Saturday, October 3, 2015
I'm back.
After two years off silence here, I just feel the need for a space to vent, a place to celebrate, and a place to just say what I feel like most people don't understand about me. So here I am... I have some things I've written and with time will probably post just to have it saved. Much of it is incoherent, incomplete, or ends up far off the intended topic. But I'd. Rather just write and get it out, than bottle it up. Not that anyone reads this, but its existence helps, and maybe someday, could help someone else.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Just a moment of your time.
He peered through the glass sitting on the desk, amused by the refraction and distortion of the screen. "maybe the world should always look like this." he thought as he sat up and looked once again at the image on the screen, this time unfiltered through empty glass. "we fucked like gods in our time." our time... It echoed through his head. This was nothing more than an image of her, not perverse in any way, just a frozen moment in time. He took this one just to remember always how beautiful she was that night. The air became electric and the stars smiled down on them, if but for a fleeting night, the rest of the world had melted away. "fuck this", he growled as he slammed the laptop shut, and prepared to adjourn for the evening.
A cigar clutched in his lips had long since extinguished itself, he tilted his head back, and that familiar rush set in, glazed and spinning, the room mocked him with it's refusal to sit still. He wasn't concerned with the state of his mind, afterall he was trying to erase it, to forget is a mercy shown on the weak.
"memories", a simingly bizarre utterance for the still-life company surrounding him. It only made sense when paired with the unspoken visions racing through his head.
Even the greatest memory has bittersweet twinge to it, because it is past, and even the most powerful recall can't bring back the actual experience, just some skewed version, like looking through a glass. All good things pass, and so too do the ties that merged and formed those blissful nights.
He stood, half balancing on the chair, as he adjusted to the gravity, and the motion of the room. "too much... Or not enough." he grinned, it seemed he could only speak in half-thought, incomplete sentences, not that it mattered as the words range off the walls and fell forgotten as quickly as they were uttered. Henturned and began his path to the hallway, and as he walked his mind once again traveled to distant lands of yesterday, sure there were bad moments too, like when she said she hated him, he knew it wasn't genuine, but in that moment the white-hot flame inside her believed it with every syllable that escaped her lips. It was followed by several syllables, all of which hushed under the ringing sound that permeated from everything. "I hate you." that was all that was left of that memory, the rest just flashes by with a churning ball of shame that swells in his stomache everytime he recalls it. Sure, time patched up wounds, settled things in the passage of days, but they were never the same after that. A slow painful demise, anchipping away at a tiny crack in the perfection of what once was. It's never fast, always a slow denial of the hearts true intent.
As he walked he made a purposeful choice to will his soul back to the present. The room swirled into existence once more, he could smell the cigar still wedged between his lips. The dull aroma of burnt tabacco, suddenly became so familiar, strange how it seemed unpresent all these minutes as he walked, because his body was on auto pilot, while his mind was immersed in the waves of life. Life, none of us see it, except in the rearview. It's wasting us away, and we can't appreciate it, until it's written, can't be altered. "wait! Fucking wait..." he looked back at the chair he occupied several minutes ago. "minutes? What the fuck?" turning the hallway was every bit as far from him as it was before his mind drifted, yet even in his state he knew he could multi-task enough to think and walk at the same time. Indeed he knew he'd been walking, but had managed to barely move an inch in his feeble attempts to walk to bed, to retire this evening and make it but a memory. The whole room mocked him once again, with it's refusal to sit still, yet nothing in it was living, except for him. "god, is this some nightmare? Have I fallen asleep already? Maybe I'm still sitting at that desk, slumped and snoring."
It was common in dream to try for a goal that froze him, something not to be accomplished. It usually meant he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open. And his soul couldn't manage to travel far past the trapped bodies physical range of sight. A prisoner that wants nothing more than to awake and escape the surroundings.
This felt different though, dark and ominous, while paralasys is usually dark, it comes with an understanding that with time it will pass, no matter what demon may be sitting on your chest, you focus on the tangible and wish for wakefulness, though each second an eternity spent in hell. But no, this had no such purpose, no creatures or shadows lurking, just a stillness that couldn't be changed.
He'd spent so much time dwelling on the past, had he somehow become a moment frozen in time? It didn't matter if his life progressed from here, because he knew the best had passed, this stillness brought with it a sick calm. "who cares if I ever reach that door? I don't even care, so why should anyone else?" it'd pass as another forgotten moment, just like the words he spoke, that had fallen off existence.
A perpetual photograph, not even a good one... Stuck walking, he did struggle at first, in his head his arms were waving violently, he was running, he could even see the illusion of movement his brain was projecting to make sense of the synapse refusal to fire and propel him forward. He knew he wasn't really moving though, if anything he felt a calling to return back to the chair, to sit a dwell on the image, the more he became aware of it, the more insistent it was, it was painful to do anything that would consist of forward momentum, and now this beckoning to reverse? Would it stop at the chair? Would it matter? Maybe he'd feel pulled backwards until he was undone, dwelling on the past so much, maybe he'd have to witness all the pain and joy reconstructed, happy beginnings at the ending of each chapter, yet he knew even if he could re-experience everything, it'd still pass, it would end, even if it ended at the start.
He peered through the glass sitting on the desk, amused by the refraction and distortion of the screen.
A cigar clutched in his lips had long since extinguished itself, he tilted his head back, and that familiar rush set in, glazed and spinning, the room mocked him with it's refusal to sit still. He wasn't concerned with the state of his mind, afterall he was trying to erase it, to forget is a mercy shown on the weak.
"memories", a simingly bizarre utterance for the still-life company surrounding him. It only made sense when paired with the unspoken visions racing through his head.
Even the greatest memory has bittersweet twinge to it, because it is past, and even the most powerful recall can't bring back the actual experience, just some skewed version, like looking through a glass. All good things pass, and so too do the ties that merged and formed those blissful nights.
He stood, half balancing on the chair, as he adjusted to the gravity, and the motion of the room. "too much... Or not enough." he grinned, it seemed he could only speak in half-thought, incomplete sentences, not that it mattered as the words range off the walls and fell forgotten as quickly as they were uttered. Henturned and began his path to the hallway, and as he walked his mind once again traveled to distant lands of yesterday, sure there were bad moments too, like when she said she hated him, he knew it wasn't genuine, but in that moment the white-hot flame inside her believed it with every syllable that escaped her lips. It was followed by several syllables, all of which hushed under the ringing sound that permeated from everything. "I hate you." that was all that was left of that memory, the rest just flashes by with a churning ball of shame that swells in his stomache everytime he recalls it. Sure, time patched up wounds, settled things in the passage of days, but they were never the same after that. A slow painful demise, anchipping away at a tiny crack in the perfection of what once was. It's never fast, always a slow denial of the hearts true intent.
As he walked he made a purposeful choice to will his soul back to the present. The room swirled into existence once more, he could smell the cigar still wedged between his lips. The dull aroma of burnt tabacco, suddenly became so familiar, strange how it seemed unpresent all these minutes as he walked, because his body was on auto pilot, while his mind was immersed in the waves of life. Life, none of us see it, except in the rearview. It's wasting us away, and we can't appreciate it, until it's written, can't be altered. "wait! Fucking wait..." he looked back at the chair he occupied several minutes ago. "minutes? What the fuck?" turning the hallway was every bit as far from him as it was before his mind drifted, yet even in his state he knew he could multi-task enough to think and walk at the same time. Indeed he knew he'd been walking, but had managed to barely move an inch in his feeble attempts to walk to bed, to retire this evening and make it but a memory. The whole room mocked him once again, with it's refusal to sit still, yet nothing in it was living, except for him. "god, is this some nightmare? Have I fallen asleep already? Maybe I'm still sitting at that desk, slumped and snoring."
It was common in dream to try for a goal that froze him, something not to be accomplished. It usually meant he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open. And his soul couldn't manage to travel far past the trapped bodies physical range of sight. A prisoner that wants nothing more than to awake and escape the surroundings.
This felt different though, dark and ominous, while paralasys is usually dark, it comes with an understanding that with time it will pass, no matter what demon may be sitting on your chest, you focus on the tangible and wish for wakefulness, though each second an eternity spent in hell. But no, this had no such purpose, no creatures or shadows lurking, just a stillness that couldn't be changed.
He'd spent so much time dwelling on the past, had he somehow become a moment frozen in time? It didn't matter if his life progressed from here, because he knew the best had passed, this stillness brought with it a sick calm. "who cares if I ever reach that door? I don't even care, so why should anyone else?" it'd pass as another forgotten moment, just like the words he spoke, that had fallen off existence.
A perpetual photograph, not even a good one... Stuck walking, he did struggle at first, in his head his arms were waving violently, he was running, he could even see the illusion of movement his brain was projecting to make sense of the synapse refusal to fire and propel him forward. He knew he wasn't really moving though, if anything he felt a calling to return back to the chair, to sit a dwell on the image, the more he became aware of it, the more insistent it was, it was painful to do anything that would consist of forward momentum, and now this beckoning to reverse? Would it stop at the chair? Would it matter? Maybe he'd feel pulled backwards until he was undone, dwelling on the past so much, maybe he'd have to witness all the pain and joy reconstructed, happy beginnings at the ending of each chapter, yet he knew even if he could re-experience everything, it'd still pass, it would end, even if it ended at the start.
He peered through the glass sitting on the desk, amused by the refraction and distortion of the screen.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
I'm taking new medication, it's not agreeing with me thus far, but I know it has to get into my system before I can adjust.
I'm writing right now because I can, because it's the first breath I've taken in days. I've crammed a whole lot of nothing in front of my face to avoid any actual thought or creativity. Filling my days with rampant bouts with mindless television, to shedding hours lost in video games. Nothing with substance, even my dreams are effected, the less you live while you're awake, the less you'll enjoy when you're asleep.
