Cliche #1 that I adore: "I think I think too much"
I laid in corpse pose. Energies grew thick, strong, and heavy as they lulled me through the floor and into the ground. The sand was soft pastel colors grazing my skin in vibrations and tickles that don't annoy but excite. That was a good journey -untimed. Fnord.
I've got nothing of worth or value to leave you with. No wisdom have I.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Hypergraphia
"Again, what is my object precisely in writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my mind without putting them on paper?...For some reason I believe this if I write it down I should get rid of it" -Dostoevsky Notes From The Underground
I stayed up late even with the benzos in my system. I was told my journal has become a barrier of sorts. A wall I put up when I don't want to play. That happens a lot. Someone asks a question I don't like or know the answer to and out comes the notebook. I get in a spat and I grab for the notebook. I'm home alone on a random Friday morning and I write in that damn journal instead of opening the drapes or washing my hair. At a party? You'll find me scribbling away in the corner. Dining at any establishment? I don't need their crayons because I brought my own art bag.
It's almost getting out of hand.
I'm avoiding real life scenarios and writing them down instead. I have more unsent letters than I know what to do with. I make To Do lists I end up never looking at again. I write 1-20 pages every day and have been since I was 7 years old (minus a handful of sick days in the hospital when I wasn't allowed to have a pen).
I thought I'd try something new this morning and not stretch out that fake leather binding but now I'm hunched over the laptop tapping away nonsense.
Enough of that.
I write a lot. Eventually I'll write it all out. Inevitably it will all come to an end. Then what happens to the hundreds of notebooks?
I picked up a wise man off the streets.
He is made of plastic and sits on my balcony now.
So my life plans aren't going, well, as planned. Held up by loans and debt. Have to go to school to work. Have to work to go to school. Can't smoke pot during any of this because apparently that makes you a criminal and you aren't capable of working with animals if you toked last night to quell your anxieties about the inlaw(s). Bull shit system. Too bad I can't get paid to be a journal junkie. Right now I take work for my Grandpa running errands, filing, sorting, moving shit around, basic tasks of life. I wish I could do that forever. Listen to him recite poetry and offer me a prune whenever he notices my "shadow face" (the face I make when I might cry). My grandmother and my mother tell me to "get a real job". They're powerhouse women and I'm always dancing wildly in their dust waiting for my chance to maybe one day shine. Alas, I'm 24. I think I might have time. If all goes according to plan.
Plan:
don't die yet- you got shit to do.
I stayed up late even with the benzos in my system. I was told my journal has become a barrier of sorts. A wall I put up when I don't want to play. That happens a lot. Someone asks a question I don't like or know the answer to and out comes the notebook. I get in a spat and I grab for the notebook. I'm home alone on a random Friday morning and I write in that damn journal instead of opening the drapes or washing my hair. At a party? You'll find me scribbling away in the corner. Dining at any establishment? I don't need their crayons because I brought my own art bag.
It's almost getting out of hand.
I'm avoiding real life scenarios and writing them down instead. I have more unsent letters than I know what to do with. I make To Do lists I end up never looking at again. I write 1-20 pages every day and have been since I was 7 years old (minus a handful of sick days in the hospital when I wasn't allowed to have a pen).
I thought I'd try something new this morning and not stretch out that fake leather binding but now I'm hunched over the laptop tapping away nonsense.
Enough of that.
I write a lot. Eventually I'll write it all out. Inevitably it will all come to an end. Then what happens to the hundreds of notebooks?
I picked up a wise man off the streets.
He is made of plastic and sits on my balcony now.
So my life plans aren't going, well, as planned. Held up by loans and debt. Have to go to school to work. Have to work to go to school. Can't smoke pot during any of this because apparently that makes you a criminal and you aren't capable of working with animals if you toked last night to quell your anxieties about the inlaw(s). Bull shit system. Too bad I can't get paid to be a journal junkie. Right now I take work for my Grandpa running errands, filing, sorting, moving shit around, basic tasks of life. I wish I could do that forever. Listen to him recite poetry and offer me a prune whenever he notices my "shadow face" (the face I make when I might cry). My grandmother and my mother tell me to "get a real job". They're powerhouse women and I'm always dancing wildly in their dust waiting for my chance to maybe one day shine. Alas, I'm 24. I think I might have time. If all goes according to plan.
