anonymousblack: (seven)
i neglect pages for nearly two months: i neglect pages for no justifiable reason. now, two months later, in the thick of jury duty, i flip two pages ahead in my primary paper journal without really making a strategy. two pages should be enough for february, i think. even my peculiar brand of vanity in documentation should be accepting of two front-to-back pages for february. what i'm saying is: the content exists, at least. hopefully by the time you read this, whoever you are, likely me, there will not be two blank pages for february, but two pages of handcrafted artisanal entries copied into place from another notebook or, most likely, livejournal. i seem to remember jury duty serving as a return to active journaling (in my active journal, even) once before. so perhaps history shall repeat.

there's so much illusion-making in personal writing. we pretend the things we write are: objective when they are subjective; subjective when they are insane; written in february when they were written march. we pretend to be well-researched and approaching the matter with some form of balance when actually we are livid, just hiding it well. we approach an important issue from an irrelevant angle. we shoot off on weird tangents, assuming that because we can speak with what looks, sounds, and tastes like authority, we possess any authority on the thing at all. even when, let's skip the suspense and just say: especially when we do not. at all. even remotely. we present snippets of dialogue as though they've got anything to do with reality. we present ourselves as righteous, blind with tears of justified outrage, when really we're laughing our asses off at the hopeless absurdity of it or maybe a cat on youtube.

i don't know. i used to think i knew. or i used to tell myself that knowing didn't matter so much: we do what we do to find out. we write our disingenuous dialog in between our greatly enhanced or outright fabricated details and think of it as "creative non-fiction." what does creative mean in this context? it means to create, as in: to construct, as in the truth of the matter exists only at the untouchable core, that which cannot be spoken, only illustrated, only navigated around, described through another medium and never once replicated under lab conditions. oh, do not litmus that text. it will not hold up under scrutiny. it will collapse into dust at the dawn's first light. why do i do this again?

because of a reality only occasionally understood by thrice-initiated mystics and certain types of writers: the truth cannot be spoken, but only spoken around. the truth cannot be gazed upon except in mirrors. we do not sketch the truth but block out the spaces around it, and as such at best have only the rough shape of the thing, not the details, not the comprehension, not even the name - simply the title, the coordinates, where it might possibly be, what's not supposed to be there more than what actually is.



crowley's book of the law is terrifying like that, but then it always was.


love, when we slip out of the body, i wrote, but disembodied love is another matter, or rather, not a matter at all, but a concept. a sort of substitute. a placeholder for what we want or what we should want or what we don't want to want, what we want in spite of our best interests, those dark desires that ultimately land us in courtrooms and hospitals, in in-hospitable climates, not sure what we're doing, never sure what we're doing, not a certainty in sight or memory, but still we persist. still i persist, i wrote, a kind of eulogy, a sort of epitaph, or just the kind of thing i've written before and will likely write again. everything and witchcraft, i wrote and wrote again. everything and that.


anonymousblack: (voigtlander)
time to write words around me in a circle. time to circle myself with words. time to embody the process of memory in this deeply flawed process. time to map out my intangibles. scan the intangible tissue. maybe we’ll find something. maybe. do we want to find something? do we want, at least, to know whatever the hell it is that’s going on? maybe we do. or i don’t know. damn that subtext! what’s going on down there? i don’t know what this thing is or why i keep doing it, but i do it nonetheless.

at least, i hope to.

that swarming, shivering nausea of wanting to create something but no spark. no concept, low or high or sober. worse still, no investment. nothing that draws me in. nothing that energizes me in the creative process. just: i should want to do this. i should feel energized by some aspect of this process. why don’t i want to do what i want to do? it’s tiresome. what’s more: it hurts. it feels like another way i’ve failed myself, my loved ones, my audience (which might only be four people on livejournal but that’s a lot better than i was doing before i was on livejournal, do not doubt), the ghost of my friend, the ghosts of several friendships, the ghost of my little gray cat. the world at large. and god, i’m so sick of feeling like this. why can’t i stop feeling like this?

i want to take pleasure in a craft again. i want to write something that stirs my passion, that makes me feel like there is a reason i, specifically, have taken up the call to write: i want to feel mystery and magic in making art, drawing together elements, invoking that power i only understand in using it creatively: i know it cannot be all there is to the creative process: refinement, editing toward (if not into) perfection, scrutiny and

all of that shit i think i’m so good at. but what good is editing when i’m starved for a spark?