Severe antisocial behavior, a tiny circle of people that even manage to reach me via txt, and I spend whole days with my phone off lately. I'm doing good if Incan walk as far as the kitchen a few times a day... Just leaving my room is forced and uncomfortable.
Awkward doesn't begin to describe the way every small task has become... I fidget, I'm restless but tired. Bored but unmotivated. I am stir crazy, yet I can't imagine the pressure of leaving the house... The weight of the air, the open sky. I need walls and ceilings, and they get smaller everyday.
I can't just sit here and waste away, and I can't keep complaining in this, "woe is me" bullshit either. Last night my mind kept wandering to how much I miss my kids, and my brother. I cried... Sobbed uncontrollably, for just a second I cracked, then composed myself, as if I had to prove myself or be tough for someone else sake'.
I want to get better, I want to be me, get lost in creativity and pursuit of knowledge, rather than killing time. I want to care about something when I wake up, a reason to keep breathing. The whole point of new medication was to improve my disposition... Not agitate a frail and failing mental state.
Chemicals will adjust, and I'll wake up one day and feel different, changed. I'll leave my shell, I'll shed my skin and feel like me again, it just hurts waiting.
I'm writing right now because I can, because it's the first breath I've taken in days. I've crammed a whole lot of nothing in front of my face to avoid any actual thought or creativity. Filling my days with rampant bouts with mindless television, to shedding hours lost in video games. Nothing with substance, even my dreams are effected, the less you live while you're awake, the less you'll enjoy when you're asleep.
Severe antisocial behavior, a tiny circle of people that even manage to reach me via txt, and I spend whole days with my phone off lately. I'm doing good if Incan walk as far as the kitchen a few times a day... Just leaving my room is forced and uncomfortable.
Awkward doesn't begin to describe the way every small task has become... I fidget, I'm restless but tired. Bored but unmotivated. I am stir crazy, yet I can't imagine the pressure of leaving the house... The weight of the air, the open sky. I need walls and ceilings, and they get smaller everyday.
I can't just sit here and waste away, and I can't keep complaining in this, "woe is me" bullshit either. Last night my mind kept wandering to how much I miss my kids, and my brother. I cried... Sobbed uncontrollably, for just a second I cracked, then composed myself, as if I had to prove myself or be tough for someone else sake'.
I want to get better, I want to be me, get lost in creativity and pursuit of knowledge, rather than killing time. I want to care about something when I wake up, a reason to keep breathing. The whole point of new medication was to improve my disposition... Not agitate a frail and failing mental state.
Chemicals will adjust, and I'll wake up one day and feel different, changed. I'll leave my shell, I'll shed my skin and feel like me again, it just hurts waiting.
Monday, February 25, 2013
When the same four walls that saw the birth of so much creativity become a tomb for my illness, I could SCREAM, but it wouldn't matter.
As far as anti-social agoraphobes go, I'm living the life. Holed up in a remote part of nothing, some days... Like this day, it enflames so much, I can't leave my room, much less the house.
I'm pretty sure there's a moral here, some lesson, some way I can help others that suffer with similar problems... But right now I just feel damned by a prison of my own making. The world still spins, lives carry on, I'm in a grave with afterthought, I'm expired, but still smell ok. I very literally watch dust gather on the things around me, some days its surreal to think I've been in such slow motion that the things around me could show age. Now I'm going to type four more paragraphs spewing the same self loathing, feel sorry for me bullshit, before I finally shut up and roll over. That's how this ends... I hate to ruin the end of a great mystery, but I don't want you getting all excited that hope springs eternal; no, our hero rolls over, and twitches for a while, until he either falls asleep, or succumbs to some similar urge.
For the sake of argument, let's say tomorrow everything was suddenly ok, I could find motivation, what would I do? It's a really good question, seeing as I've cut myself off so well, there are only a handful of things I can do with motivation, but I'll give it a go.
I'd make art, that'd be wonderful, I've gathered all these pieces for art, and really just need to assemble them. I'd take a walk with my camera, like I always used to do... Maybe set it to black and white, and just take pictures because I enjoy it, not because I have something expected from me. I'd light the fire in my heart, and compose music, not just a song, but two or three all stemming from the same angle. If I were really motivated? I'd get on a bus, I'd put this all behind me... Maybe just for a week or two, or maybe for good, walk away from what I know and take a risk, get on a stage again, fall in love with something new... Just live, and exist somewhere healthy.
Instead, I think I'll upload this and roll over.
As far as anti-social agoraphobes go, I'm living the life. Holed up in a remote part of nothing, some days... Like this day, it enflames so much, I can't leave my room, much less the house.
I'm pretty sure there's a moral here, some lesson, some way I can help others that suffer with similar problems... But right now I just feel damned by a prison of my own making. The world still spins, lives carry on, I'm in a grave with afterthought, I'm expired, but still smell ok. I very literally watch dust gather on the things around me, some days its surreal to think I've been in such slow motion that the things around me could show age. Now I'm going to type four more paragraphs spewing the same self loathing, feel sorry for me bullshit, before I finally shut up and roll over. That's how this ends... I hate to ruin the end of a great mystery, but I don't want you getting all excited that hope springs eternal; no, our hero rolls over, and twitches for a while, until he either falls asleep, or succumbs to some similar urge.
For the sake of argument, let's say tomorrow everything was suddenly ok, I could find motivation, what would I do? It's a really good question, seeing as I've cut myself off so well, there are only a handful of things I can do with motivation, but I'll give it a go.
I'd make art, that'd be wonderful, I've gathered all these pieces for art, and really just need to assemble them. I'd take a walk with my camera, like I always used to do... Maybe set it to black and white, and just take pictures because I enjoy it, not because I have something expected from me. I'd light the fire in my heart, and compose music, not just a song, but two or three all stemming from the same angle. If I were really motivated? I'd get on a bus, I'd put this all behind me... Maybe just for a week or two, or maybe for good, walk away from what I know and take a risk, get on a stage again, fall in love with something new... Just live, and exist somewhere healthy.
Instead, I think I'll upload this and roll over.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
The chair feels cold against my back. It's staring at me from the table, if I blink first it wins.
"go ahead, pick me up" it says. It's chamber opens and the six pills fall out. "now I'm not even loaded, it's safe". The trigger feels freshly oiled, my palm sweats and heats the cold steel. It doesn't talk now, it doesn't have to... It's where it belongs. I hold it up to my face, I peer through the orange plastic at the world outside, the label skews the corner of my sight, everything is bent and imperfect, but it always has been.
13. 14. Where was I? Lost count again, it gets harder to concentrate as they take their turn dissolving.
My heart beats, I feel the blood coursing in my arm. "you chose this path" says the bottle, it really didn't have to remind me.
The floor is cold on my face. "why is the world sideways? I ask, with only silence as an answer. "here we are again gravity, just you and I." she doesn't answer, she can be a fickle bitch at times like this. She'll hold me in her warm grasp, but it's just a facade, to promise I won't move. It's too heavy anyway, the floor is suddenly soft, the softest thing I've ever felt. Just out of my reach, the cap sits, mocking me. The only thing within my reach... Reach, lift and pull. The world is upright now... I think. Bend my neck to check, and a wave sends half my body sideways with it. The only thing in my vision that isn't a blur, is the LED display on the microwave. It's 3:32, and once again I've fallen just short of my goal. There's always tomorrow.
"go ahead, pick me up" it says. It's chamber opens and the six pills fall out. "now I'm not even loaded, it's safe". The trigger feels freshly oiled, my palm sweats and heats the cold steel. It doesn't talk now, it doesn't have to... It's where it belongs. I hold it up to my face, I peer through the orange plastic at the world outside, the label skews the corner of my sight, everything is bent and imperfect, but it always has been.
13. 14. Where was I? Lost count again, it gets harder to concentrate as they take their turn dissolving.
My heart beats, I feel the blood coursing in my arm. "you chose this path" says the bottle, it really didn't have to remind me.
The floor is cold on my face. "why is the world sideways? I ask, with only silence as an answer. "here we are again gravity, just you and I." she doesn't answer, she can be a fickle bitch at times like this. She'll hold me in her warm grasp, but it's just a facade, to promise I won't move. It's too heavy anyway, the floor is suddenly soft, the softest thing I've ever felt. Just out of my reach, the cap sits, mocking me. The only thing within my reach... Reach, lift and pull. The world is upright now... I think. Bend my neck to check, and a wave sends half my body sideways with it. The only thing in my vision that isn't a blur, is the LED display on the microwave. It's 3:32, and once again I've fallen just short of my goal. There's always tomorrow.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
The Lost Art of Drug Abuse part1
The lost art of drug abuse.
Yes, I very purposely placed that word abuse in the title. The assumption is that if you were or are pro-drug culture you'd choose a word other than abuse when speaking about it. I use the word abuse, because as much as it expanded my mind, and shaped who I am today, it also ravaged my body, and took some part of my soul with it.
Psychedelics are a topic of choice, most intellectual spiritualists will list a period of consciousness expansion, opening your mind to what the average bystander takes for granted. The magic that's in the air, in front of us every waking moment, of every day.... Every moment of slumber for that matter. You can pluck a note from the waves in the air, as music pulses through your psyche. Those moments when you have to breath in deep and shiver, because intense forces all align in a moment and you sync with the moment. How many of us are here, right now? We are spread across our fears, our past, laundry, what we have to do tomorrow. But what about now?
Energy, amazing sparks of life flow around us always, we can reach out and grasp it. Let it flow into our fingers, until it ends up deep inside our souls. This part, actually has nothing to do with drugs, I'm sober now, and as far as illegal drugs, they are part of my past, but I do not regret what I learned from those times.
