Spending time alone up in the wilderness makes me realize: this is what I need to feel alright – not medications. Away from the city, away from people, I’m beginning to feel the creative spark awaken again. I feel myself awaken again. I’ve been in hibernation for years now. Something must change.
look out
look in
surprise
you’re not what you think
not what you look like
oh, fuck
reality in error
error in mirror
falling
is my mode of transport
A part of me, found and lost, unholy, raving and unraveling, trying to stitch myself whole, gathering words. Remembering how to breathe.
When you talk I can not hear my thinking. So please leave some room for my thoughts before I have to answer.
Happiness is the short and passing transition from bad to neutral.
Years lost now, trapped on an island that almost disappears with the tide every day, trying to reassemble the wreckage from memory but I forgot the shape of a ship.
Yes, I am alive, I think.
No promises, but I suppose next phase would be: Awake.
Follow my RSS to see what happens next, if anything.
Be seeing you!
people falling from imaginary ladders
no carpenters around I guess
She wipes the black ink off her fingers and throws the crumpled up paper tissue into the toilet where it slowly unfolds to look like a subtly splendorous angel spreading it’s wings.
had a massage the other day
she laughed at how stiff my back was
small talk – yes, I’m a writer
she said she wished she was more creative
I didn’t say I wish I was less
creativity can be such a curse
so many ideas, wishes and wants
no energy, no time, no mental bandwidth
this connection – lost
swimming in white noise
the journal has empty months
my mind as an avalanche
massive chaos, hard to salvage
it all piles up and up and up
a few updates to my previous release
the last things to finish the next
one final pass of that video restoration
some proofreading for new editions
collecting and editing new writings
the piles keep piling and piling
everything takes forever and ever
stumbling without direction
can not taste the mead
too full of turbulent water
if I could drain the bog
it would be easier to traverse
maybe rest without sinking
love to sleep – can not sleep
so tired of not being finished
with the wall of stress and anxiety
…
not trying to write poetry
just trying to write
anything at all
I teach animals tricks. I teach frogs to leave with a sudden jump whenever they’re going somewhere. I teach flies to navigate by crumpled up maps. I teach humans to…
Two saintists – I’m Stein and New Tron – are gluing a boat of gravy in sight of blank halls.
A worn and torn paperback. Unintelligible scribbles in the margins. Graphite fingerprints all over. Eraser remains in excess all over page 11. One of the blank pages in the back has a drawing of a door from a famous building. But there is no such door. As far as I know.
The universe is a fucking dark place, I thought late last night when the street lights outside my house for some reason went out.
The old gods and goddesses were complex and ambiguous. Seldom associated with Sun or Moon, more often weather – unpredictable. Caring for us or playing with us? Inanna the goddess of love and war; female, yet male. All diverse and similar, but not same. Powerful and inexplicable.
Then they coagulated and merged. Simplified. Monotone. Easy to describe to prospective converts. One trait heroes. Suitable for children. The domestication of all different kinds of wolves into a single breed of dog. A golden retriever. Happy and harmless.
Now we’re stuck with the inbred idea of an idiot god.
It’s changing. The walls moving again. Not the slow surface, petrified and decaying, don’t touch it! But heading inside. Different somehow. The spinning anxiety has subsided. For now? Only the spinning remains left (ambiguous end).
Chekhov’s curse – You can’t mention anything in writing without giving it too much significance.
I don’t dream about things I would do if I won a lot of money. I dream about what I wouldn’t have to do.
Labels and titles are rather unimportant. “Artist” implies a special and untetherable link to the artifact. Should a maker of cars be called carist? The artifact is the thing – we only bring it out of the structure. Summoner, shaman or magician. Condenserist? Cavic light-blocker? Rustler of trees serving fruits of emotions. In the end I am no one and the artifacts I made are something else.
Meaning, message, rules of storytelling – tools to be used or discarded at will. One story built by logic, narrative structure and character development, an electrical grid with source, relays, switches controlling a single engine. Another is a mood, a feeling, a river shifting from rapids to falls to meandering and ground water tunnels.
The questioning of everything is built into the urge of expression. Instead of competing with the masters I have found my own niche. Not trying, comparing, wishing, but just going where I have to go. Admiring, learning, repurposing, but never playing the same game, changing the rules to fit me, challenging myself as I wish, pushing-relaxing with the tide of my energy.
Humming to myself, the vibrations in my chest is comfort and joy, a pleasant feeling, as the flow kicks in and I leave logic for intuition. I’m doing this for me, for the experience, for the vibrations I make, for the thrill, for the climax, for the satisfying end, be it artifact or a surge of electrochemical lightning caused by putting words in a novel and exiting order.
Choices too granular. Illusion of will. Trapped in hyperfreedom. Triage of prayers, conveyers and the ephemeral hellmachine. The gravity of reality distortions. What gains attention gains value. Event currents. Too many zeros multiplying the messages. The manicfacturing of junk thoughts in pursuit of revenue instead of renewal. Pararotting vomitted words to fill in the added gaps. Transsentenced entirely by non-breaking spaces. Carriage makers of reverberating noise. Carpenters as content producers. No nutrition in sawdust. Kids taste everything and numbed adults learn to eat anything. Pointless rumination without stomaching it. Widespread digital coprophagy. The dark ages, the enlightenment, the dazzlingment – so fucking much of everything at once. Lost in formation. Forgetting stars. Every number becomes either null or infinite. Zebra patterns all over reality. The path goes to sephira eleven. Trapped in fiction. We need an anti-thought to this affliction.