                                         something!

                                                    anything!




okay, not “anything.” i’ve gotten quite a few unnerving glimpses into that gift horse’s infected-to-the-point-of-abscess mouth. but: there really is a wide range of plausible options before you get to camp anything. i hope.

what it was like to write those novels before i was even out of braces. up so late with the last pages, sky gone navy in the front room couch, shivering, my small body rattled with its first experience of genuine creative power. my first fix: baby’s first addiction. was i self medicating with fiction? i guess i was: it’s served that purpose for me, though it’s a lot more complicated than that. so i run the numbers: maybe a project. probably a project. something large. something larger than me. that’ll put things in perspective. right? right?!

just: what’s a project? haven’t things gotten a little too post-modern for projects? isn’t it more: work this fragment, bait that red herring, lead that white elephant out of the storage locker for a good strut around the study. because all these beautiful little pieces, they ought to assemble somehow. just keep retrying the orientation, press it in a little bit harder, maybe use the hammer, sometimes something will snap into place, sometimes you’ll find a good fit: but where does it end up? instead of four tiny word-bobbles, i’ve got two tiny word-bobbles and a third, slightly larger, slightly less manageable, bobble of words.

or 900+ megabytes of television show dialog and directives that just sit there, gradually becoming dated. i need something. i need something. i’ve got things but they might not be the right things. i’ve got things but who even knows what they are? i’ve got things: who am i to receive such things with other than unambiguous gratitude, what am i selfish? what am i stupid? what am i some kind of middle-life vortex of insatiable hungers directed at nothing in particular?

except, wrong: there is a particular. of sorts. of a fashion. i mean, not really, but then again, isn't there always? and sometimes i think i must rid myself of the mechanisms around it before it eats me alive. but i’m stupid, or self-destructive, and both, so i continue: to wallow hopelessly in that which is surely killing me. for the record, i feel that there has been far too much unintended rhyming in this non-metered text.

so: i could make it a game.

manifest younger self. arrange a little playdate. play some good music, set candles to “teenager,” write love letters to goddesses with whom i should never presume to be so familiar. play dress up: with my clothes! with ben’s clothes! except not ben's work clothes! with that one sparkly scarf i ended up by accident whoops sorry sarah! anoint myself with consecrated oils. map out the heavens on the inside cover of my favorite kierkegaard book. drink pink sparkle tea. only ever wear blue on tuesday. mark out a fairy circle with acorns and starfish, stick peacock feathers in my hair, march around with a drum and a mirror. kiss the limitless! do naughty things with the limitless! i won’t write. i won’t feel very good about the whole affair in a few hours time, either. but i could make it a game.

fill a glass-jar with single-word chits. develop a(nother) universal power deck. devise a way to reliably ink out one hundred word pieces longhand and glue trigger words in the upper margins. keep a sentence-a-day journal. a journal of objects. a journal of anxieties. a journal of bumps and feels. just keep messing around with define. start a journal in which i only write sideways. a haiku a day! a question a day! i should definitely be doing at least one once-a-day thing. what happens is i get a lot of interesting but unnecessary detritus about winter, because the thing-a-day practices might make it as far as the second week of march, if i am disciplined. oh, mercy. lordy do.


30.
uncarved block:
the brook, the wind,
the fresh burnt field.