There were horrible moments, bleeding from my head, walking down a dirt road, I was dying and nowhere. I was 16, and the promise of a drug deal led me to the brink of death, it wasn't the first, and far from the last time that intoxicants would lead me to the fringe of this mortal life. I've been poisoned, overdosed, and even let a common cold almost kill me. I have had my head smashed in enough times that doctors don't even know how to put me back together. Modern medicine, and psychology falls just short of being able to rewire what's disconnected inside of me.
I remember my first beer. My first toke off of a joint, I remember when I outgrew marijuana. My first experience with LSD was just a couple weeks after my first joint. It didn't slow down, it was all encompassing. Skateboard, sex, and drugs. What started in a friends empty house with Nirvana and chili peppers on a small stereo, quickly led to warehouses, half pipes, with DJs spinning Front 242 and Kraftwerk. Those were times of self discovery. One moment pulsing music, the next a giant room of people, all silent, drawing on whatever paper we could find.
Sitting on a warm summer night, feeling the grass between your fingers, as you watch the treeline flow with you. Love and addiction, seeing all the beauty that gets wasted on normal eyes.
It's dark, cold, and we always end up in this stupid alley, because cops seldom walk this area. The pipe passes from mouth to mouth, what's in it varies by evening, trends and years. It's the other side. Even the psychotropics that led us in spiritual moments. Also found us on bathroom floors, trying to remember how to breath... Numb fingers, everything has layers of filth, that stick out, mocking you, making sure you don't forget what you swallowed that night.
Who was your first friend you saw in a casket? Heroin and meth have replaced those recreational trips. Full blown habits had us, they were in control, not us. Remember getting high before you left for the funeral? It made it easier to cope. Everyone shared bottles and cans in the parking lot, toasting to our friend...
I remember being "taught" that snorting 1-2 No Doze, was the same rush as swallowing 5, it came on faster and more intense. I remember watching someone cry for three hours because they had swallowed over 20, and thought they were going to die. What did you snort first? Are we not allowed to speak of things? Has this suddenly changed into a dark topic? We don't want to remember those moments. Even if that first night was happy, once you let one powder into your nose, what was the difference? You enjoyed this... You might as well inhale this too. I remember the first time I was poisoned, sick on a psychotropic, one I won't name, we would trip for four days, after losing every shred of sanity for 8 hours. My fingernails turned dark purple and I knew, instantly that I'd taken too much. I rode it out, tried to find the entertaining side of it, but it's hard when your heart is beating in your throat. You are sitting slightly beside yourself, everything is off. The wall is breathing at you. When I dropped to my knees after smoking meth for two days, I was finally "awarded" a big line of cocaine... "Shit, I just fucked up." knees, everyone is staring, muffled "is he?", "are you ok?" then it kicks back. I was lost for a moment, and now I was welcomed quickly being too high, overdosed by definition. I stood, my face flush and hot, then cold instantly. I knew I had just damaged myself, I laughed and lit a cigarette, as the strippers sat back down.
My present for my 16th birthday, my first line of meth, pure from California. One line and before you know it three days have passed. I drank a pint of hot damn 100 proof that same night... I didn't feel drunk until the next day. 10 am and I start laughing, everyone is snapped out of their trance. "remember that hot damn I drank? I'm drunk now!" those first few years meth just came around on occasion, the ingredients to make it weren't illegal yet, so there was an actual high, now people are doing this disgusting mix of things they call meth. It wakes you up, but you hate yourself the second you feel it, if I walked away regretting any drug, it was meth.
Heroin makes you slump, write poetry in your head, thoughts are all you have, you're swimming in consciousness. Where dreams meet this world. You can hear everyone, your senses are there, but you're not. I had a rule about needles, a line I'd never cross, except the one fucking time I was pushed to. "I'll do this once, then never ask me again." I kept my word, I never shot up again. I smoked my heroin... Ate it in capsules a couple times. I'd already had my bouts with opiates, in pill form. In fact, my father was the first person to accidentally introduce me to opiates... The hellfire and brimstone preacher, gave me two bottles of coda-clear, I'd had a dry cough for two weeks. That was gone by the next day... Sitting in a corner at school, talking with a friend, I pulled out a spoon and the bottle, took two teaspoons. A few minutes later in class I felt so relaxed. "what's in this?" I pulled the bottle out: 90% codeine solution. I'd heard of codeine. Chug, right there in class. By the end of school both bottles were empty, I was laughing at everyone in wood shop, and just walked out... Balls deep in my first opiate high. It was not a wasted experience, it was a blur of walking, laughing and sex. It takes forever to cum when you're that high on opiates, not for lack of trying though.
To be continued in part II...
Yes, I very purposely placed that word abuse in the title. The assumption is that if you were or are pro-drug culture you'd choose a word other than abuse when speaking about it. I use the word abuse, because as much as it expanded my mind, and shaped who I am today, it also ravaged my body, and took some part of my soul with it.
Psychedelics are a topic of choice, most intellectual spiritualists will list a period of consciousness expansion, opening your mind to what the average bystander takes for granted. The magic that's in the air, in front of us every waking moment, of every day.... Every moment of slumber for that matter. You can pluck a note from the waves in the air, as music pulses through your psyche. Those moments when you have to breath in deep and shiver, because intense forces all align in a moment and you sync with the moment. How many of us are here, right now? We are spread across our fears, our past, laundry, what we have to do tomorrow. But what about now?
Energy, amazing sparks of life flow around us always, we can reach out and grasp it. Let it flow into our fingers, until it ends up deep inside our souls. This part, actually has nothing to do with drugs, I'm sober now, and as far as illegal drugs, they are part of my past, but I do not regret what I learned from those times.
There were horrible moments, bleeding from my head, walking down a dirt road, I was dying and nowhere. I was 16, and the promise of a drug deal led me to the brink of death, it wasn't the first, and far from the last time that intoxicants would lead me to the fringe of this mortal life. I've been poisoned, overdosed, and even let a common cold almost kill me. I have had my head smashed in enough times that doctors don't even know how to put me back together. Modern medicine, and psychology falls just short of being able to rewire what's disconnected inside of me.
I remember my first beer. My first toke off of a joint, I remember when I outgrew marijuana. My first experience with LSD was just a couple weeks after my first joint. It didn't slow down, it was all encompassing. Skateboard, sex, and drugs. What started in a friends empty house with Nirvana and chili peppers on a small stereo, quickly led to warehouses, half pipes, with DJs spinning Front 242 and Kraftwerk. Those were times of self discovery. One moment pulsing music, the next a giant room of people, all silent, drawing on whatever paper we could find.
Sitting on a warm summer night, feeling the grass between your fingers, as you watch the treeline flow with you. Love and addiction, seeing all the beauty that gets wasted on normal eyes.
It's dark, cold, and we always end up in this stupid alley, because cops seldom walk this area. The pipe passes from mouth to mouth, what's in it varies by evening, trends and years. It's the other side. Even the psychotropics that led us in spiritual moments. Also found us on bathroom floors, trying to remember how to breath... Numb fingers, everything has layers of filth, that stick out, mocking you, making sure you don't forget what you swallowed that night.
Who was your first friend you saw in a casket? Heroin and meth have replaced those recreational trips. Full blown habits had us, they were in control, not us. Remember getting high before you left for the funeral? It made it easier to cope. Everyone shared bottles and cans in the parking lot, toasting to our friend...
I remember being "taught" that snorting 1-2 No Doze, was the same rush as swallowing 5, it came on faster and more intense. I remember watching someone cry for three hours because they had swallowed over 20, and thought they were going to die. What did you snort first? Are we not allowed to speak of things? Has this suddenly changed into a dark topic? We don't want to remember those moments. Even if that first night was happy, once you let one powder into your nose, what was the difference? You enjoyed this... You might as well inhale this too. I remember the first time I was poisoned, sick on a psychotropic, one I won't name, we would trip for four days, after losing every shred of sanity for 8 hours. My fingernails turned dark purple and I knew, instantly that I'd taken too much. I rode it out, tried to find the entertaining side of it, but it's hard when your heart is beating in your throat. You are sitting slightly beside yourself, everything is off. The wall is breathing at you. When I dropped to my knees after smoking meth for two days, I was finally "awarded" a big line of cocaine... "Shit, I just fucked up." knees, everyone is staring, muffled "is he?", "are you ok?" then it kicks back. I was lost for a moment, and now I was welcomed quickly being too high, overdosed by definition. I stood, my face flush and hot, then cold instantly. I knew I had just damaged myself, I laughed and lit a cigarette, as the strippers sat back down.
My present for my 16th birthday, my first line of meth, pure from California. One line and before you know it three days have passed. I drank a pint of hot damn 100 proof that same night... I didn't feel drunk until the next day. 10 am and I start laughing, everyone is snapped out of their trance. "remember that hot damn I drank? I'm drunk now!" those first few years meth just came around on occasion, the ingredients to make it weren't illegal yet, so there was an actual high, now people are doing this disgusting mix of things they call meth. It wakes you up, but you hate yourself the second you feel it, if I walked away regretting any drug, it was meth.
Heroin makes you slump, write poetry in your head, thoughts are all you have, you're swimming in consciousness. Where dreams meet this world. You can hear everyone, your senses are there, but you're not. I had a rule about needles, a line I'd never cross, except the one fucking time I was pushed to. "I'll do this once, then never ask me again." I kept my word, I never shot up again. I smoked my heroin... Ate it in capsules a couple times. I'd already had my bouts with opiates, in pill form. In fact, my father was the first person to accidentally introduce me to opiates... The hellfire and brimstone preacher, gave me two bottles of coda-clear, I'd had a dry cough for two weeks. That was gone by the next day... Sitting in a corner at school, talking with a friend, I pulled out a spoon and the bottle, took two teaspoons. A few minutes later in class I felt so relaxed. "what's in this?" I pulled the bottle out: 90% codeine solution. I'd heard of codeine. Chug, right there in class. By the end of school both bottles were empty, I was laughing at everyone in wood shop, and just walked out... Balls deep in my first opiate high. It was not a wasted experience, it was a blur of walking, laughing and sex. It takes forever to cum when you're that high on opiates, not for lack of trying though.
