i've fallen off
Thursday
Sunday
the less i do the more spint up in my own not doings i bcome, the faster i unravel, the quicker I tire, spring metaphor, slinky to some,
i'm tired of wanting to speak and not having the words to make myself feel better. I've got to learn to just start somewhere, to just begin and know that everything is a point somewhere down the line. I just clicked away from this tab. I paused, so i clicked away. it was too uncomfortable, that brief moment of having nothing to say (for myself).
everyone is in the ktichen talking. claire is in her room on the phone with her mom. I'm on the couch in the cluttered empty living room, writing myself company. I could go in there, but there's nowhere for me to sit. That's not really true. I don't know.
Thursday
fuck
i have so much to say fuck ufck fukc ufkc
read some stuff and at teh end of the reading of said stuff i put on hannah sun. present tense.
gotta get em out
gotta get out
gotta get
gotta give
fuckk
I read old blogs
one man wrote vitriol as his reason-to-be
he received gobs of hatemail, good stuff.
he let himself go on there, over and over, hating everything
hate set his fingers free and i wish it would happen to me
do no harm
how can i do no harm if my words have power, if my feelings have force
if the right thing flung from fingers once cautious of their futile ineffectuality can make me feel like this, what could the wrong thing do? probably absolutely nothing.
i have ideas, i tell myself, ideas, so many of them! I hear my mom, for she said the same thing to me just a few days ago. She was sitting on the cushion of the breakfast nook with the lip of her head held in her hands, her hair spouting over her fingers and down, covering her face, her eyes open and down, not really looking at the table, looking at the table. But I have so many ideas, she probably said.
i want to stop feeling like this. stop feeling soggy, logged, slogged. im mkaing the same face as my mom, in my head. I'm tired of not doing, tired of doing not doing, of being doing, tired of not being a doer. i'm tired of disappointing myself. I'm tired of taking distraction one day at a time, of taking direction one day. of putting sentences together to make myself feel better, with little effect other than a renewed disappointment in the endless connive for dopamine. i really feel myself to be pathetic, in this time of night.
--it's 2:17am. I have very little going for me. I have so much going for me I wish it never happened, wish I was still living the lie life, the lie that I deserved at the time, the lowlife loser who lost in fortnite again. At least then my desperate rerouting of lifeforce into the ocean (through the sewers, of course) would at least not be in vain. --I'm a terrible human being, a waste of time, a life that hasn't occured enough to even scorn. --I'm another fool trapped between glass panes--, watching the world with a bottle of windex and tissues.--
Okay.... goodnight. there's so much love that i'm simply unable to express because the lack must be listened to first.
Wednesday
27 - 1/15 - home desk
drinking from my hard kombucha
and i'm looking at the lamp.
i'm slightly high but high enough to know that drinking from my hard combucha and looking at the lamp is behavior not worth discussing. it's easy. it's the natural result of millions of years of decades of generations of. how dandy. how grandyose. how delightful. wanted to write about Life tonight. inspired by man writing about hate. wanted to write about God. inspired by stella's father.
read lots of reddit tonight. realized there is an entire world of writing i know nothing about, one potentially highly potentiated by lotsa dopamine. Dope. Dopamine. Jesus christ, am I stupid or something?
😈😊😁🫵🔘
Tuesday
fires cotd
"the wind continues its push on these flames and it looks like we've lost another house. It had been holding on for a couple of hours... and now it seems it has been lost."
It's 10:47.
We've just about packed up everything that matters. It's all downstairs on our living room floor, in suitcases and duffels and kennels. There's a lot that matters... but I think we're good at choosing. All my stuff is in one carry on suitcase. Jesus. gotta go
26 - 1/7 - home
6:48 pm
the fires are getting closer. the night is only beginning. I'm scared, because I know I'll be much, much more scared in 3 hours. i can only bear a minute or so outside, the trees are screaming in the wind. it's unbearable. they're bending over, 60 feet in the air, spines breaking, and if you don't think about it, they look like they're about to snap.
the border of evacuation is 6 blocks from our house. but the border is also the border to santa monica, and it could very well be that they lag, they falter, and we should already be preparing to leave. I'm scared.
This is the world I've been preparing myself for... the world burning 6 blocks from my home... of indifference and blame, of icy chattering hedges, trees writhing, pushed and bent and burning, outstretched arms forced back, into and towards chaotic embrace.
a casual frenzy, embers and all, just another day, just another night, just another dawn soon to come.
7pm now, and I'm scared.
Friday
24 - 1/3 - home desk
happy new year
ugh
there you take my hands back... replace me
i hate waiting for people to respond... hashtag jury's OUT bitches!!
i have like 3 people that i've sent writing to that haven't responded... the first 3 adult writers I've ever sent my writing to... it's just an unhelpful gulp, in the back of my throat, that reminds me I'm not safe... not yet.
I hear screaming, in the form of the heater's mindless purr, above my head and surrounding me, endless warm air blowing, around and around and around, away!
Re command+tab, command+t, youtubenetflixemailetc: LOOK AWAY! He says deliberately, almost like he wants me to never look back
Bob dylan... looking away, always, never through, away and around and then finally at a place of realization... the aversion is dissatisfaction, but aversion to satisfaction is greater than any discomfort... the tickling nausea of something still being wrong is the greatest pain that laughter brings (the ones that walk away)... why would Mr. Zimmerman pursue satisfaction, if all it brings to the windshield of my mind is a (perceivably) inherent concern...
Re hearing things that are true but do not penetrate through: Its as if my lumps expand whenever part of me tries to pull those sentiments over them (wrap my head around), infinitely expansive and impeding of acceptance
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