23 - 12/30 - home bed

 its 5am. I woke up because of a dream (forgot) and went pee ferociously. It smelled of molasses so i went to get water. my mom was awake, or woke up, and joined me. we talked about the brutalist for a cursory one or two sentences. and departed back to our coves.

22 - 12/26 - home desk

matthew 13:13 song

All round the room i'm a-ricocheted lookin 

In the trees and the tables I’m hopin’ I’ll find 

A few eyes lookin’ back shaking unstable 

Scared that they’ll love me long after they’re blind

In sunglasses seated I see what I’m missin’

Forgetting a question I thought you would ask
Behind the shadows were sposed to be answers
But inside the darkness was something I’d past

Do I need a furnace to fill up my bellies
Or maybe a princess to fix up my holes?
Do you need a captain to lead you to rally
Or maybe a lover to do what he’s told?

Do I need a brother to sing me sad stories
Or perhaps a pauper to say my souls’ sold?
Do you have a mother to hold you and worry

To ask why's your heart racing? It’s already gold

Now I’ve found a fable with one seat untaken
And its covered in shit in a stable of foals
With little kids bleating for binkies and daddy
And little birds tweeting out tea that’s gone cold

There’s me at the table lookin right at you
Theres you in the mirror, the back of my head
There’s candy and cough drops and soap for our showers
And soft cotton sheets to put babies to bed

I’m still scanning for certain, despite being seated
Still searching for some way to know that I’m mine
And as for the questions I thought you could answer
We’ll answer together somewhere down the line

21 - 12/23 - upstairs chair

Hi

Thinking about death. I'm not sure what it means but I remember just how annoying an upset stomach is, and I think it might feel like that, but everywhere, in your throat and your bones and your eyes and your blood. Your heart hurts because the thing that has to happen is finally happening, and your head hurts because of all the things that you're now realizing didn't in fact have to happen, all the reasons that you had to live for that weren't reasons at all, no, just fingers pointed away from Him.

From the wrinkles on my forehead

To the mud upon my shoe

Everything's a memory

With strings that tie to you

Some old quack at a chilled white (wine) orgy told me that I should write about my dad, but I do, you simple town bastard, I do!

Not sure where this anger is coming from... well, that's honestly a really easy fix. It comes from "i've had a long year dad." Where's my "I Know Chaz," I want to ask... but I won't, and I don't, because long years aren't shit when He's waiting around the corner. 

You say I can do it, definitely. I don't know, man. Sometimes it seems like the world could flow from my fingers or my lips and it wouldn't be enough to do what I really want to do... which means that my desires are internal... and that fingers are being pointed awayawayaway. 

pointing fingers

our parts are really good at it

good points are made all day every day

i think something can only be a good point as a rebuttal, a response, a rebuke, even

but a true good point isn't responding to anything but the river

it isn't attempting to stop any flow, only to feel it

UGH THE RIVER PLEASE I NEED TO CAPTURE YOU

heres what I have so far:

the river is life, endless motion and flow, a force beyond words or dams or bridges or boats, just a current that carries us along

thing that I cup in my hands to never let fall like water from the clearest of snowmelt rivers

as we are socialized into capitalism, we lose the ability to empathize (and personalize) everything because capitalism demands a boundary between self and the other, between producer and consumer, mother and father, father and son, sister and brother, friend and friend, because production and consumption (and thus love and connection) are means to ends rather than intransient and ongoing processes of life… everything is The River

The walls vs the river 

the river is the antonym of the wall

the river is life and death in the same metaphor, the river takes you towards the next place, nowhere else

its natural and damning but ridable, illusion of agency against its power 

everyone thinks they're in their own river but they're not, we're all in the same river

the reason i say river is because of my internal demand for structure... if i didn't have direction i wouldn't have Self, or so my parts think

so, the river, and not the ocean

obviously water though

water... mmm

20 - 12/23 - bullshit

 Quiet thumping on the outside door as I turn the second to last page. I look up but I don’t want to get up. I don’t have it in me. I’m entranced by the pause, the waiting for another knock, but in that moment of decision I leave myself and I let my everything be held in silence. I wonder if they love me. I scrap that thought. I decide that patience is stupid, but because I was held, I have an obligation to hold, or to at least grasp, at least reach. Outstretched I carry myself to the outside door. She returns nothing but a windy porridgeless night, and disappointed so, I slide lumpingly back to the chair in front of the cold fireplace. I suck the blanket back across my back and my chest and then my legs and hopefully my feet, with enough shuffling, my feet will no longer be cold. Socks are all the way upstairs. I’m so tired I couldn’t do that whatever it may be even if I tried, which I obviously won’t because I’m tired.