To be continued in part II...
I wish it were easier to edit these.
I'm several hundred words into something, and must take a break, I'd rather post it and edit to add to it. But it's a pain on this iOS. I know what I'll do...
In my years, the lines begin to blur, between spirituality, music and art. They all feed from a central energy. I think I've learned to respect creativity as a blessing, and to offer up what is held inside of me, dark or glorious, sometimes both in one. I bless my studio space regularly with cedar, sage and incense. It has to be a space of peace, one that can flow; where I can plug in at whim and capture what's in the air in that moment.
When the juices just aren't there for music, I try to write, as I am now, about life in general, or to plan, something I've really just learned to do over the past year. Sit back and breath, make an outline, or birth an idea. The same as my spiritual hypothesis were formed, I pluck inspiration from the same tree for music. Some people may question how I can be so fervent about music that currently has so much instrumentals, but often those speak to me more than any utterance a throat could form.
I plan on having some consciously expanded sessions, sitting with instruments I'm less than comfortable with, and just playing, until I find phrases worth recording. Letting the music speak in a more natural flow, less structure, less programmed and more ethereal. And then of course, chopping it into tiny slices, flipping it upside down and laughing at it.
There's not a moral here, I hope you weren't looking for one, it's really just me decompressing and planning some free sessions to take the next album sideways, from things expected from me.
When the juices just aren't there for music, I try to write, as I am now, about life in general, or to plan, something I've really just learned to do over the past year. Sit back and breath, make an outline, or birth an idea. The same as my spiritual hypothesis were formed, I pluck inspiration from the same tree for music. Some people may question how I can be so fervent about music that currently has so much instrumentals, but often those speak to me more than any utterance a throat could form.
I plan on having some consciously expanded sessions, sitting with instruments I'm less than comfortable with, and just playing, until I find phrases worth recording. Letting the music speak in a more natural flow, less structure, less programmed and more ethereal. And then of course, chopping it into tiny slices, flipping it upside down and laughing at it.
There's not a moral here, I hope you weren't looking for one, it's really just me decompressing and planning some free sessions to take the next album sideways, from things expected from me.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Wake up America
You'll Seldom hear me speak if politics, because in whole, I think the process is broken. I'm self-proclaimed anti-politics. I did vote for Obama, the first time, but for me it was more about the experience of voting than anything.
However, on the brink of this somewhat imaginary fiscal cliff everyone is suddenly worried about, all you can find on the television are round table discussions between people wearing expensive suits.
These reptiles are so removed from what the actual American population needs, that I have to walk away after a few topics.
Healthcare and services for the people-"let's cut funding to social security and Medicaid/Medicare." one of them admitted smugly that he has the same benefits as his brother that works on electric lines. Really? So you applied for free healthcare, why? Sell you're Armani and pay for a year of blue cross. Let someone else have those benefits you don't need. How'd he even qualify?
Gun control- "let's have everyone store their guns in a gun club, so they can just practice shooting there." ok, so when someone is breaking into my home, I can just hop in my car, drive down to the club and grab my gun, come back home and defend it. Great idea. How many weeks after opening this gun club is someone going to break-in and have everyone's guns? Just to file off the serial numbers and hand sell them to criminals. Genius.
Immigration - here's where I finally walked away. "immigration is a fairly simple problem to solve compared to these other issues." well we've only spent decades trying to figure out a fair and just way to control the flow of immigration and still be the great country with open arms that we're supposed to be. That should be simple to fix.... It's not hard at all to decide if a family that's lived here for thirty years should leave. It's not hard to figure out if someone truly wants to better their life by living here. You're not going to do the jobs, that you complain about them stealing. And you'd never work for the amount of money they bring home. Simple to fix.
Of course all of this was moments after a presidential speech, which they picked apart and reworded everything he said, to make him look horrible. It's not that I'm a huge fan, but he's trying, and these shows all have their own agenda, if he says something positive, they have to twist it, to make it look like he's picking fights. They completely misquoted him, twice, when he was admitting that both parties needed to change but that they were passionate because they cared for the country.
Now if I may rant for a moment... America has a money problem? Ok, here's where we start. Don't attack the middle and lower class. How about this:
Tax professional athletes, not in the minor sports, they don't make all that much. But football players bring home millions yearly. Tax them on a personal level or in a general way that spreads evenly. It's my belief they won't consider things like this because they believe America needs sports to boost morale. I'm not talking about cutting the sports, just having them help their country.
Have each Brad Pitt and Ridley Scott give 10% earnings to the country, to the debt. I like these people, Hollywood is important, but it's also got more money than it knows how to spend. A year of taxing films and actors, we'd be well on our way to erasing debt. One year of these people's lives. That's not a big sacrifice.
Or the rich can worry about hoarding, while other countries make plans to invade. One EMP and all of those 1's and 0's you have been hoarding in the bank. Vanish. We're all set back to 0.
Please excuse the rant, just listen to the country, the people, not these people that live in "their" America, which is nothing like ours. Yet, they sure are opinionated on how WE should suffer to fix it all.
However, on the brink of this somewhat imaginary fiscal cliff everyone is suddenly worried about, all you can find on the television are round table discussions between people wearing expensive suits.
These reptiles are so removed from what the actual American population needs, that I have to walk away after a few topics.
Healthcare and services for the people-"let's cut funding to social security and Medicaid/Medicare." one of them admitted smugly that he has the same benefits as his brother that works on electric lines. Really? So you applied for free healthcare, why? Sell you're Armani and pay for a year of blue cross. Let someone else have those benefits you don't need. How'd he even qualify?
Gun control- "let's have everyone store their guns in a gun club, so they can just practice shooting there." ok, so when someone is breaking into my home, I can just hop in my car, drive down to the club and grab my gun, come back home and defend it. Great idea. How many weeks after opening this gun club is someone going to break-in and have everyone's guns? Just to file off the serial numbers and hand sell them to criminals. Genius.
Immigration - here's where I finally walked away. "immigration is a fairly simple problem to solve compared to these other issues." well we've only spent decades trying to figure out a fair and just way to control the flow of immigration and still be the great country with open arms that we're supposed to be. That should be simple to fix.... It's not hard at all to decide if a family that's lived here for thirty years should leave. It's not hard to figure out if someone truly wants to better their life by living here. You're not going to do the jobs, that you complain about them stealing. And you'd never work for the amount of money they bring home. Simple to fix.
Of course all of this was moments after a presidential speech, which they picked apart and reworded everything he said, to make him look horrible. It's not that I'm a huge fan, but he's trying, and these shows all have their own agenda, if he says something positive, they have to twist it, to make it look like he's picking fights. They completely misquoted him, twice, when he was admitting that both parties needed to change but that they were passionate because they cared for the country.
Now if I may rant for a moment... America has a money problem? Ok, here's where we start. Don't attack the middle and lower class. How about this:
Tax professional athletes, not in the minor sports, they don't make all that much. But football players bring home millions yearly. Tax them on a personal level or in a general way that spreads evenly. It's my belief they won't consider things like this because they believe America needs sports to boost morale. I'm not talking about cutting the sports, just having them help their country.
Have each Brad Pitt and Ridley Scott give 10% earnings to the country, to the debt. I like these people, Hollywood is important, but it's also got more money than it knows how to spend. A year of taxing films and actors, we'd be well on our way to erasing debt. One year of these people's lives. That's not a big sacrifice.
Or the rich can worry about hoarding, while other countries make plans to invade. One EMP and all of those 1's and 0's you have been hoarding in the bank. Vanish. We're all set back to 0.
Please excuse the rant, just listen to the country, the people, not these people that live in "their" America, which is nothing like ours. Yet, they sure are opinionated on how WE should suffer to fix it all.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Monday, December 24, 2012
I write, as if someone were to actually read it. Really it's just digital trash, maybe more convenient than a bookcase of journals, but either way, someday it'll all be lost, forgotten. This may have some dark undertone, but I'm actually just laying here typing, because I can't sleep. Often, the best insights and revelations are discovered when I'm just typing without thinking ahead. Self-discovery is an important thing, so is honesty. I type things people don't know, things I can hardly accept myself. In my years on this earth, the only thing I can say with certainty, is there is no certain path. I do, however believe we are fated, pushed rather, to sway certain ways. Sometimes you can feel deep inside when you've found yourself in the wrong place. You'll never feel at home in that situation, you can carry on and try to ignore all of the things happening; internal and external, or you can try to make right what is wrong. Even within the rules of fate, there is much freedom to be had, it's just that certain parts of your life were meant to be. It doesn't mean every meal, and every day were predestined, merely that we have a place, a place that's home to us.
Home does not always mean a building, your comfort may be in the arms of a lover, writing music, painting, something that fills the light half of your heart and makes you feel complete. Some people feel like they grow out of these things, or something finds them separated from their love.
A mans memory is a funny thing. You can look back, and know certain parts of your life were perfect, you didn't know it then, but it's obvious now. A bittersweet thing, to remember a perfect night, you can recall the smells, thoughts and emotions, things you took for granted in the moment.
Some of us are stuck in those moments, ghosts in our own skin, a living memory, doomed to question how we could have changed things, the great If. We may be blinding ourselves to some great life, because we don't dwell in the present.