40.
rain on my windshield
heavy cloud sky
moving east



and then at the same time, it’s not as dire as all that.

it never is.

might that be the problem?


anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] hari bleeding)
in the dream it was a shock again, as it’s always a shock, as it’s never stopped being a shock. because as old as i am, i am never prepared for or willing to accept the non-negotiable and absolute permanence of death. it’s not rebellion, it’s more visceral than that. an intolerance. an allergy. a fatal, fatal allergy. i’ll call p., i thought, who else is ever going to help me sort through p.’s death, i thought, and stopped cold.

it’s like that. stopped cold. stone wall not even rushing up before you slam in. nothing else there. nothing else in the room. there’s the room itself, but what are you going to do in a room without anything to do? not even a window, i mean, not even a door. when i was seven my grandfather died from lung cancer. my parents took me to the funeral. my parents said it was time for me to go to a funeral and look, here is an excellent introductory option. i went to my grandfather's funeral and i thought: this just doesn’t seem very practical. everything we go through and then this, stone wall, open casket, flowers from your former employer? everything we go through and then this, this room without anything to do? you haven’t even figured out everything you need to figure out. you haven’t even put away all your stuff.

when i was seven i thought i’d will myself dead for a few minutes so i could see what it felt like. i laid on my bed and pretended to stop. stone wall. not even rushing up. it wasn’t so bad, i decided. it wasn’t so bad from that side of things, maybe, like this exercise offered any viable insight into any side of things. at first, for a lot of us, death seems like it should be something you can get over. have a good rest. then: wake up. go on about your day. go on about your life. out of the dream, i rolled onto my back and started at the beginning again.

occultation

Sep. 9th, 2015 06:18 pm
anonymousblack: (light escapes me)
looking down that sure abyss of my expectations in light of my allocated resources : looking at my bank account in light of my material requirements : looking at my emotional limitations in light of my expenditures

and the wolves bare their teeth, licking and breathing: and somewhere in the distance, my resolve gives way: and tangles and snares of surrendered hair cloud up the apartment corners and the moon and the moon: and the moon and the moon: mooning it out, mooning it over, some harmless-seeming glint in the deepening night sky

moral relativism and madness (either/or/and) and rage,
rage against the dying of the light

or if the light’s already dead (like any of us, i struggle with the consequences of my lesser behaviors)
rage against something else.
bathmats often seem frustrating.
and my drinking-age bathrobe has developed an incredibly nasty and persistent smell at the collar.
i presume this indicates something about my diminishing value to humanity, but whatever, times are rough everywhere.

i'd really like to know what to do with all this, if nobody else wants it. not that i have any interest in giving it up, i mean, you just try, just go ahead and try.

please?

*

that things become distinctive to us most through the process of injury and entropy: that what we love is manifest through the process of its destruction.

i suppose what people love about me is intrinsically tied to my convoluted uncertainties, my weird answers for things, uneven and stumbling, never quite sure where or what i am i am: but there's nobody else like me i mean go ahead and try to find another one out there like me (please?)

though it could be there are viable, healthy, and desirable reasons for this.

maybe i am my shadow as i am. maybe it's the light parts i am being challenged to seek out. or maybe my shadow is a raving devouring delusional slut bitch that eats the still beating hearts of her prey, howls the night to gouges and beds on a mound of cracked skulls.

"it doesn't necessarily have to be something terrible,” one of my witch sisters promised. “your shadow might just be a part of yourself that needs attention."

yup.

the live heart devouring cracked skull bedding part.

anonymousblack: (reconnect me)
strike-detail.jpgi don't know. the streets are rife with violence, but it's no match for people's minds. i don't know. even when it's getting better, it all feels like it's so much worse. i don't know. is it just the evolution of my perspective? the kübler-ross model for adulthood?

i'm forty. weren't some things supposed to be getting easier? not all things. i accept that will never be the case. but weren't some matters supposed to be stabilizing, receding into the distance, at least not tying up as many resources as they once did? my post-adolescent itinerary has not yet cleared the landing dock. it’s all just piled up under this newer self.

i don’t know. those three little words that can’t be considered a long term substitute for the things i won’t admit to myself.

