Go spit on some copssssssss
Blog posts don’t lob bricks at cop’s skulls.
Petitions don’t turn the nightstick back at their throats.
My dad was a writer. He had countless notebooks full of ideas that ranged from very simple poems for children, to a profoundly dark, magical-realist sci-fi. Over the years, he submitted pretty much everything he wrote to pretty much every single publisher in existence. Occasionally, a lit magazine or quarterly of some sort would run something he wrote, but nothing ever caught.
I still have two binders filled, cover to cover, top to bottom, with rejection letters. He saved all of them. As my mom tells it, it was as a reminder that failure is essential. Apparently, every time he got a rejection letter he would write more. Even after my sister was born, he wrote. Even after I was born, he wrote. He wrote and wrote and wrote.
I think I can remember him and/or my mom reading some of his kid-friendly work to me. Specifically, the bubble gum contest. A bunch of school kids have a contest to see who can blow the biggest bubble, and one girl, who dresses like an old west sheriff blows a bubble so big, she floats away and goes on an adventure.
Obviously, the little sheriff girl won the contest.
Odds are; you’ll never do anything
as noble or demanding
as setting yourself
No matter how many marathons
you will always be lazier
than the inner workings
of a gun.
Every degree you earn
will make you no more independent
than a slaughterhouse cow.
It’s great to see so many sex-positive people…
ONLY ON TUMBLR AND NEVER IN REAL LIFE COME ONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNUH.
keep your head on
until you explode
when you come home
if you even come home
and I found
we’ll keep her here
she disappears into…
with him when he’s missing
when he’s not she’s anywhere but
in his arms and blood and body soft
and everyone’s aware of all the
extra points of entry gray and blue and black and dead
the fucking, throbbing, tension feels a crack in every bend
around a finger pull it up and push it in and
close your eye and whisper it’s the best it always is or
ever was and close your eyes and whimper like a baby
fucking dog until your hair is in your eyes and
you two finally get along…
-said at same time-
(she’s who you’ve been missing
and you can’t go anywhere but
it’s the spoon and blood and body, soft
but fully unaware of all the
extra pounds of poison gray and black and blue and dead
the fucking throbbing pound of evil starts to crack and burn and bend
around a finger deep into your elbow it’ll go
close your eye and whisper it’s the last but we both know
you lied and close your eyes and whimper like a baby
fucking dog until your blood is in your eyes
and you two finally get along…)
and I found
we’ll keep her here
she disappears into
we’ll both explode
we both let go
and now there’s no way home
so don’t forget your coat….
And come on down…
Key-ho-tic, or Quick-zotic? I’ve heard both.
____ ____ Began recording our first album today and it is already very exciting. Funny. Sort of rekindled my love for the usual gang of cohorts.
I don’t remember if I wrote the last post before or after that happened.
I legitimately have no idea what today’s timeline was. I can recall all the events, but in no particular order. This is actually a little exciting.
Sleep deprivation has its positive effects.
I am, though, going to try to sleep. Kelly brought me coffee because she is a champion. Now she’s moving in with us because we’re all champions. I can’t express how excited this makes me. The only word for it is “Very”.
I am, though, going to try to sleep. Kelly brought me coffee because she is a champion. Coffee has allowed me to sort of reset, and for the first time in (my estimate is) a month, I’m tired. So, that should be really cool.
A few months ago I landed a job that changed my life. It was hilarious, because I thought it would change my life by giving me a lot of money. A LOT. Started me at $17/hr full time. Twelve hours a day, six days a week. For the viewers at home, that’s almost 5,000 a month. That is almost more money than I’ve seen, cumulative, in probably eight years-Maybe that’s hyperbole-in one month.
(pause for tension. go get a glass of water. pee. call your best friend and tell them you hate them and you can’t live without them.)
I quit after one day.
The job absolutely did change my life.
It allowed me to realize that there is no point to making that much money if I have no time or people to spend it on.
More than that, it made me realized that I just do not want a lot of money. No. My hot commodity is time. Time to film and write and sing my life out until it’s dry and withered and punctuated
The big fancy union position with an absurd salary, paid vacations, paid holidays, full coverage insurance, and high levels of nobility with actual potential to become heavily involved in politics…
Also meant that I would have one day a week to: See Grace. See my friends/family/loved ones/cat. Make art.
The job changed my life because it made me realize I’m fortunate enough to not have any major financial responsibilities beyond paying rent and keeping my self fed. So, the job changed my life in making me realize that I am absolutely not for want, and that I am REALLY FUCKING lucky for that.
Sure, I will be hungry..but I will eat. Sure, I will get restless…but I will sleep.
What matters is that I can create. Create on my own and create with you, dear reader. And share it. And maybe those creations will make you, and others feel something.
And that is much more satisfying than a television could ever be.
Especially because there’s always Netflix.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh boy oh boy oh boy o h b o y o h b o y.
