know, y’know? So what we got here, funky junkies, is the reason the blast zone so big. We have here the exodus to a massive state of RUST. Wait up, hill cats. There ain’t no more road for the lone nomad in the Exclusion Zone. Hiya!