At any given time, the soul, the mind can leave the body, if one is longing for something enough, they are there, not here. It may be in the present, like longing for a loved one, that's far away. Or it may be in the past, wanting for a moment that has already faded. Some people live in a world of regret, their great If, is something they never ventured. Fear is a funny beast, much like societies and modern ideas of moral upholding. A heart wants what it wants, no man, no law, no belief can change it. That basic understanding has slowly shaped our country over the past 60 years, but it's always something thought of in shame, years of hiding or lying to avoid backlash... I'm getting off track here, the main point is society always thinks something is wrong, until enough people want it, then it is societies view. Let's get back on topic, and let's cut the niceties.
Where is my heart? My mind? My soul? Well if you're internalizing those questions, be wary, it takes a brutal honesty to find the answers. But I'm asking about myself, and they're not easy answers. The biggest piece of my heart, which I will never have returned belongs to my wonderful children, a joy only a parent can know, and a sadness only the estranged can know. Small, fragile pieces of it are left in distant evenings spent with those I've loved. I could recall for you in detail specific moments, I could recount exactly who I should be with, I could make this a proclamation of love, but aside from the fact that it is (somewhat) unrequited now, that's not really what the point is. I have loved, I have lost. At least I loved, and can remember those stolen kisses, sweaty palms, because you just had to at least hold her hand... Memories that fade.
My heart is in music, in art, and if you ask me why, I'd have a two-fold answer. Firstly, I've loved everything about music and art since childhood, and I'd be driven mad if I couldn't express it in some form. The worst years of my life were when I stifled my artistic side. Secondly, I have to. Music is the great bandage, the perfect distraction, that holds what's left of this heart together. I fill every void with artistic expression, which doesn't hold well, it's imperfect, yet it's the only thing that keeps it beating.
I have more points to make here, but I want to sidestep, momentarily, just to speak about our wandering spirits. Our hearts, minds, souls, really comprise of mostly similar things, and one could argue that the heart doesn't love the mind does, but the heart will ache, the soul and the mind become restless. These terms, could be intertwined or disagreed upon, but the fact is, no matter your belief, scholar, poet or spiritualist, we all recognize the being, our consciousness, no matter where it comes from, personally I believe it healthy to accept all three. Getting off the beaten path once again... If someone were reading this, I'd want to show them something. They'd learn a lesson here: how to bring your spirit back to here, back to now. Sometimes it's fleeting, for the concerns of the day, or the memory that hurts really wants our attention. But if you close your eyes, and breath, I won't go through an entire session here, meditation, self-hypnosis, anxiety control, reality testing... They all teach similar processes, the end result is to realign your spirit and your flesh. To be here now. You have to, and most can feel it when they are restless, call your spirit back. You've spread it thin, and left bits of it in silly places, small concerns and regrets, places you fractured yourself, and left a part of you there. It happens daily, just drifting thoughts place us elsewhere, not a single soul is exactly where they want to be all the time. But if we call it back, release those tensions, fears, regrets, and even for now, lost love, longing... Bring it back to you, feel the warmth around you, as you bring yourself back, you'll notice small pains in the body, and minor things like that, possibly unpleasant background noise. Why do you notice them? Because you're here now, you were ignoring those pains, those car horns, but they're part of your now. Revel in the moment, the completeness of the situation, in fact, put this down and quit reading, just tk enjoy the senses.
It can be fleeting, can't it? One stray thought and we're releasing energy that belongs here and now. The trick is to call yourself back daily, and for extended amounts of time. Soon, you'll be in the moment more often, rather than spread across space and time. This is a step to becoming lucid, a lucid dreamer has to recognize now, when they are awake, to recognize now, and the inconsistencies of the dream world when asleep. I'll write a lot about lucid dreaming on one of these adventures, it is after-all my nickname and my sons namesake. Just know that(off topic), lucid dreaming is one of the most rewarding things a person can learn, and if we don't question our surrounding when we're awake, why would we when we're asleep?
It's reality testing, but it also calls us to the moment, somewhere most of us rarely exist in. I tell my brother to "count the yellow cars" which means make some silly list of things and count them daily, this forces you to interact with the world. One day you'll be counting a car and watch it fly away... You're not awake.
If I were to babble much more about this, I'd get into "totems" reality testing objects. At first you'll have light-switches, watches, cell phones, paper... Things that do not function in a dream world; next you'll probably, I you become an avid lucid dreamer, have a personal item, a "totem" a physical object like a coin to test reality... The words won't sit still or it will defy gravity. Mine, became a permanent fixture... My tattoos signal when I'm awake or asleep, if they won't sit still then I'm not awake. When I first chose to make this my totem, I became lucid and took all the ink, swirled it down my arm, out my fingertip and into the air, swirling it a liquid sphere, quite an experience. My next tattoo session, I'm getting in bold text, "wake up" tattooed on my left finger. I'll check it daily, to make sure it says wake up, if it doesn't, then it's time to wake up... Mentally, not physically. You'll get there, then you'll understand.
This was another rant that really went three directions, but that's what happens with thought. Go flip the light-switch, or check what time it is. Be awake, even if you're asleep, and be here and now.
Home does not always mean a building, your comfort may be in the arms of a lover, writing music, painting, something that fills the light half of your heart and makes you feel complete. Some people feel like they grow out of these things, or something finds them separated from their love.
A mans memory is a funny thing. You can look back, and know certain parts of your life were perfect, you didn't know it then, but it's obvious now. A bittersweet thing, to remember a perfect night, you can recall the smells, thoughts and emotions, things you took for granted in the moment.
Some of us are stuck in those moments, ghosts in our own skin, a living memory, doomed to question how we could have changed things, the great If. We may be blinding ourselves to some great life, because we don't dwell in the present.
At any given time, the soul, the mind can leave the body, if one is longing for something enough, they are there, not here. It may be in the present, like longing for a loved one, that's far away. Or it may be in the past, wanting for a moment that has already faded. Some people live in a world of regret, their great If, is something they never ventured. Fear is a funny beast, much like societies and modern ideas of moral upholding. A heart wants what it wants, no man, no law, no belief can change it. That basic understanding has slowly shaped our country over the past 60 years, but it's always something thought of in shame, years of hiding or lying to avoid backlash... I'm getting off track here, the main point is society always thinks something is wrong, until enough people want it, then it is societies view. Let's get back on topic, and let's cut the niceties.
Where is my heart? My mind? My soul? Well if you're internalizing those questions, be wary, it takes a brutal honesty to find the answers. But I'm asking about myself, and they're not easy answers. The biggest piece of my heart, which I will never have returned belongs to my wonderful children, a joy only a parent can know, and a sadness only the estranged can know. Small, fragile pieces of it are left in distant evenings spent with those I've loved. I could recall for you in detail specific moments, I could recount exactly who I should be with, I could make this a proclamation of love, but aside from the fact that it is (somewhat) unrequited now, that's not really what the point is. I have loved, I have lost. At least I loved, and can remember those stolen kisses, sweaty palms, because you just had to at least hold her hand... Memories that fade.
My heart is in music, in art, and if you ask me why, I'd have a two-fold answer. Firstly, I've loved everything about music and art since childhood, and I'd be driven mad if I couldn't express it in some form. The worst years of my life were when I stifled my artistic side. Secondly, I have to. Music is the great bandage, the perfect distraction, that holds what's left of this heart together. I fill every void with artistic expression, which doesn't hold well, it's imperfect, yet it's the only thing that keeps it beating.
I have more points to make here, but I want to sidestep, momentarily, just to speak about our wandering spirits. Our hearts, minds, souls, really comprise of mostly similar things, and one could argue that the heart doesn't love the mind does, but the heart will ache, the soul and the mind become restless. These terms, could be intertwined or disagreed upon, but the fact is, no matter your belief, scholar, poet or spiritualist, we all recognize the being, our consciousness, no matter where it comes from, personally I believe it healthy to accept all three. Getting off the beaten path once again... If someone were reading this, I'd want to show them something. They'd learn a lesson here: how to bring your spirit back to here, back to now. Sometimes it's fleeting, for the concerns of the day, or the memory that hurts really wants our attention. But if you close your eyes, and breath, I won't go through an entire session here, meditation, self-hypnosis, anxiety control, reality testing... They all teach similar processes, the end result is to realign your spirit and your flesh. To be here now. You have to, and most can feel it when they are restless, call your spirit back. You've spread it thin, and left bits of it in silly places, small concerns and regrets, places you fractured yourself, and left a part of you there. It happens daily, just drifting thoughts place us elsewhere, not a single soul is exactly where they want to be all the time. But if we call it back, release those tensions, fears, regrets, and even for now, lost love, longing... Bring it back to you, feel the warmth around you, as you bring yourself back, you'll notice small pains in the body, and minor things like that, possibly unpleasant background noise. Why do you notice them? Because you're here now, you were ignoring those pains, those car horns, but they're part of your now. Revel in the moment, the completeness of the situation, in fact, put this down and quit reading, just tk enjoy the senses.
It can be fleeting, can't it? One stray thought and we're releasing energy that belongs here and now. The trick is to call yourself back daily, and for extended amounts of time. Soon, you'll be in the moment more often, rather than spread across space and time. This is a step to becoming lucid, a lucid dreamer has to recognize now, when they are awake, to recognize now, and the inconsistencies of the dream world when asleep. I'll write a lot about lucid dreaming on one of these adventures, it is after-all my nickname and my sons namesake. Just know that(off topic), lucid dreaming is one of the most rewarding things a person can learn, and if we don't question our surrounding when we're awake, why would we when we're asleep?
It's reality testing, but it also calls us to the moment, somewhere most of us rarely exist in. I tell my brother to "count the yellow cars" which means make some silly list of things and count them daily, this forces you to interact with the world. One day you'll be counting a car and watch it fly away... You're not awake.
