6 - 11/24 - bed

 I have nothing to say but I am lonely right now, so I might as well turn to my most healthy relationship, am I right?

I hate being able to not talk about "it". Let's talk about that. It feels like I'm not good enough. I feel like most people hear not good enough and think like, value? but here, I mean purity, like goodness, duality type shit. And when I say it I mean the things that make me bad. I'm not good enough to share the things that make me bad. That's funnily enough. 

I feel like everything I say is one step from disaster, and the only way to avert it is to stay one step away. Two steps? -- Don't be ridiculous, then everyone will know you shulk away from your destined doom. -- 

later: You must be good to be let others know why you are bad. that's so huh.

5 - 11/23 - desk

 How do I write about what escapes me? 

I made the choice to reveal, drunk last night, that writing might be the healthiest relationship I'll ever have. Every date is new, every conversation special, everything valued, and reciprocated.

5 - 11/22 - East Asian Library

 It's raining and after listening to Feel Better, new adrianne, for the second time, a second a-sides song came up afterwards. The first time around Jonathan, now plays Indiana. This is special this moment that im feeling watching the many colors ofplants ourside the big east asian window shake and shiver in the rain. I'm not too warm which almost makes me cold but maybe that's the sadness inside me. I'm going to listen to b-sides now. 

Twitter is so much easier than the rest of it all. Everything, especially reading Foucault, despite his conversational tone and context, is harder than twitter. Or Texting. Texting is so good. I love making myself appear in others like a little gif. 

Now I'm quite cold. Speech act baby. I am also sadder. Speech act. I give voice to him, he gives body back to me. Cold not numb, this is better than nothing, surely (hopefully). I occupy myself with ways to make me feel alive, and that doesn't feel like occupation, it feels like um like migration like a searching for a new place to give myself fire, for a new sensation to soak my body in until inevitably i am logged and must cry it out, I must cry it out but I don't so i stay seeped in a nostalgic not-newness. 

Better time for us to meet: one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard. Being alive is hard, but it gets easier when i remind myself just how long I will be alive for. Not because it gets easier, but because it doesn't, and that means more solidarity within for the me that is having a hard time. I've had a rough year dad. I know chaz. I know chaz. Knowing that hard years are easy to come by, easy to pass, easy to begin, easy to end, knowing that it will happen again and again and that this isn't the last time that I will write myself into, through, and out of a hard time, all this makes me happy or content to do it again. Faith in what I remind myself.

MY FOOOD CAMMMEEEE yeah i dropped 18 dollars on postmating a dream fluff BLT and hash brown and i think it was worth it but idk yet. yeah i guess it was good. went back on twitter and lost all steam. this is not special. this moment is smushed and spread out and not sharp or poignant or special. 

4 - 11/18 - Home

At desk sunset with coffee to not fall asleep to not nap

listening to LiveIFS #400 on mom rec

The sunset making me so sad, as it always has. Like crying, or screaming, or pawing at the edge of the world hoping to keep being with me, or with my view of it. Interesting how little love I think the sun has for the world it's getting to discover as it slips away. 

3 11/16 - Guerilla

Not at artis. At Guerilla. This is distracting from not writing. The best I can do. Best, defeatist, defeated, breath. Something to drink. If I do this for attention... 

Later, at Strada:

I am overcome by a pointing deep pushing hard OH NO! This is not good, I say. This is most definitely not good. I am terribly fearful for my life, for my death, for the lack of time that i have to fail at all the things I am a failure at already. Haha, how ridiculous, that my past is of failure, my condition is of failure, my aspirations are of failure, and my future is of failure. Haha. I'm not laughing, they are. 

There is something freeinng about hitting paragraph: New! when paragraph Old feels done (enough). There is something. There is enough. No, not enough. What is that something. Is it the feeling of having finished something, of not being a failure at the simple task of doing? Yes. Is it the feeling of freedom, of starting anew, of putting the inevitable failure that the previous paragraph was behind me, behind me, behind me? Yes. Does the feeling that pulls down always and points deep and pushes hard, does this feeling go away at the start of a new failure? No. I have failed before I have started. That is what this feeling tells me. Sure, sure, new paragraph alllllll you want, friend. Try anew, try separate, try, try again, again, again. One of these times, you will try to start and succeed. This is what he thinks. 