Plan:
don't die yet- you got shit to do.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
This has no fucking point.
and that's the point.
I've been putting off the blog because I'm too busy playing with ink and luscious pastels. They remind me why hands exist. Not to press man made buttons but to squish a berry across a piece of wood and watch the colors drip. Lick the scent off your fingers.
I'm at war with my mind today. And often for that matter. War. What a brutal word and how I mean it. My mind, your mind, our minds are all on fire and we can't put it out. No, we think and thinking to me equals chaos.
What does chaos equal to you?
...because I don't know what I think of it anymore.
I always had the need to be in control. To put on the smiling, talkative Remme show people seem to expect. I had the need to control the reactions so that I would know how I would react next.
Always thinking a few steps ahead
Always walking at a different pace
Always talking in the dark.
I was told I have Hypergraphia= the incurable desire/compulsion to write. It comes along with the frontal lobe game, mania in the bipolar mind, and the desire to communicate.
Is that why I keep this blog? To communicate? Who am I communicating with?
What do you want to know? I will answer.
I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore. It kept falling off. Now I keep it in my palm so I always have a good grip.
You want something new? Something honest?
Here you go,
MY FEARS
-that everyone is walking on eggshells around me
-not living up to my potential (whatever the fuck that is anymore)
-being abandoned/rejected whether real or imagined
-losing my mentor
-going mad/insane/sad again
-being a fearful person
-that shit being laced
-you think this is stupid
-that I care if you think is stupid
-[enter annoying comments about body]
-[enter annoying comments about mind]
-that I'll never leave legacy
Sound familiar to you?
So this is 2011. This is me being a twenty-something with "so much potential" if "she'd just make up her mind already" and "get off the damn couch". Oh the voices and vices and victorious feats.
Correct dinosaurs.
Pluto's not a planet but that is!
Egypt?!
13 astrological signs. Okay.
Still at war.
I'm still human I think but the medications got a hold on me along with the growth hormones and radiation, right?
Being a touch 'n go boho diarist with nowhere to go at night but the realm of weary dreams.
I've been putting off the blog because I'm too busy playing with ink and luscious pastels. They remind me why hands exist. Not to press man made buttons but to squish a berry across a piece of wood and watch the colors drip. Lick the scent off your fingers.
I'm at war with my mind today. And often for that matter. War. What a brutal word and how I mean it. My mind, your mind, our minds are all on fire and we can't put it out. No, we think and thinking to me equals chaos.
What does chaos equal to you?
...because I don't know what I think of it anymore.
I always had the need to be in control. To put on the smiling, talkative Remme show people seem to expect. I had the need to control the reactions so that I would know how I would react next.
Always thinking a few steps ahead
Always walking at a different pace
Always talking in the dark.
I was told I have Hypergraphia= the incurable desire/compulsion to write. It comes along with the frontal lobe game, mania in the bipolar mind, and the desire to communicate.
Is that why I keep this blog? To communicate? Who am I communicating with?
What do you want to know? I will answer.
I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore. It kept falling off. Now I keep it in my palm so I always have a good grip.
You want something new? Something honest?
Here you go,
MY FEARS
-that everyone is walking on eggshells around me
-not living up to my potential (whatever the fuck that is anymore)
-being abandoned/rejected whether real or imagined
-losing my mentor
-going mad/insane/sad again
-being a fearful person
-that shit being laced
-you think this is stupid
-that I care if you think is stupid
-[enter annoying comments about body]
-[enter annoying comments about mind]
-that I'll never leave legacy
Sound familiar to you?
So this is 2011. This is me being a twenty-something with "so much potential" if "she'd just make up her mind already" and "get off the damn couch". Oh the voices and vices and victorious feats.
Correct dinosaurs.
Pluto's not a planet but that is!
Egypt?!
13 astrological signs. Okay.
Still at war.
I'm still human I think but the medications got a hold on me along with the growth hormones and radiation, right?
Being a touch 'n go boho diarist with nowhere to go at night but the realm of weary dreams.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)