If I were to babble much more about this, I'd get into "totems" reality testing objects. At first you'll have light-switches, watches, cell phones, paper... Things that do not function in a dream world; next you'll probably, I you become an avid lucid dreamer, have a personal item, a "totem" a physical object like a coin to test reality... The words won't sit still or it will defy gravity. Mine, became a permanent fixture... My tattoos signal when I'm awake or asleep, if they won't sit still then I'm not awake. When I first chose to make this my totem, I became lucid and took all the ink, swirled it down my arm, out my fingertip and into the air, swirling it a liquid sphere, quite an experience. My next tattoo session, I'm getting in bold text, "wake up" tattooed on my left finger. I'll check it daily, to make sure it says wake up, if it doesn't, then it's time to wake up... Mentally, not physically. You'll get there, then you'll understand.
This was another rant that really went three directions, but that's what happens with thought. Go flip the light-switch, or check what time it is. Be awake, even if you're asleep, and be here and now.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
I've felt suicidal lately. Why talk about it openly? Because I don't want to feel this way, talking about it alone, makes it less likely to happen.
I'm really sick, mentally and physically just unraveled. I'm usually a positive person, but even in my darkest days, I usually knew the path out. It was always obvious where I fit, and what I needed to do to get there. It's not that way right now, I can't see any obvious direction but down, the calling I usually feel is hushed, and the world, for the first time really feels hollow, lonely, and just a place I'm not sure I want to occupy. All of the morals, and goodness in people seems vacant, society as a whole seems lost, and shallow. It's not a world I'm proud to be a member of. This isn't a jab at any specific person or people, in fact I dearly love so many people that may read this, and you're wonderful, but in my head, you're just memories, there is no tangible good that I can place my hands on.
I'm used to clinical depression, as much as anyone can be, it just feels different this time, I dug myself into a hole, and I don't remember which way is up. If I could more eloquently phrase my words, if I could better express this emotion... But it jumbles out like some cliché, depressed crap that seems to pollute the Internet in every corner. Maybe that's the problem, we've become jaded to hearing each others woes, and it's become hard to truly sympathize with our fellow man.
I want to manage to express this, because it's foreign to me to feel this bad. It's not my goal to get feedback, or sympathy, just to express this and get it out there, and maybe in the process, expel it from myself, or at least begin the process.
Let's start here, just some of the facts, things weighing on me that could be culminating to form this dark cloud, though I couldn't easily point to any one thing and say,"that's the problem", because while there is a lot of negative forces working against me, I feel like it's more the fact that I don't remember why I should feel better. To what end? When I get better, what is waiting there? What life am I trying to preserve, or strive for?
Despite the fact that these separate things may or may not equate to this feeling, I want to get it all out there, in the harsh, unforgiving truth, the reality of what has happened.
My family has been clinging together, for support, and to live the way we should. Our mother has mental illness, as do I for that matter. We chose, for her good, to help her retire and move her close to family, with promises of a better life. I sit now, in a small dwelling, in a small corner room, surrounded by things I couldn't fit in my usual "studio" space. I awoke to ants today, because I fell asleep with an empty glass that had soda in it last night.
Every source of water here is messed up, washing machine is completely broken and everything else leaks. There are several other problem just with the living situation, but I am thankful there is a roof over my head.
To really dig into the root would be to discuss mental illness, and the corrosive effect it has, and the mind deteriorates so does everything surrounding it. Just two years ago, we wanted for nothing and celebrated life everyday, and oh how things have changed.
My mental illness, the best any healthcare professional can surmise, stems from several near fatal head injuries, and possibly some inherited family issues. So to speak it in their jargon: acute anxiety with agoraphobia, clinical depression, severe insomnia, possibly post-traumatic stress disorder. To state it plainly: daily anxiety attacks, I can't leave my home, I don't fully know whats wrong with my head, so they just throw medicine at it, yet think I'm a junkie half the time because I look the way I do. My brain, will not shut off on it's own. Over-critical thought, jumbled ideas that run in circles, which causes anxiety and insomnia. So, well... I'm fucked up. I feel judged constantly, which just adds to the depression. Family, I'm sorry that I drink sometimes, I'm sorry I haven't quit, and I'm mainly sorry that I don't really want to quit. It's always caused problems, but I've been much more responsible, and try to keep myself in line, I even try to make a conscious choice that if I know I'm going to drink, I don't mix it with my medication. Aside from drinking some, I live a pretty normal and moral life.
We can't discuss the families decline without addressing my mothers mental illness as well. I don't enjoy making these things public, but I cannot bare to hold them in any longer. My mother is a gracious, kind and gentle person, an intelligent nurse that, at least nine months of the year, is a pretty stable person. Yet, she will not stay on her medication, which has been an issue for more than thirty years. We have to take our mother to a psychiatric unit, where she stays for up to a week, every eight months. Right now, I am tasked with dealing out her medications twice a day, in hopes that she will stay on them and get better. In thirty years here's a list of medical terms that have been thrown at us, as doctors never agree what or how to treat it, starting from my first memories: manic depressive, bi-polar, graves disease, hyper/hypo-thyroid, dementia, psychosis, vitamin deficient, schizophrenic, depressed, and the list would dwindle down to mixtures of those . I can't stress enough, I love her and it breaks me, every time we have to commit her. These "episodes" range greatly in form, but cause money issues, and a general corrosion of quality of life for everyone involved. We have stunted our lives, frozen in time it feels, trying to deal with this, and hating the idea of many of the "solutions" we are presented with.
So, there is a very sick woman, just down the hall, very confused, debt like we never thought possible.
Now, I keep saying we, and while I understand, sympathize and even envy, the we I've known for several years is about to dwindle by one. In a few weeks my brother and his fiancee are getting an apartment a few towns away. I am happy for them and the choice to make a life together. However, I don't yet see how this will change my life, and my mothers. Can I help and handle her illness, should I? Or should I seek my life, and worry about what's wrong with my world and take steps to fix it? Can the two happen at once? Can I care for her, and start preparing to enter some new life? Or do I have to get away, to better myself? I feel unfair and selfish when I dream of something more. I feel shame that I could move on.
This issue alone, encapsulates enough I could write a book, on the worries, and odd childhood.
Between mental illness, past addiction issues, and some less than proper choices in my love life, I can build a tree of regret. These would be the roots and the dry, barren branches would be the minor issues that were born of just a few key problems.
I miss my children, I can't use anything but the less than adequate word unfair, for what has happened. I miss them every second of everyday, and my heart will never be whole if they can't see me more. It's a situation I feel powerless in. I am an awesome father, and I was doing everything I could, they were happy, life was good. Without divulging or saying anything that could be misconstrued as trash talk; my heart feels a weight, a yearning to be with my children, and there is nothing on earth that can patch that hole.
This is where I stop typing, to wipe the tears streaming down my face.
I was fucking up my life, starting about five years back, missing my kids, and unhappy I'd make bad decisions, or I'd blackout drinking. I hurt the ones I loved, pushed some away for good because they couldn't bare to see the destructive path I was on. I could be handed the world, and I would find a way to fuck up every good thing in my life. Bands, friends, love, family. I was unhappy and didn't even know it until I decided, after a few traumatic events, I broke down and rewired. I quit drinking completely for several months, became celibate, and got a psychiatrist. I didn't know I was depressed until the first time I felt it ease up. I got serious about music, and photography, but then I still fucked up, not as often or severe, but I still lost things I cherished. I've found myself in this current state of suspended animation; there is no forwards, and there is no turning back. I spend a great deal of my day laying in a bed, twitching for hours. Not to sleep, just sick, pure and simple, stuck on a broken record of regret and shame. That's where I am now, a single small light in the corner of the room. I type to keep my hands busy, while my legs twitch uncontrollably. I ignore the pain in my chest, and the labored breathing, the tightness in my muscles, the numbness in my hands and feet. The frequent shooting pains in my head and neck, stiff, clenched jaw. I count the hours until I can take medicine, for a minor, brief distraction and calm... If I feel it today.
Like so many things I write, they start with a direction and just unravel.
I WANT to live, but I have to remember why.
I'm noticing an alarming trend, musicians getting severely depressed within days of releasing material. I think that we pour so much into it, channel our emotions, use it as a coping mechanism, or just distraction. And once it's finished and out of our hands, everything comes crashing in. The realities we were able to suppress, to voice in music, is suddenly very real, and our way of coping has left. What we offer you as entertainment, sometimes it's our cautionary tale, one we can't ourselves heed.
I'm really sick, mentally and physically just unraveled. I'm usually a positive person, but even in my darkest days, I usually knew the path out. It was always obvious where I fit, and what I needed to do to get there. It's not that way right now, I can't see any obvious direction but down, the calling I usually feel is hushed, and the world, for the first time really feels hollow, lonely, and just a place I'm not sure I want to occupy. All of the morals, and goodness in people seems vacant, society as a whole seems lost, and shallow. It's not a world I'm proud to be a member of. This isn't a jab at any specific person or people, in fact I dearly love so many people that may read this, and you're wonderful, but in my head, you're just memories, there is no tangible good that I can place my hands on.
I'm used to clinical depression, as much as anyone can be, it just feels different this time, I dug myself into a hole, and I don't remember which way is up. If I could more eloquently phrase my words, if I could better express this emotion... But it jumbles out like some cliché, depressed crap that seems to pollute the Internet in every corner. Maybe that's the problem, we've become jaded to hearing each others woes, and it's become hard to truly sympathize with our fellow man.
I want to manage to express this, because it's foreign to me to feel this bad. It's not my goal to get feedback, or sympathy, just to express this and get it out there, and maybe in the process, expel it from myself, or at least begin the process.
Let's start here, just some of the facts, things weighing on me that could be culminating to form this dark cloud, though I couldn't easily point to any one thing and say,"that's the problem", because while there is a lot of negative forces working against me, I feel like it's more the fact that I don't remember why I should feel better. To what end? When I get better, what is waiting there? What life am I trying to preserve, or strive for?