I haven’t slept more than two hours a night in so long I can’t remember how long it’s been since I haven’t slept more than two hours in a night. This is not deliberate and it’s definitely fucking up my head brain. I’ve been unable to avoid really harmful thinking, and definitely feeling a sinking, heart-eating depression. Not sure if the lack of sleep caused this, or if this caused the lack of sleep.
What’s odd, is I’ve been able to maintain a creative spark, which is not normal when I get like this. Though, I haven’t gotten “like this” in several years. Probably seven or eight. This paragraph is a diversion. Despite still feeling the urge..no..NEED to create, my interest in active collaboration with my almost decade long gang of cohorts is fleeting. Several years of being the only one in the group with the interest or desire to make the pursuit a priority has worn my will to work with them down to a stump. Excitingly, a handful of new, relatively unexpected partners have cropped up, and our ventures are exciting, to say the least. The moments spent working with, or for them, have been glorious. However, the moment they end, it’s back to the void. Jesus..that is fucking dramatic.
My dad’s birthday was two days ago. He died two days from now when I was four or five. Obviously, this weighs on me pretty heavily. I called my mother the night of his birthday, and she was fine, which is fantastic. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve been able to say, honestly, that my mom is fine. Emotionally, at least.
How hilarious is the timing on that? The second I can rest easy knowing that lady isn’t going to disappear with a grimey coke dealer from my hometown, and then turn up convinced she’s a demon warrior sent to dismantle the earthen kingdom of god (true story. she almost won), is the second I start thinking about quitting everything and disappearing myself.
Not literal suicide. Just social.
Most of the time, I feel like I’m moving through syrup. Like there’s cotton under my eyelids. Like my mouth is full of sand. These are definitely symptoms of sleep deprivation. Or something else.
The problem with cancer (besides the obvious) is that it’s symptoms are also common to literally everything else. Stress and severe depression and lymphoma all often present with hives, loss of appetite, sleeplessness, flu symptoms, swollen lymph nodes, dizziness, headaches, severe stomach pains etc…
Thankfully, I live in a country with free universal healthcare so no matter what it is I’m good. Just kidding. America. Guns and pants win. Good job.
Then there’s that.
The practically fucking electric detachment from my “culture” and “peer group” (see: demographic).
Our culture’s various movements seem to be the only “progressive social movements” in history that actively censor themselves.
You can’t speak up about a topic unless the message has been pre-approved and tested by the board. Experience and facts somehow don’t take precedent over feelings and opinions. Even when we agree with the overall message…if we don’t agree right, one of us is subjugated.
This is heartbreaking, because I would hope that the goal is to educate the unaware…not belittle. If we respond to differing opinions and ideas with oppression and disgust…how are we any better than those we stand against? We’re not. At all.
Obviously, there is a difference between a panphobic bigoted racist who only wants to hurt people, and a person who is on your side, but has their priorities in a different order.
I know, we all know, the extremists on any side are typically the most vocal. But..why? Why is that?
Because we allow it. Because we’d rather not engage. Because we don’t have time, or energy. Because we know in the long run they’ll fall to the wayside while the real issues are tackled by those who just did it on their own terms. All valid answers. Here’s hoping we’re right.
I’ve been living a prank. I go to parties and listen to people talk for shockingly long times about other people’s art. Then TV shows. Then just other people. Gossip…but about ..I dunno..hair? Usually it’s hair.
The only mention of themselves, or each other, is playful self-depreciation. No one wants to be excited or proud anymore and it’s REALLY weird to me. The only mention of an original idea is to sort of desperately make fun of something else. Everything is a joke but nobody is fucking funny.
I am immediately associated with a vast ocean of magnificent talents, and .01% are excited about it.
I used to feel bad, and wish i could fix it. Now I just feel sick and wish they’d fuck off so I could get back to work. I’ve glazed over with a general lack of interest in how …uninterested everybody is.
Mostly I have no idea what to do, because I feel literally no connection with soooooo many people. Don;t get me wrong, there are plenty that I do, but they know that.
I just..I don’t give a fuck about which show was what thing, or who had drug when, or what fucked why or who is where. I want to talk about ideas. I want to feel illuminated and awake. I want to laugh at a joke because it’s funny..not because it’s “like…totally just..yeah dude.” but..fuck..nobody wants to chip the porcelain.
I can see it, too. Sometimes I’ll test it. I’ll say something a little provocative and watch the desperate need to join in fire up in half the room’s eyes. Meanwhile, the other half has completely severed their incendiary bits. Everything is apologies and warnings. Every misstep is an outrage and every person who makes one is outcasted and exiled by King Cutoff Shorts and the thigh-tat army. (By the way..do y’all recognize how fucking same your different is. You’re indistinguishable. It’s amazing! Get *ONE* black friend!)
"I’m not into, like, defining things. Here are my definitions, though."