This is how he feels. He feels like concrete, like a sludge dragged out from the swamp and put on a pedastal, he feels like a green mold, growing on beautiful fruit, like a curse out from the bowl of water that God poured in those tiktoks, like a spell cast on the world, an eternal darkness, a dread of the inevitable silencing. He feels like a mute, like a tame, like a cripple, a defect. Horrible, don't worry, I know, but it's not me, remember that, this is him, and it's his time to shine, or rather, to cloud. I think I don't give him enough time in the sun, literally, because the swamp tastes much worse than the sun, and whenever he is here he puts a terrible taste in my mouth, and my stomach for that matter, a taste like carpet and bricks, like I have eaten the indigestible truth of my own inadequacy, the state that I am in tastes like bark and mulch, like the underbelly of a rotten, terrible, no good society. I taste like death. 

Enough with the negativity. How much can I tolerate? Is it my job to tolerate, or my duty, my honor, my privilege. Everything outside of the center of my focus is blurry, and when I try to widen my gaze, I only look away, to a new place. I cannot see bigger because I need to focus on the task at matter, the disappearing white, the edge, the line, that always seems to be moving away from me. 

I need to feel better. This is what I think, and why I feel so wrotten. Oh, the good ol' wrotten/wright duality. That makes me feel better. Is it profound, or funny? Thank goodness some part of me doesn't care. It's not the described quality that makes me feel better, it's the chuckle that precedes the inscription. This is important to remember. I feel better chuckling, meaning or not. Chuckle chuckle. That doesn't work. Oh wait, it did. Chuckle. Chuckle Montgomery. Yes. Decisively so. 

Did Mr. Doubtfire go away, or did I escape him? He's gone, so I'm ending it here. 

2 | 11/13 | -zation

Today is Wednesday and a woman in front of me is wearing beautiful clogs. I am sitting at artis. I resent the contextualization of self. I appreciate the resentment, denounce its vitriol, celebrate its articulation. I stare hard today. I journal because Emma tells me to, because she cares, because I have told myself to one too many times to not actually listen to her caring. I put down dribble and pick up drabble. I hurt. 

I drink my third coffee, tighter longer splatter barrel. Not in the diarrheal sense. I splatter inside like patinball gun test fires at soft tarps, pellets that shouldn't explode but do, splendidly. I narrate to myself and I wish I could remember what is said. I speech act the hardness, the severity of my brow, and the tenderness of my eyes, I narrate it into being. Before it was doing, he only was, automaton. 

I think does it hurt to see my face? Does it help? Does it intrigue? Is the cause of my affect of cautionary interest, or willful ignorance? It is both to me. Probably neither to others. Eyes are tools and I use mine well. It's okay for the mechanization of self to be hard. 

Returning to context: I give my own context. I give it with my existence, show not tell, -- take a second. -- I do not, -- no. -- -- I should not explain myself. It is weak. -- Thank you for sharing. 

                                "Again, I turn and run from the precipice of discovery."

Here, I put myself into darkness, the negative light of the screen. This line calls out to me. I wonder if it has value or if it only has power. It's not for me to decide, is it? It certainly captures the motions, the edge, the boundary, the turn, the run, the curiosity, the unexpression, repression and regression. Failure is simply too dangerous.

I'm tired. Put me down. Not yet, once I do I will be back to the place where I was before I began going away from that place. Interesting. This serves as a means of escape, that much I knew, but a pulling away from a base-state implies Wildcard, implies create your own space and get sucked right back to theirs. It would explain why I have had less trouble being myself. Oh okay. It's making more sense now. Why I want to write all the time. Because it feels quite good, quite... unburdened. Be yourself here, nobody else. 

I cannot be myself elsewhere to the page because there they are looking. Okay. Not who I was addressing I think but this is helpful. Thank you for responding. They are judging you outside of here and therefore inside of here is a protective space. That makes sense. Touching the mouth, touching the face, leaning over, looking around, pausing. I am very into these little things because they are so innocent. They are stammers of the suckle. Perhaps this is what writing feels like. A mother's difference. Eyes and breath intensely attent to the next everything. The next word as important as the next glance, every distraction suddenly muted. Wowzers, have I cracked the code? Is the attention I pay my self expression when writing so relieving to my parts that my unquenchable desire to be seen felt and heard is for a brief and sometimes prolonged moment eased?

