Friday, May 29, 2015

Therapy

It's telling.  It says something profound about me that there is guilt behind talking anonymously about people in my life and my relationships with them.  There is guilt.  It seems to violate some unwritten code.  Thou shalt not talk.

Snitches get stitches?

No, it's not about self-protection.  It's about some misplaced sense of loyalty.  It's about "what happens here stays here," even though no such agreement ever existed.  It's about keeping family shit out of the streets because of course only trash air out their laundry out on the front walk.

It's ironic. It's 'shaking my damn head' funny, that after all these years it still feels wrong to shake all the crap out even in an entirely anonymous setting.  Again, it's not about looking out for myself.  There was no such hesitation in publishing all kinds of shameful stuff about myself.  Where others are concerned though it still seems like betrayal.

Thank me now then, because at this rate, all your secrets are safe.  If it can't be said on the couch you'll most likely never see it on the shelf at Barnes & Noble.

Funny...

So I'm shaking my damn head, and drinking coffee and melting corns and calluses from my little toe -- and I'm trying to sort things out and it always seems more clear in type.  It's like once it's out in 12 pt. Times or Arial it's easier to process.  That could be self-delusion, but it feels like shaking dried mud off my trousers.  We shall see how long that lasts today.

Scrape the face, shower, and face the day.  Suit up and show up... and of course shut up.  Keep shtum and keep the dirty laundry off the front walk.  Move on.

And the backhoe excavating the foundation for a new building next door (I'm not the only one excavating a new foundation.) started at 7:15 this morning.  It's not like there was going to be any sleeping in anyway.  Might as well keep it moving.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

The End


There was a time that this seemed the most profound artistic statement ever made, to me anyway.  It may actually be but who's to say, really?  The Doors were definitely reaching for something.  Or three of them were following the one that really appeared to be onto something.  Or just on something, and the others were on just enough that they believed him.

Jim Morrison seemed sincere enough.  There was a time also where he seemed to me to be the most profound artist that ever breathed.  What did I know?  I suspect now that he was just smart enough to know that there was more to all this, or that there was a greater truth, but that he was only just smart enough that the rest was beyond his grasp.  I can identify with that.

I suspect now that there really is a greater truth, but the greater truth is that there are no greater truths.  That we have what we have and philosophers... those great bearded men... are chasing their own tails in searching through a darkness that will only ever turn out to be the murky depths of their own assholes.  Be kind to each other.  That's all there is.

Just be kind.  It can't really be that simple, can it?

Again, I expect it is just that simple.  We are looking for something that is right under our noses.  Why can we not value that which has no weight or mass?

What has no weight and no mass but still has gravity?

Kindness, weedhopper.

Or just maybe I'm the one up my own asshole now.  Oh wait!  There's Jim Morrison!  What is he doing here?

Maybe he had the best line of all, in his book THE LORDS AND THE NEW CREATURES:

The first line, on an otherwise empty page, read only, "Look where we worship."  Just an admonition which I ignorantly misread to be a statement against organized religion, and ideas of a god that I had tried and given up on because he never fulfilled my Christmas list.  Look at who and what I had assigned an imaginary weight and mass to.

A man.

Might as well have been the Pope.

Words.

He could have said anything and at 18 I would have not only listened but followed.  I had nothing else because I was looking for something a whole lot more than what was right under my nose.

........

So someone texted me this morning asking how I am feeling.  How do I answer that?  I am in a strange place for no apparent reason today, but I'm guessing that since there is no apparent reason that I'm actually doing okay.  I'm dodging between shadows in my own head looking for spots where the light is getting in.  I'm waiting for a boot to drop, so to speak and it may or may not be coming down today or any other day.  I am in a strange place emotionally but of course feelings aren't necessarily facts.  I'm feeling compelled, these last couple mornings, to record everything as if there is something coming down that will irrevocably change things, or end things -- as if leaving a trail of bread crumbs that someone else will be following back, but not me.

A sense of impending... perhaps not doom, but something.  An impending something.

Feelin' some kinda way...

Just back off a bit.  I'll figure things out.  Or just let go of it.

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

How it ends...


It's a sure bet this has been posted to Glossophagia at some point over the last seven or so years.  It always comes back to this, and not to be morbid for the sake of it, but maybe because it's comforting to know that there is a Great Leveler that comes in, and well... levels things.  We all go out the same.

As the crocodiles say, and you can take comfort in it, "This too shall pass."

Catharsis

Is it?

Sometimes it is and sometimes it isn't.  Re-reading the entry from this morning and wondering if it is an accurate reflection of my feelings and general demeanor or was it just about 'feeling some kinda way,' as is said in certain circles.  I'm leaning towards the latter but not entirely convinced.  This morning it was catharsis but the toxins being expelled do have a tendency to build up quickly and frequently.  Writing it down can be a sort of finger down my own throat.