Despite the fact that these separate things may or may not equate to this feeling, I want to get it all out there, in the harsh, unforgiving truth, the reality of what has happened.
My family has been clinging together, for support, and to live the way we should. Our mother has mental illness, as do I for that matter. We chose, for her good, to help her retire and move her close to family, with promises of a better life. I sit now, in a small dwelling, in a small corner room, surrounded by things I couldn't fit in my usual "studio" space. I awoke to ants today, because I fell asleep with an empty glass that had soda in it last night.
Every source of water here is messed up, washing machine is completely broken and everything else leaks. There are several other problem just with the living situation, but I am thankful there is a roof over my head.
To really dig into the root would be to discuss mental illness, and the corrosive effect it has, and the mind deteriorates so does everything surrounding it. Just two years ago, we wanted for nothing and celebrated life everyday, and oh how things have changed.
My mental illness, the best any healthcare professional can surmise, stems from several near fatal head injuries, and possibly some inherited family issues. So to speak it in their jargon: acute anxiety with agoraphobia, clinical depression, severe insomnia, possibly post-traumatic stress disorder. To state it plainly: daily anxiety attacks, I can't leave my home, I don't fully know whats wrong with my head, so they just throw medicine at it, yet think I'm a junkie half the time because I look the way I do. My brain, will not shut off on it's own. Over-critical thought, jumbled ideas that run in circles, which causes anxiety and insomnia. So, well... I'm fucked up. I feel judged constantly, which just adds to the depression. Family, I'm sorry that I drink sometimes, I'm sorry I haven't quit, and I'm mainly sorry that I don't really want to quit. It's always caused problems, but I've been much more responsible, and try to keep myself in line, I even try to make a conscious choice that if I know I'm going to drink, I don't mix it with my medication. Aside from drinking some, I live a pretty normal and moral life.
We can't discuss the families decline without addressing my mothers mental illness as well. I don't enjoy making these things public, but I cannot bare to hold them in any longer. My mother is a gracious, kind and gentle person, an intelligent nurse that, at least nine months of the year, is a pretty stable person. Yet, she will not stay on her medication, which has been an issue for more than thirty years. We have to take our mother to a psychiatric unit, where she stays for up to a week, every eight months. Right now, I am tasked with dealing out her medications twice a day, in hopes that she will stay on them and get better. In thirty years here's a list of medical terms that have been thrown at us, as doctors never agree what or how to treat it, starting from my first memories: manic depressive, bi-polar, graves disease, hyper/hypo-thyroid, dementia, psychosis, vitamin deficient, schizophrenic, depressed, and the list would dwindle down to mixtures of those . I can't stress enough, I love her and it breaks me, every time we have to commit her. These "episodes" range greatly in form, but cause money issues, and a general corrosion of quality of life for everyone involved. We have stunted our lives, frozen in time it feels, trying to deal with this, and hating the idea of many of the "solutions" we are presented with.
So, there is a very sick woman, just down the hall, very confused, debt like we never thought possible.
Now, I keep saying we, and while I understand, sympathize and even envy, the we I've known for several years is about to dwindle by one. In a few weeks my brother and his fiancee are getting an apartment a few towns away. I am happy for them and the choice to make a life together. However, I don't yet see how this will change my life, and my mothers. Can I help and handle her illness, should I? Or should I seek my life, and worry about what's wrong with my world and take steps to fix it? Can the two happen at once? Can I care for her, and start preparing to enter some new life? Or do I have to get away, to better myself? I feel unfair and selfish when I dream of something more. I feel shame that I could move on.
This issue alone, encapsulates enough I could write a book, on the worries, and odd childhood.
Between mental illness, past addiction issues, and some less than proper choices in my love life, I can build a tree of regret. These would be the roots and the dry, barren branches would be the minor issues that were born of just a few key problems.
I miss my children, I can't use anything but the less than adequate word unfair, for what has happened. I miss them every second of everyday, and my heart will never be whole if they can't see me more. It's a situation I feel powerless in. I am an awesome father, and I was doing everything I could, they were happy, life was good. Without divulging or saying anything that could be misconstrued as trash talk; my heart feels a weight, a yearning to be with my children, and there is nothing on earth that can patch that hole.
This is where I stop typing, to wipe the tears streaming down my face.
I was fucking up my life, starting about five years back, missing my kids, and unhappy I'd make bad decisions, or I'd blackout drinking. I hurt the ones I loved, pushed some away for good because they couldn't bare to see the destructive path I was on. I could be handed the world, and I would find a way to fuck up every good thing in my life. Bands, friends, love, family. I was unhappy and didn't even know it until I decided, after a few traumatic events, I broke down and rewired. I quit drinking completely for several months, became celibate, and got a psychiatrist. I didn't know I was depressed until the first time I felt it ease up. I got serious about music, and photography, but then I still fucked up, not as often or severe, but I still lost things I cherished. I've found myself in this current state of suspended animation; there is no forwards, and there is no turning back. I spend a great deal of my day laying in a bed, twitching for hours. Not to sleep, just sick, pure and simple, stuck on a broken record of regret and shame. That's where I am now, a single small light in the corner of the room. I type to keep my hands busy, while my legs twitch uncontrollably. I ignore the pain in my chest, and the labored breathing, the tightness in my muscles, the numbness in my hands and feet. The frequent shooting pains in my head and neck, stiff, clenched jaw. I count the hours until I can take medicine, for a minor, brief distraction and calm... If I feel it today.
Like so many things I write, they start with a direction and just unravel.
I WANT to live, but I have to remember why.
I'm noticing an alarming trend, musicians getting severely depressed within days of releasing material. I think that we pour so much into it, channel our emotions, use it as a coping mechanism, or just distraction. And once it's finished and out of our hands, everything comes crashing in. The realities we were able to suppress, to voice in music, is suddenly very real, and our way of coping has left. What we offer you as entertainment, sometimes it's our cautionary tale, one we can't ourselves heed.
Past life fascination. People get caught up in their past lives, and unlocking the mysteries. Personally right now, I'm more caught up in the recognition of past lives, I've lived in this lifetime. I've been at least twenty different people to countless lives that I became close with. There's obvious things: father, musician, artist, photographer, sideshow freak, lover, skater, stoner, guy with the goatee/tattoos/dreads/piercings, and a million other vague descriptives. Then there are the chapters and layers of life, at points I was very different things to different people, and they had very different, though not fully developed understanding of who I was(am).
This is, of course true of anyone, but why don't we think it's odd when we change so completely? You can wake up one day with a new name, a new set of friends and a new purpose. Isn't it at least slightly sad that we left the old life behind though? I enjoyed some of those lives, I miss them, and I cannot, no matter how much I try, ever reclaim them. What if I'm not happy with this chapter? When can I start the next?
This is, of course true of anyone, but why don't we think it's odd when we change so completely? You can wake up one day with a new name, a new set of friends and a new purpose. Isn't it at least slightly sad that we left the old life behind though? I enjoyed some of those lives, I miss them, and I cannot, no matter how much I try, ever reclaim them. What if I'm not happy with this chapter? When can I start the next?
Saturday, December 8, 2012
It's funny that I'm an optimist, trapped in such a negative situation, that optimism isn't working.
My anti-social behavior is worsening, because I can't get my license back right this moment, one person is too ill, and may be more anti-social than I am, and the other just doesn't invite me to do anything anymore.
My conversations online whittle down to nothing, because I guess no one wants to hear the honesty of what I'm going through. So, I write music, try to hold my head up and pretend things will get better.
The reality is, with the current situation I may have a matter of weeks to find a place to crash, because the money for bills is gone.
"can I get my medicine refilled?" I asked, "when I get paid."
A. That leaves me without medicine for at least a week.
B. Your mental illness has caused you to no call no show for two weeks... There's not going to be a paycheck, or a job for that matter.
Yes I'm an adult, and need to get my shit together, but how do I magically go get my license back, take my meds so I can get a job, to pay for meds I have no money for? It's a cycle that's been going on for too long, I have to break out of it and figure something out. Yes, this is just me ranting at myself, it just saves me from saying it to others, because it scares them away.
My anti-social behavior is worsening, because I can't get my license back right this moment, one person is too ill, and may be more anti-social than I am, and the other just doesn't invite me to do anything anymore.
My conversations online whittle down to nothing, because I guess no one wants to hear the honesty of what I'm going through. So, I write music, try to hold my head up and pretend things will get better.
The reality is, with the current situation I may have a matter of weeks to find a place to crash, because the money for bills is gone.
"can I get my medicine refilled?" I asked, "when I get paid."
A. That leaves me without medicine for at least a week.
B. Your mental illness has caused you to no call no show for two weeks... There's not going to be a paycheck, or a job for that matter.
Yes I'm an adult, and need to get my shit together, but how do I magically go get my license back, take my meds so I can get a job, to pay for meds I have no money for? It's a cycle that's been going on for too long, I have to break out of it and figure something out. Yes, this is just me ranting at myself, it just saves me from saying it to others, because it scares them away.
Things get messed up so easily. For years I've been stuck between two cities. Springfield, where I've lived for a couple decades, and New Orleans which I usually visit every year.
Now, I have literally found myself stuck between the two cities... A 7 hour trip to either one from where I now rest my head.
There's a plan forming, to help get things settled here, and if I've not made a life in Dallas that I can't justify leaving behind; I move to New Orleans and live the life I feel I'm supposed to live. I'll be half-homeless, and I'll have to store my belongings somewhere until it's stable, but I'm willing to sacrifice a lot to find myself where I'm supposed to be in life.
Now, I have literally found myself stuck between the two cities... A 7 hour trip to either one from where I now rest my head.