How peculiar it is to write across from and out into the uncaring, how peculiar to keep hope while accepting indifference demonstratively. How peculiar to feel that the void will fill back into me once I click publish. How peculiar, to be so out of control, to feel my last breath creeping up and out of me. Death. How good to see you here again. 

Show me your face? Poppa?? death. ah. Now there's a dead man walking. If I end it here, will you stick around for a couple minutes for me to start a new something? I'll still be here to listen. Oh, it's not about you not wanting to stay, it's about the pull. Okay. Well. I can empathize with the pull, I know the pull. 

Pull easy father.

1 11/6

The breeze is neither hot or cold, and it condemns my body as I move through it. There is nothing on my mind but whichever comes easier first, a new place or sentence. I have a great pain in my stomach from the war, and nothing in my heart but hunger. This is what I imagine writing to be, a profound exhumation of pain.

The days are getting shorter but I still find them to take up too much time, too much time wasted on daylight. Aren’t we all better at night? Don’t our problems tucker out, our pretenses, our jesters and princesses and men sitting in the booth at the gate, nearly asleep but not allowed? Haven’t we found there to be enough in the sigh, enough at least to pass the time? I have, no? No.

I have wished for an alternate to stagnation for a while now, and curiosity seems to have presented itself as such. The only problem is energy. I have none. I have very little. I have none. I cannot decide whether there is enough pull inside to keep the pages on my fingertips. I cannot decide whether to scroll or click, to select or deselect. I am intensely motivated by the dreams of my father, which I have now come to know as nightmares. Who knew? He sure didn't. We both do now.

Still, like a stone Like a hill, like home Still, what I find Is you are always on my mind

Finally I am curious. I have changed! But will it change what I think about when I'm walking from place to place? Who I'm thinking about? No. Yes. Gah!

I’ll write about the field of flowers now. Of course, it never worked. It only did the trick. Is that the sane thing? Is a non-nightmare the same thing as a dream? Have I ever had a really good dream? Yes, of course I have. But they didn’t look like a field of yellow flowers, with hills and valleys, all flowers though, no rocks or trees or clouds, just yellow flowers and sunlight and maybe rabbits, no hawks, no, no, they don't look like that. They look like corners, looking back, turning, turning back, eye contact, pulled and ultimately death. All my dreams feel like a pitiful negotiation with Death ever since

I dreamed I died in 10th grade (?). It was profoundly beautiful. I was in the passenger seat of a car going 90 miles an hour down Montana ave. That's a fancy street I live next to that has lots of pedestrians and a whole foods and many beauty salons and multiple apothecaries. My friend's mom who has a known phobia of driving was behind the wheel. She swerved into the sprawling lawn of the street's elementary school, and I was thrown from the car onto the grass. As I died, I felt the Tension pulled down into the earth from me, the Tension was gone when I was. It was very chill. It did not hurt. I liked it. I no longer fear death, I woke up telling myself. I no longer fear death, I went about telling others. I no longer fear death. Only being gone. Only disappointing the grass with an inadequate bounty. Only everything but.

Was I so uncurious as a child? So unmotivated? Now that I am not a failure, I cannot remember what it was like to be one. Well, he never let me do that, be that, so of course I cannot remember. I'm talking about the stoic, not the father. I told myself about the field of flowers over and over until I fell asleep, but oh how Pathetic, to think of the same thing every night. I don't even remember if it worked! I mean, it did, I think, because I kept reusing it.

Tense, tense, tense. Even taken one step at a time breathwise, I am still tense. Through endless revision to say what I mean, for sweetness alone who flew out through the window. When I pee sometimes, I have a beautiful view in an unspecial room, a nasty place with a grateful window. Sweetness alone. Self-love? Flew out? Like a bird? An exile? I do it for sweetness, Jeff knows that much. But to chase, or to become the bird? Chaitan, Always Both.

Adieu