A single tear rolls down my cheek, perhaps and likely because I've held my eyes open for too long. i think of all the people I have tried to be and hold my breath. If i exhale... If I exhale.... If i exhale. Shaking myself loose will not do the trick. What tricks the doer is a good long exhale.

19 - 12/23 - home bed

 tears streaming down my face and snot dripping from the lip of my nose

tenth of december by george saunders

holy

one of the most beautiful moments of my life, up there with aftersun, and the couch and fiona on thursday

agh

aghhhhh

argh. i get so frustrated to think that I'll never do something this good, this true

george saunders ARGH!!!!! i want to go to syracuse and study under him

but i can't even get into a berkeley short fiction class, let alone a grad school

oh well

bitter tears

butter tears really, melted and soft, and making everything better

got to go love

18 - 12/19 - gbc

tonight we swept across the carpet and the little gremlins that got stuck in the cracks could stay because the cuzzling of our soft summer feet was enough to call the world clean. 

tomorrow we will dance and rejoice at the air, light and weird as it has become, to the dismay of callous acceptance. 

and in the future we will sing across the moat and the sea, into the vast shaking earthworm salad. 

There is a house by the moat with its front yard unswept, a grassy ceiling to the world with only furniture

Monsters monsters monsters!

The disreputable public knows not a shred of our business secrets, well, maybe a shred.

I say let them come, storm the moat in their aggrandizing boots, take the chambers but leave the maids a life raft, I don't think they ever had the chance to swim. Flood the pavilion with calls of senseless cessation. You'll see me through the parlor's sliding glass door, waiting outside with a question on my mind. 

15 - 12/17 - bed

 it is 2:35 am and I can't sleep. maybe because I drank a cappucino at 9:50 in order to finish my second and final final paper.

i fell asleep watching ceramics videos on youtube

14 - 12/12 - desk

 stressed stressed going to die if i keep talkign im going to die, i think i am going to say something wrong i think i mgoing to die. i can;t i ahve to i cant i really cant its going to be horrible

Okay, I'm okay. Yes. Stern eyes. Looking down at the screen as my fingers pluck feelings until tips grasp truth. fuck all them "the"s

having dry hands make me feel bad about myself

i was quite insecure about the roughness and dryness of my hands as a small one, in elementary school people used to recoil when they touched my hands, they'd say woah! mwah. 

now that I have put moisturizer on my hands I feel better. It takes me a long time to do little things like this, and that makes me feel like a very bad person. I struggle so deeply with the small physical acts of improvement. the putting up the shelfs, the putting on a jackets, the laundry the sheets the water the teeth. 

enough with content. BULLSHIT! process time.

it feels pathetic to not improve myself, it feels lazy, it feels disappointing, father, boom. Great. As if it was that easy. Okay. onward. When I want to improve myself, I feel powerless to make real change. I feel an ineptitude of outcome that begs the question, why do it? Is this a symptom of an inherent ineptitude? Have I experienced little things making no difference in the past? well... quite the contrary actually. UGH! Remembering the few times I studied for math quizzes and got awesome grades... when I put my laundry away I feel confident and sure of my place. UGH! 

Can't do this shit. BAD MOOD! Okay, better mood, that was goofy. 

Later, in bed. Instead of writing an outline, I'm writing here. I can't live tomorrow through feeling as pent up as I do now. I would like to scream, but I've screamnt enough today. I would like to cry, but we all now how that goes.

i had a thought while walking home earlier... my hands are the first thing that someone touches, meets, of me. Perhaps part of me felt that through their inadequate softness, one could perceive my inadequate soul. Whew, that's a doozy. Inadequate. Inept. Words words words

Going to talk about something warmer. Someone I'm fond of reminds me to be fond--foolish, eager, tender--of that which I still can. Remind me again, what can I not? I find it hard to see a pair of eyes that could not crinkle their way into the fondness of my own. I wish one could convey the crinkle of eyes over words. here, let me try.

i see, and before I can reflect, I smile, my hands warmed again above the fire, for seeing sight alone sparks kindness. 

that was good. it took me about 3 minutes. there is nothing i would rather have been doing. i should write poetry more. here, let me verse it (from Latin versus "a line, row, line of verse, line of writing," from PIE root *wer- (2) "to turn, bend." The metaphor is of plowing, of "turning" from one line to another (vertere = "to turn") as a plowman does). 