There's a plan forming, to help get things settled here, and if I've not made a life in Dallas that I can't justify leaving behind; I move to New Orleans and live the life I feel I'm supposed to live. I'll be half-homeless, and I'll have to store my belongings somewhere until it's stable, but I'm willing to sacrifice a lot to find myself where I'm supposed to be in life.
Friday, November 30, 2012
An empty room answers.
When do we know that we've hit bottom?
How low can things get in the world before it's ok to give up?
Do you want to climb out this time? Or just stay here, there's some comfort in misery, and it's such a long way back up.
When do people start to care? It's not a cry for help, it's a scream from the bottom of a very deep well. It may be faint, but you hear it. Does anyone reach down anymore? I know I have to save myself, but I'm not sure what I'm saving for... What's even up there worth the climb? If the world keeps spinning, barely notices I've been removed... Why bother?
It's dark, and quiet. Somehow it's sad that I'm not the sickest person here. It's infectious, the darkness in a soul can spread and latch on to others. I may not even be here if misery didn't love company. Even insanity can't properly be gauged without a test group. A comparison to healthy living... The sterile, white, plastic life you see on television. Well, I'd like to try my lines again. Can I get another take? I'd certainly leave this scene on the cutting room floor. There were some great moments, but no one realizes it until it's over. Happiness is in the rear-view, so what lies ahead?
A lifetime of fucking things up, fixed, in one determined flash.
It replays in my head, like some 8mm projection against the wall. There are light leaks and dust, but it's still there, preserved in memory.
When do I lay back, let the waves envelop? Let depression and sickness win? I don't have the strength to try again, and if there's nothing left, why am I here?
An empty room answers.
How low can things get in the world before it's ok to give up?
Do you want to climb out this time? Or just stay here, there's some comfort in misery, and it's such a long way back up.
When do people start to care? It's not a cry for help, it's a scream from the bottom of a very deep well. It may be faint, but you hear it. Does anyone reach down anymore? I know I have to save myself, but I'm not sure what I'm saving for... What's even up there worth the climb? If the world keeps spinning, barely notices I've been removed... Why bother?
It's dark, and quiet. Somehow it's sad that I'm not the sickest person here. It's infectious, the darkness in a soul can spread and latch on to others. I may not even be here if misery didn't love company. Even insanity can't properly be gauged without a test group. A comparison to healthy living... The sterile, white, plastic life you see on television. Well, I'd like to try my lines again. Can I get another take? I'd certainly leave this scene on the cutting room floor. There were some great moments, but no one realizes it until it's over. Happiness is in the rear-view, so what lies ahead?
A lifetime of fucking things up, fixed, in one determined flash.
It replays in my head, like some 8mm projection against the wall. There are light leaks and dust, but it's still there, preserved in memory.
When do I lay back, let the waves envelop? Let depression and sickness win? I don't have the strength to try again, and if there's nothing left, why am I here?
An empty room answers.
Hurry and shop. Why won't this light change? We need to get this over with quickly. 140 characters or less.
Breath. Be here, be still. Let calmness wash over you, let it fill you with it's light. Don't rush, enjoy the ride. The world will still be spinning, no matter how much you worry.
Life will happen, with or without you, so you choose: participate or always spread your thoughts so thin, that no moment is ever genuine.
Breath. Be here, be still. Let calmness wash over you, let it fill you with it's light. Don't rush, enjoy the ride. The world will still be spinning, no matter how much you worry.
Life will happen, with or without you, so you choose: participate or always spread your thoughts so thin, that no moment is ever genuine.
The need for approval. The dependence on habitual behavior, even when the habit is stripped away. We're all creatures of habit, and day to day life is a circle of similar circumstances. Stepping outside of this circle is usually reserved for a "vacation" a special event that allows us to be comfortable in something new.
I cuss. I masterbate. I look at pornography. I drink alcohol. I consume tobacco. I eat to fill a void in my life, a void that can't be filled. I buy in to the idea that society has placed, that I should feel shame for all of these things.
I'm afraid. My anxiety has taken over and paralyzed my life. I'm lonely. Bored with routine. I can be pompous, arrogant and jealous. I dwell on the negative, which usually causes me to overlook the positive. I'm severely anti-social, unless I drink or take medication. I've almost died mixing the two. I am lazy, I procrastinate and blame it on things that would become better if I didn't. I'm an insomniac, though my medication causes me to sleep to much. I waste entire days, weeks... Passing time for something that's not coming.
I dwell on the negative, so how do I fix this? I create positive, tackle issues and accept that some are just flaws, I can try to overcome them, but shouldn't hate myself if I can't. I'm lonely, God, I'm lonely.
I treat others with respect, I try to be selfless when it counts. I try to recognize weakness and evolve. I cherish knowledge, music and art. I'm emotional, but that's a good thing, men can act like robots, even though they care, they're just scared to seem anything other than tough. I love, I laugh. Engaging conversation is addicting. I question the very fabric of existence. I dream, and I dream. I'm a recovering narcissist, that causes me to he too hard on myself. I don't like me, even though I try to be a really good person. I show my flaws, I don't misrepresent who I really am. People over-think me, I'm simple in all of my intricacies. I could be just as comfortable talking about existentialism, lucid dreams, or hearing fart jokes. I don't like bullies, especially mental bullies, or ones that squish my head. People shouldn't force what should come natural. Not everyone is famous, and they should stop trying to be... The world needs janitors, thinkers and line cooks all the same.
I'm ashamed of how shallow our world has become, beauty above brains, conformity, dependence on technology, addiction to cell phones and celebrities. Fuck twitter. I have always been a self-confessed electronics junkie, but I don't hold that with the same pride I used to. I like the ability and convenience to express myself in the most natural and accessible way possible, but similarities in society have led to rooms full of people talking to people that are not present. Look up, see where you are, or where you could be. Even though I'm writing this, I hope you're not reading it, instead I hope you're jumping in puddles, reading a book under a tree, falling in love. This is my therapy, it doesn't require an audience, if you've read this far, you may have missed out on something great, or you may have learned something. Put your phones in your pocket, talk to the person next to you, be in the moment, everything else can wait, in fact everything else can just vanish, and we can all share this moment... And this one.
I cuss. I masterbate. I look at pornography. I drink alcohol. I consume tobacco. I eat to fill a void in my life, a void that can't be filled. I buy in to the idea that society has placed, that I should feel shame for all of these things.
I'm afraid. My anxiety has taken over and paralyzed my life. I'm lonely. Bored with routine. I can be pompous, arrogant and jealous. I dwell on the negative, which usually causes me to overlook the positive. I'm severely anti-social, unless I drink or take medication. I've almost died mixing the two. I am lazy, I procrastinate and blame it on things that would become better if I didn't. I'm an insomniac, though my medication causes me to sleep to much. I waste entire days, weeks... Passing time for something that's not coming.
I dwell on the negative, so how do I fix this? I create positive, tackle issues and accept that some are just flaws, I can try to overcome them, but shouldn't hate myself if I can't. I'm lonely, God, I'm lonely.
I treat others with respect, I try to be selfless when it counts. I try to recognize weakness and evolve. I cherish knowledge, music and art. I'm emotional, but that's a good thing, men can act like robots, even though they care, they're just scared to seem anything other than tough. I love, I laugh. Engaging conversation is addicting. I question the very fabric of existence. I dream, and I dream. I'm a recovering narcissist, that causes me to he too hard on myself. I don't like me, even though I try to be a really good person. I show my flaws, I don't misrepresent who I really am. People over-think me, I'm simple in all of my intricacies. I could be just as comfortable talking about existentialism, lucid dreams, or hearing fart jokes. I don't like bullies, especially mental bullies, or ones that squish my head. People shouldn't force what should come natural. Not everyone is famous, and they should stop trying to be... The world needs janitors, thinkers and line cooks all the same.
I'm ashamed of how shallow our world has become, beauty above brains, conformity, dependence on technology, addiction to cell phones and celebrities. Fuck twitter. I have always been a self-confessed electronics junkie, but I don't hold that with the same pride I used to. I like the ability and convenience to express myself in the most natural and accessible way possible, but similarities in society have led to rooms full of people talking to people that are not present. Look up, see where you are, or where you could be. Even though I'm writing this, I hope you're not reading it, instead I hope you're jumping in puddles, reading a book under a tree, falling in love. This is my therapy, it doesn't require an audience, if you've read this far, you may have missed out on something great, or you may have learned something. Put your phones in your pocket, talk to the person next to you, be in the moment, everything else can wait, in fact everything else can just vanish, and we can all share this moment... And this one.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
A plague upon our house.
We can move, we can rebuild, but it's always there.
I do believe it's spread to me, I just internalize everything. But she has to break completely, and all we can do is watch.
Heaven must hold a special place for those that know so much suffering in this life. What cruel deity would allow so much pain and ruin? Little cracks, over time... 33 years of life, and most spent in the presence of illness. It chips away, until it has consumed it's vessel.
How do you justify madness?
I can't even relate what I feel correctly. This is the third time I've written this, and it's either too vague or to exposing.
Why must my family feel shame? The only options presented in recent years are extreme, and unthinkable. We've already sacrificed our personal lives, what else will it take?
We can move, we can rebuild, but it's always there.
I do believe it's spread to me, I just internalize everything. But she has to break completely, and all we can do is watch.
Heaven must hold a special place for those that know so much suffering in this life. What cruel deity would allow so much pain and ruin? Little cracks, over time... 33 years of life, and most spent in the presence of illness. It chips away, until it has consumed it's vessel.
How do you justify madness?
I can't even relate what I feel correctly. This is the third time I've written this, and it's either too vague or to exposing.
Why must my family feel shame? The only options presented in recent years are extreme, and unthinkable. We've already sacrificed our personal lives, what else will it take?
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