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What are you waiting for?
I think I let just about everything I wrote last night close with the computer, lost in the ether; this time of year there are a lot of half assed wishes and visions of sugar plums and resolutions floating around in the ether. I’m guessing those released happy little, sticky sweet thoughts give my dark things a wide berth; even the lost things shun the unclean.
I am so tired of thinking or writing or talking about my dubious physical health and my tenuous, precarious mental health, that I’m on the verge of talking about yours. This is a safe place as there’s too many of you. Some folks haven’t escaped that. Some folks were lucky things were in the ether.
Know all those “I can’t lose my shit here?” entries. Apparently I can. When I come out the other side I suppose I’ll be a Michigander. That’s the way institutions in the states, perhaps everywhere do it, break down the individual and when he becomes a lost little lamb take him into the fold.
Been unable to access the horror of my sole comfort, twisted little pieces of archaic fiction, the dissembling of my sub conscious sans dreams. I always have this fear too much will spill over, and sometimes have the fear the well has gone dry. Thousands of years ago and hundreds of thousands of miles ago I sat at this same desk, but the keyboard was a manual typewriter. On Onion skin paper some vowels left holes. From time to time someone has a box of those things they try giving back to me, along with littl0, e hard back blue journals with poems scrawled in the margin from the shoulder of the Al-Can, or Hwy 10, 84, 80, 90, 94, 2. Blue highways without names, 66, 495, trans can, hwy to the sun, the sunset, the I-5 corridor.
I’ve been on OD for almost a fifth of my life, and bled on these digital pages, or ribbed or ranted or caused trouble. I don’t know if it’s better or worse. Some things are better off scattered to the winds. I know it isn’t a shock to y’all, but objectively, that I have a lifetime membership to a terminal site gifted three days before suicide by cop by a woman I never met, well; it’s sort of a metaphor for my life in general. It’s not the sort of thing that happens often. All my stories are like that; either straining credulity but absolutely true or they take on epic proportions by sheer weight of observation.
I’m a bit like the hero in Wings of Desire, doomed to witness the resilient and fragile make up of mankind through a filter of limited participation. Ah, maybe not, I’ve participated. Christ knows I’ve tried to disassociate, sometimes not by my own choice, and am pulled in; again, either a gift or a burden.
There is a way of describing society, which is a grouping of people who agree on a set of boundaries, as a series of cords, bonds that inextricably entangle people in the process of being people. I thought I was going somewhere with that. I’m mistaken. My five day course of prednisone has an eight day tapering off. Perhaps we pay for every gift with blood and sweat and tears. I loved their first album --- Troubles are many they’re as deep as a well, I can swear there ain’t no heaven but I pray there ain’t no hell, can’t know from living only my dying will tell ---
Yeah, no, I’m not dying. I could justify the morbid thoughts in my head if I were. You know something? Going all logical is cold comfort, telling yourself it’s just brain chemistry doesn’t seem to allow you go “Oh, well, that’s ok then”.
I really want to write fiction. That’s not how it works though. It’s like really wanting to have a sex dream; you lay down your head or you sit at a keyboard and the rest happens. I mean I could force fiction, but that’s not what I mean at all. I need to decompress in the only way I know how, well, the only way I know how that really works, when it works. Yes, I know grand things, profound themes, I know the process of telling a tale; it’s just a marshmallow without the fire.
At least I am allowed to sleep now, another gift from an unlikely source. All I’m in danger of now is pain. It’s much easier to deal with, much less incapacitating, much more human than the weird shit between my ears. I guess I can lose my shit here, I can’t spill over. I don’t know.
It’s pretty outside, a blanket of snow and pale gold sunshine. I am home; I am a long way from home. I am blessed and perhaps damned. I have dark tobaccos and light tobaccos and fine Irish whiskey. Warm comfort, but with a price, I am not sober enough to get inebriated.