I see. Before I 

reflect, I smile,

my hands warmed 

again above the fire,

for seeing 

alone sparks love

I made it better. I have to be awake again in 5 hours and 20 minutes. Gosh, how I wish I could write forever. I am a fool... and for that, thank goodness. I feel better fond than full. Full is not heavy as empty, not nearly, my love, not nearly. 

Goodnight sun

13 - 12/10 - bed

 sleepy but can't sleep. this portishead song is great. improv went well, but I always get really embarrased because I always do really embarrassing things. I guess that's like my special ability is to do kysworthy jokes and not kms. how special.

I miss talking to you. I guess it makes sense that my best conversations are with you. But it doesn't excuse the infrequency that I have them. I write too little. 

i have lots of superpowers. I'm grateful for every one (that I know), but I still find myself incomparably inadequate. I wish I knew more about the struggle to be that you all go through. I wish other people talked about themselves as much, as plainly, and complicatedly, as I. I always feel embarrassed to talk about myself in the way that I know how, that feels revealing proper, that feels like I could get somewhere within myself by having whatever conversation will follow, I feel embarrassed to put those I love through that trial. I understand it's somewhat of privilege, but it does feel super blind... fell alseep in the middle of that sentence so im not sure what it means, but im gonna call it here. goodnight moon

12 - 12/5 - bed

Watching joseph campbell, old white man with old white man voice, explain the hero with a thousand faces. its this documentary that Christine recommended vividly, and so i eventually got around to watching. I'm tired. 

I miss the days though, the days of a good 2 hours in a long car ride with the fam dedicated to singing it all together. We'd skip the song dediacted to Hamilton's steamy affair, tear up when Eliza cries over Philip, and say wow when the whole shabang charade ends. History has its eyes on you. I guess I hear that a lot. Eyes on you. 

I can blame a lot of things on a lot of things but I really feel such a complicated relationship with my intelligence. It hurt me so much as a kid, or at least, I think it did? I genuinely can't remember! I remember this idea of being scared that I was going to hurt someone if I spoke. I know, I know, I can ask... but I'm tired. 

I guess I still feel like an asshole whenever I talk about other people's feelings, like I'm explaining something obvious to me (which it, to some part, is) as something not obvious to them... 

I guess I simultaneously assume they don't already know what I'm going to say, assume they will be upset at me for saying something they don't know, assume there is only value in what I have to say if it is a new opinion / outlook, all while beating myself up for being an asshole by assuming what they (don't) know, how they feel, and that they care.

parts are saying I should ask questions about what other people think when they're talking to me about their problems instead of saying what I think. I guess that's a good idea, as compassionate understanding must occur within, cannot be forced in from without. 

But i want to keep that idea alongside the idea that i have a polarized complex around sharing my own opinions, one part discouraging as self-centered, egotistical, not helpful, not being a good listener/making someone feel heard, and another part encouraging because he both really wants to be heard and also I think has good ideas that I want people to hear.

bleugh. bleugh. bleugh. excited to watch this movie (waking life) and go to bed

11 - 12/3 - claire chair

i have there is a vine stuck in my house. there is a beautiful view in front of me, no vines only flowers, blooming in the heart of winter. it is never locked for you. ADRIANNE!!!! 

emma forgot something in the oven, and rushedly pulled out something golden brown from the oven. i thought it was something perfectly cooked, despite her lapse of memory, but it was the bottom side of spaghetti squash. Naturally golden brown. It tastes great though. Was in a bad mood. Now I'm feeling better.

10 - 12/3 - home

Reasons why I write: 

1. To look and listen and care
1. Parts like how when I'm writing, I pay such close attention to what they are thinking and feeling and what directions they want to go
1. That's why it sucks sooo bad when I have two ideas at once, pursue one of them, and forget what the other was--I decide to let one part talk and the other part gets ashamed and martyrs himself
2. Observing the world makes me look for the inherent beauty in everything
1. the idea that beauty is waiting to be seen and speech-acted into existence is AWESOME
1. Molly thought = molly truth
2. I feel happy being a powerful, compassionate eye
1. My observation allows others to be seen and understood
2. I have presence, here-n'-now based power
3. Other people deserve the attention I pay my parts when they're thinking of the next words to say
3. The more I love, the more lovable I become (part belief)
1. this one's pretty intuitive

To be continued

9 - 11/2 - Artis

At this point in time, my writing here is no longer a coincidence. I have fallen into the throughs of intention. I write to force the habit, here rather than somewhere else. Writing about myself is much easier than writing about others. 