THINGS I WON'T ADMIT TO MYSELF




  • wouldn't it be terrible if this whole new psychology of adulthood just means we never get rid of our childhood shit, just slap over it with the adulthood business? press it in between the cracks, suffocate those few rare spaces that remain or that we’d managed to clear out, with the foam expanding sealant of our new damage, our reformulated nightmares, our latest and greatest failures all echoing back on our oldest ones like the relentless self-replicating karma machines we all seem doomed to become?

    i guess it's possible that this has always been the case for everyone.

    months ago, in sacred space, a spirit guide told me: see how we remake our old lives with our new ones? the materials might be different, the structures deceptively rejigged for changes over space and time, but basically, we tell ourselves the same stories over and over again. we make the same mistakes. we hurt the same people in different ways. we hurt different people in the same ways. there's always some rhythm to it, though, a cycle, a pattern being maintained. if the repetition is destructive and you can't break it - breaking it is often not your place - you must at least find some way to make the next repetition surrender a nuance, a deeper complexity. most of the time, for most of us, evolution is a pulse, not an earthquake.

    it's exhausting, i know. but better than nothing, i guess.


    anonymousblack: (voigtlander)
    dear diary,

    where are we going with this?

    your pages are thin and your purpose questionable.
    your pages are thin and your answers unsatisfying.

    i suppose it's the grieving, but i'm having some trouble with motivation. i suppose it will pass, or come to inform my process with time, but who knows.

    it’s not a secret that p. was one of the people i was writing for. or it’s one not-secret at the top of that pile of secrets. i appreciate that an approaching mission, for me, involves writing for him, moving the needle on the broken system that killed him, but i falter: because there's this divide? a non-venning diagram:

    people who get my writing vs. people who do not get my my writing

    there does not seem to be a persuadable intersection. you're either one of my readers or you wrote me off a long time ago (though it's quite possible most writers feel this way). often i am one of the people who does not get my writing, so i can almost understand the "what the hell is this" reading better than the note s. wrote me last year:

    Just discovered your blogs. You are an off the chart amazing writer. Among the best I've ever read. I hope your work is "out there" and available to the world… I have so many friends who are writers of various sorts, poets, etc., but am very seldom blown away after reading just a bit. I rarely find fiction I can stand to read (most is so painful). We need more writers like you who are out there and easily accessible, so I hope life circumstances allow you to plunge in.

    i'm so grateful for that. i'm so grateful for the people who get it, who push me towards doing the work, who show up for me and the work that i’ve done. people who, in their various ways, remind me that i am wanted, that good people actively want me to stick around, even when they can't stick around themselves. maybe i'm not necessary. maybe i am a luxury. a weird luxury, a luxury that occasionally plunges you into existential despair and abandons you there, but

    i don't know.
    who the fuck knows.

    praise isn't necessary, so it isn't an entitlement.
    praise can be an obstacle, so it shouldn’t be an entitlement.

    but support? that’s necessary. nobody can hope to even begin to write transformational work without support, without somebody giving a fuck. without support, you're just biding out time until you collapse under the weight of your own process.

    support is necessary, but it isn't an entitlement, either.

    instead, many of us often get envy and other obstacles from the people we love. most individuals who've cultivated a craft have at least one individual very close to them they are continually navigating around. some of the time, the person hurting you doesn’t realize they are doing it; i don’t know if that makes it better or worse. a lot of the time, it's someone close: family member, partner, or friend. someone we have nearly daily contact with, someone who makes us feel guilty - on this fundamental, intimate, naked level - for who we are. for who we cannot chose to otherwise be. for me: many of my closest friends. coworkers. a man i dated for six years. sometimes my dad. i guess. i don't actually know about my parents. they've never really read anything i've written. of course, some of that might relate to my survival instincts. i generally find things go better for everyone if i don't live with a perceived authority figure who believes i'm a raving pervert. (the "oh, god, not my bathtub faucet" syndrome.)

    sometimes i look at the world around me - small scale, big scale; news on the hour, kids screaming at each other in the courtyard, a friend you trusted replicating some awful racist meme on facebook or attacking you for trying to talk to them about it in agonizing threads where nothing they say is in dialogue with you and after a time it becomes apparent that this is what they ultimately want out of you, as well; this is what my trusted friend wants to turn me into; this is who the friend i trusted thinks i am; and that's my life, that's my whole fucking life. i’ve let that become my whole fucking life. not every time, not all the time, but enough of the time.