Bring it up, motherfucker!  Bring it up!

Metamorphosis.

Shedding my skin.

I've watched enough nature shows.  They always play these scenes in slow-motion but even then it is never particularly graceful.  It doesn't matter how slow they replay it or what tinkling piano bits they set it to.  It is cataclysmic right down at a cellular level.  It's more defenestration than slipping out of a tight knit garment.

Rebirth.

Premature?  Not quite spontaneous abortion but it feels premature.  I was just getting comfortable with being uncomfortable right where I am.  What's this now?

So catharsis.  I wake up in the morning and right these things.  It's a sign.  Things are moving along at a cellular level and change is coming.  It's not that change is what I want so much as that what is going on just isn't sustainable.

Please stand by.

Cobwebs

'Mental cobwebs' is what the woman on the radio said.  She said she wakes up every day with mental cobwebs but listening to a certain program sweeps them away.

Interesting.

It doesn't work that way in my head.  My head is all corners that brooms don't reach.  It could be a question of generally shitty housekeeping.  If you let things go too long it gets easier sometimes to just light a match and walk away.  That's not really an option, is it?

Or hire someone?

Expensive but that's pretty much the last hope now.  This isn't a solo project.  It's going to take the cleaning lady forever though and who really has forever?

Nobody.

If your cobwebs can be swept away though, by listening to soft voices summarizing the weather, politics and light human interest bullshit, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that we're not talking about cobwebs, mental or otherwise.  Maybe the odd dust ball or random cat hair.

But then we're carrying metaphors way too far, aren't we?  Let's drop it.

It's not that the willingness isn't there to look at things from any old angle and test this and examine that.  There is plenty of willingness and that's progress because that hasn't always been the case.  The willingness, however, doesn't entirely sweep aside the "what's the point" and "what the fuck" debris that seems to inundate the house.  That shit is like black mold, like perhaps the walls themselves are corrupt and rotten.

No more metaphors, right?

Everything hurts today and today is not unique.  It's not one in many.  This is many days now.  It feels like the sinews binding me together have dried and grown tight -- like my bones themselves have begun to petrify and grown heavy -- like the joints are starting to erode and separate and now the ends of the fossils are just bumping into each other and chipping away.  The plumbing is rusted and seems to have burst in places, damping and rotting the joists and soaking the foundation.

Alternately ancient and dried or organic and seeping.

This old house...  again with the metaphors.  I just feel old.  It feels different day to day and few days feel great.  We can leave it at that.

It's from the neck up, however, that things are most troublesome but it's always been that way.  It can't really be said with any certainty that one drives the other.  Is the brain giving up on the body or is the body the one finally saying simply, "fuck this," giving in to gravity and resigned to a slow collapse like an unattended barn.

(I know, sorry.)

And yet I am too young to surrender and just stay in bed.  Says who...

So I'm willing, still, to do my due diligence and examine all of it from any angle that presents itself.  But it's like looking at a kaleidoscope some days and no particular angle repeats itself exactly like the last rotation.  Every view presents a new light.  It makes me weary.

Tedium.

I'm already weary of self-examination, so I will scrape my face and wash it off and go out and look at other things.  Right here at this point though there are no words in my epistolary arsenal to convey the sound that just rose from my throat.  Maybe a dilapidated house settling closer into a permanent home in the dirt.

(note  humor of the day:  She looked good.  That easy smile and the kind, soft eyes that always seemed to say, "it's really good to see you," even she had seen you 30 minutes before.  New York is a small city too so you just know that there will never be a point where you can count on not running into your past.  You get used to that if you live here.  Your past, recent or otherwise, is always right around the next corner.  This past looked nice -- the smile and the hand casually on that hip -- and of course there was that moment in my head where the words, "Yah, I used to...," dance through.  Then she went and introduced me to her friends by the name I told her once I didn't like to be called, and I remembered why it was "used to."  I could see the cartoon bubble reverie evaporate.  Heh... well.  There you go.)

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Throw random words into Google Map search field...

Pulled this idea from Sabotage Times and their article titled "We Googled 'Arseholes' To See Where It Took Us."  The result was good for a few chuckles, but of course I had to see if they were pulling my leg.  I entered a few for myself with the following result:


"Big Shit" took me to the heart of Ye Auld Berlin, where the Germans seem to have an affinity for all things Scatological.  I don't know if it's just a coincidence that it took me to R├╝ckerStrasse...

Hmmm...

Tricky bastards!

Marines occupy Bryant Park