This is something new I have discovered. I feel the need to write rigidly. 

I feel the need to ask "why?" I feel the need to investigate, to dig, to uncover. I feel the need to pursue. I feel the tense stirring of a congealed surface, a desperate emulsification, a plea to reduce and synthesize and understand and know. 

I wish to write freely. I wish to write with the current of a thousand streams, combining and colliding and falling into one another with the trust of a boundaryless existence. 

I wish not to disappoint. I would hate to disappoint! What if X considers me in such a way that I cannot be? Perhaps that is the main reason why I find myself occasionally telling people "haha, no, I'm straight, haha, I wish I was gay though!" I don't REALLY wish I was gay. I have enough on my hands! What I wish, is to not be a disappointment. That's not so much up to me, now, is it?

I have been having ideas for projects lately.

One is a narrative expose on frat culture. It would involve a main character, a boy, not so much pressured as encouraged into fraternity by his father, or by his friends, or by instagram reels, or by all three. It would involve a sexual assault. It would involve profound empathetic capacity. 

Wow. Lots of worked up feelings about an interaction with riley earlier to day. I'm hoping that writing them out to her and ... yep. sent her a text, and I feel way better. Way to go, parts. Alright, I'm done here. See ya! Tomorrow?

8 - 12/1 - airport

 These seats are such a beautiful space. They are anxious and safe, for you are here, at the terminal, and nothing save complete and utter disaster can prevent you from getting to where you're going. I find myself thinking more about the plane seat than the tasty white of my cool empty sheets. But everyone is so uncomfortable! Being stuck next to hundreds of humans is almost always cause for concern, stead of celebration. I just can't convince myself to like it! I want to like it, the immersion. But it's just a little gross... :/ LAME! LAMEEEEEEE lamelamlalmaelmaelmaelmelmae. anywyass

7 - 12/1 - home sunroom orange chair

 I'm here in my favorite chair at home. anjalie is playing good music over the living room speakers, and blurry, downstairs from sleeping on my bed, is sitting in a sunspot. He yawns and sawllows and looks away, towards nothing. Five String Serenade comes on, and Anjalie skips it to play Fly. 

Now if it's time to recompense for what's done

Come, come sit down on the fence in the sun

And the clouds will roll by

And we'll never deny

It's really too hard for the fly

So. That's pretty spot on. I've had a beautiful morning, and I'm writing in the sun, and the clouds are rolling by, and yet I still find a need to complain about the sound of my own buzzing, sometimes in my ear, but most of the time not, an omnipresent buzz, a pester beyond expression. 

I wish I could write myself into satisfaction!

I don't know what it feels like, to be one with the little things and feel something other than want of peace, satisfaction, happiness. That's what's most peaceful about times like this: it's just me and the need for more, me and my hole, and we're really not all that disagreeing. That is to say, we're blended. Ew I don't like that. Doesn't convey. IT SIMPLY DOESN'T CONVEY!!!!!!

Let me try again. Im gonna try again In times like this, I look up and around and hear wow i really have it made, wow im doing nothing and i feel like i have nothing to do, wow the leaves are shimmering and swaying in the music and the sun, there is no wind and yet they still move, everything is still, wow. everything is still. And what creeps in after he attempts to speech-act that peacefulness into my heart is the shoulds. the wow you're really doing nothing, at a time like this, you're really feeling nothing? (you should...) at a time like this? you're basically nothing? (you should...) is that what I'm hearing? All these pleasures and yet nothing? (you should...)

I conceive being to be a happy state of not doing. So when I get to a place where I'm

Sometimes my mind don't shake and shift

But most of the time, it does

And I get to the place where I'm begging for a lift

Or I'll drown in the wonders and the was

I'm on the orange chair in the sun and my feet aren't cold. Anjalie is writing her college essays next to me, and the wonders and the was are but an echo of last nights squirm, the cold feet tickle-tortured by the grasping hands under the lake's placid surface. I'm not shaking, or shifting. So why am I still begging for a lift? Is being floating? It feels like if not, then I'm sinking. I could never float on my back. Never got the angle right.