    i'm either surrounded by people who can't be persuaded or already agree. it’s true, what they say, confrontation doesn’t persuade. confrontation almost invariably makes the person you’re confronting double down. and i think about p., writing his six page will, arranging his suicide down to the smallest details for months in advance, printing "do not resuscitate" and what boils down to as “i mean it, i’m done, i’m so done, i’m really fucking done” emboldened in all caps on the topmost page and it's just exhausting, endless and exhausting, there's no way to fix it and there's not any viable way out of it, either.

    and i'm sorry for the world we've made and continue to make.

    i'm sorry for everyone i've failed and continue to fail.

    i'm just sick and sad and sorry. happy 40th birthday, right?

    friday i talked to p.’s mom and the way her voice echoed his, the inflections, the tonal range, that frantic rasp and squeak he'd get during an anecdote that had my face wet and my diaphragm cramping with laughter, it was almost unbearable. i don't know if it was my continuing and consolidating sadness at his loss or my guilt for the occasional attempt to write him in, but it was such a labyrinth, such an unexpected hall of mirrors to work through.

    she said, “whenever i talked to him about reaching out to his old friends, he’d say ‘why the hell would they ever even want to talk to me again?!’”
    and i said, "i do that."
    and she said, “i know. i remember. you two were similar in so many ways.” after a pause, “maybe too similar, in that way.”

    p. was envious of me, but there were equivalencies, and besides that we shared a few close friends - so he got it. there's destructive envy and there's motivational envy and the truth of it is, you do need to experience the former if you ever want to get to the latter. i just hope that sometimes i helped, sometimes i didn’t just get in the way. i hope i did for him even a little of what he did for me.
    anonymousblack: ([rs] poor mom!)
    the air conditioner, the starter, the kitchen sink, the toilet seat, the toilet, tire pressure, marriage, the close friend who is suddenly acting like they’d like to abandon you at a rest stop but doesn’t seem willing to acknowledge this even when you ask them repeatedly (because you have been in this situation before), internet connectivity, regularly utilized software, the buttons you press to operate the stove, also the stove, birth control, the effect intake method has on interpretation, the ball tip in the pilot pen you just bought last week, the screw top on your klean kanteen, the way the base of your klean kanteen meets with flat surfaces, something your phone was doing just fine for two months that it now seems like it does not want to do at all, the body, the body, the body, a hundred million different ways the body, was there always a crack like that in this mug? should we touch on ethical policing, social awareness, acknowledging and unpacking personal issues of privilege and entitlement, or an at least fleeting sense of relative confidence around the idea that you are not violently destroying people's lives just in going about your daily routine? let's say no, at least for now, not this makes it go away, not that this means there isn't a dishearteningly similar dynamic in play.

    the only way to cope with an issue you have no way of fixing
    at the worst point of not being able to fix it

    is to:
    convince yourself, over and over, that it has mysteriously fixed itself:
    suddenly! magically!
    this agonizing problem
    that has been agonizing
    for so long and/or
    so intensely: it is

    ☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆. NO LONGER A PROBLEM! .:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆
    .* it’s all better, now! ☆
    like magic! °
    ☆ °・or self-delusion!・°☆

    and like that:
    NOTHING THAT CAN BE DONE
    becomes:
    NOTHING THAT SHOULD BE DONE

    and what a relief that is because you couldn’t do anything about it anyway and helplessness is pretty fucking tiresome: few hours of intense exposure to an issue that directly indicates your helplessness, it is exhausting and you’re going to need a respite.

    at best, it’s a stall.
    at worst, everything in my life is a lie.


    anonymousblack: (away)
    I am a teller of stories. A weaver of dreams. I can dance, sing, and in the right weather, stand on my head. I know seven words of Latin. I have a little magic and a trick or two. I know the proper way to meet a dragon, can fight dirty but not fair, and once swallowed thirty oysters in a minute. I am not domestic. I am a luxury, and in that sense, necessary.

    ― Anthony Minghella, Jim Henson's Storyteller



    i keep having dreams about the magical powers of language, of storytelling, of deliberate wordings: but the dreams are strange and the scenarios conveying this information seem, more often than not, dramatically out of scale with the importance of the lesson. which might be saying something else about my current variables: are my efforts toward a valid cause? or am i mired in schoolyard bullshit spirituality, level one glamor, illusion, self-deception, and baser desires? well, yeah. of course i am. show me one mere mortal with the ovaries to claim they’ve transcended issues like envy and narcissism and i’ll show you one envious narcissistic motherfucker, but am i so preoccupied with it that nothing else can get in?

    maybe it’s not the dream scenarios that are important. maybe it’s more that my symbolic mind is utilizing the most direct language it can to communicate core matters: concepts so primal they dwell outside of workable language. that’s a significant part of what dreams seem to be, anyway. maybe it’s the best i can do, in the dream situation. however, it’s becoming clear to me that these dreams are about mastery and the way i have embarked on that process in my creative work without realizing it.

    “open sesame,” he said, so i did. of course i did. what else would i do? a world in which a desire exists is different than the world before that desire. maybe storytelling exists as a means of creating desires the listener (as well as the storyteller) didn’t understand that they had. it’s a gift, perhaps? knowing what you want is satisfying, or so i’ve heard. it gives you power, desire. focus. form. more power than directionless hunger: everybody has that. hell, even i do. how many wives did king sharyar slaughter before sheherezade drew him in with her narrative and sculpted the truth of his will into form? before that it was just: raging hunger, in every direction, devolving into hatred and destruction.

    of course sheherezade’s stories have no beginning or end. she’s accentuating our universal state of in medias res as a means of survival. at first it might be a means of disarming the king’s threat, but eventually the impetus of her stories bring a new version of her into existence, make listener desire her continued presence, change the universe. a story, as well as a storyteller, survives in the action of telling and receiving. to stop that cycle?

    here’s the thing: we are always telling ourselves stories. this is the story of my relationship with my mother. here is the story of my problematic scalp. this is the story of where i keep my notebook. this is the story of why that notebook is black. even as you read this, you are telling yourself stories: perhaps it is the story of how judith’s grammar lacks strict adherence, or how aggravating it is that she’s always making edits after something has already posted, or you had an uncanny moment of resonance with something a couple hundred words back. maybe you’ve been here once or twice before and your story is of how the last time you read it your foot fell asleep.

    listening to a story is also an art form, and the means of mastering it has become obscured in the proliferation of easy self-broadcast methods. we were already too quick to use other people's stories as a launching pad to talk endlessly about our opinions. now we don't even have to wait for such an opportunity to shout into the four corners of the earth: snack cakes are morally reprehensible unless they are gluten-free and the fact that you'd have anything to do with a gluten-containing snack cake makes me embarrassed that i even know you!

    what we need to learn is not this preposterous hyperbole of stopping everything to witness a story, because that’s impossible and dangerous, but, instead, marrying the story you are hearing to the story you are telling yourself. let the outer story guide you through your inner story. not overtake it, not disappear in it. submit to the waking dream of human interaction. yesterday i was joking around with one of the apartment maintenance guys and, unprompted, entirely out of thin air, he gifted me with support for a major working theory i have about recent dreams and what they mean for my spiritual work. a good conversation between storytellers can be like that. it goes late into the night. it’s a whirlpool, a beehive, not a ladder or a prison cell in isolation where you chisel your hard-won truths into the walls. as you get older, you stop needing to urgently assert the narcissism of your fine distinctions to somebody you are truly talking to: you can just be with the stories that are before you. if it’s important, it will come back.

    i often catch myself thinking of the curved translucent plexiglass hallway to the children’s department of the library where my mother still works when i use certain words in certain combinations. i cannot make an omelet and, quite possibly, there ought to be a local zoning code prohibiting me from further attempts. by the way, i'm not going to stop editing my entries in post so deal with it. i went out of my way to find a second watson-guptill 5”X8” sketchbook for journal fourteen and i could only find black, but the pages in it are thinner and [intersection of stories] i press hard when i write and [intersection of stories] baltimore is so unreasonably humid that from the side the thing often looks like a japanese woodblock print of ocean waves. i used to always crave tuna whenever i watched twin peaks. it’s weird.

    ‘weird’ is one of those stories that’s always shifting, always changing form and layers. there’s weird and there’s weird. charming weird and breathless weird. spooky weird and weird that makes me want to hide. curious weird and curiouser weird. there’s not really a beginning or an end to the story of weird, is there? is there a beginning or an end to the story of anything? what would happen if we stopped telling ourselves our stories all together? chaos. death. heads will roll, my friend.

    it would make for quite a story, i’d say.


    branded

    Jun. 21st, 2015 12:44 pm
    anonymousblack: (blemish)
    the planet is dying or humanity is killing the planet. the planet is dying and humanity is killing the planet. humanity is also destroying itself, crushing in around our vices like a fist around shards of glass because: we must have our guns, our flushable wipes, our agonizing devices, our every random opinion acknowledged as unflinching reality, our uninformed interests prioritized over the lives of prayerful strangers. no, it's not my fault but that doesn't mean it doesn't tally up against my personal longevity. remember how sometimes we used the word "figuratively" to remind ourselves that some hyperbole we just pitched at the room was just that? we don't do that so much, anymore. everything is literal now, even the bullshit, at least in our shameless malfunction, those malfunctions in which we take shameless and inexplicable pride.

    this morning i read a piece by a young woman who had a semi-colon tattooed onto her wrist to remind herself that she would not end her sentence before her sentence ended.


    sentence: a formally structured combination of words intended to bring a concept from formlessness into something that can form the thoughts of another.
    sentence: the consequences defined by authority upon one convicted of a crime.


    i thought: that doesn't seem like a bad idea but then i realized my marker is more obvious and avant-garde than that, the fruit of following through on a clinician's concern, the promise of not throttling myself to death very slowly. i fought for my life and i fought for it without a moment's hesitation. the legacy of my thirties: occasionally, my survival impulse doesn't need to demonstrably reach the same conclusion in repeated laboratory experiments. occasionally, it is just there.

    all the same, it doesn't get easier, recognizing you're now in the first wave to be thinned, that your narrative in a post-apocalyptic landscape would not pass workshop scrutiny since the essential economy of your endocrine system became import based. the contradiction here is that it's what was recommended to keep me alive: now introducing! darwin's self-made punchline. or perhaps the recognition does get easier, but my time lacks a frame. i make jokes about it because that's what i do. neutralize the matter with humor, joke myself into the orange zone. sometimes it's saving my life. others, it's erasing the semi-colon very slowly. depends on the context, the transit of saturn, the butterfly torn free of wings.

    the young woman warned her readers that, in her case, the potential suicide victim is not the black-clad hot topics patron, is not the girl who stares off sad, but is the sorority pledging sun worshiper who always had a smile, until:




    this is an observation of the crucial variety. in my experience, people who appear to be happy are quite often on the brink of tragic death. however, i would not neglect the sad girl in black fingernail polish at the back of the room. or the awkward girl who only ever calls attention to herself by not meeting anyone in the eye. or the frat boy who can't get through one weekend without getting plastered. sometimes the obvious answers are the obvious answers. sometimes people show pain because they are in it. also it's possible that any one of them could be fine, just doing what they need to do to enjamb the next line. or: something like that. self-destruction comes upon us in a myriad of ways. we don't even need to be consciously suicidal. many of us are not.

    i thought: the tattooed semi colon isn't a bad idea but my sense of creative irony would have me put it inside my right ankle, possibly in celebration, at least acknowledgement, of surviving my stupid youthful contradiction of managing pain through infliction. wind has broken the dunes at other fissures - though that was never so much about ending myself as it was forcing a sure enough surface to pull myself onto, somewhere i could swallow hard and face the next day. which i did. which i do. do what you need to do, right? this is your prize: you get to keep doing it. at least until
    anonymousblack: ([rs] bride)
    sometimes i think: it's enough just knowing you are out there.
    then i think: no it isn't.

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    selva oscura

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