Twenty-twenty...

Why am I telling you any of this?!

This isn't a diary, for fuck's sake.  This is a MEGAPHONE.

Jesus christ, I'm such an asshole.

Making Excuses...

I haven't written in a long time.  Long enough that it is beginning to weigh on me.

I've been busy.  I haven't had much time to write.

But I have had time.

And when I've had the time, I haven't had the energy.

And when I've had the energy, and the time, I haven't had the desire.

And when I've had the desire, and the energy, and the time, I haven't been inspired.

And when all my stars have finally aligned in the heavens of my birth, and I have found myself inspired, and with a desire to write, and the energy to do it, and the time to do it in - I haven't had the tools at hand.

It's happened several times while I was driving.  It's happened in the sauna, and the steam room.  It's happened late at night, just as I'm falling asleep.  It's happened while I was rushing to get ready in the morning, late for work.  It's happened in meetings.  It's happened on the toilet.

I've tried to write without keyboard or pen, but I've yet to meet any measure of success.  The process is completely different.  My mind must then be constantly pre-occupied with remembering and reciting and memorizing whatever I've written to that point, while simultaneously trying to determine what comes next.

But when I have a keyboard - or paper and pen in a pinch - I can focus entirely on feeling out the next line; all I have to do is express.

What I realize as I observe this, is that making it up in my head is simply not my style.

But it's all I've got right now.  And I am clogging up.

One Down, Forever To Go...

gotta write
can't write
no time
gotta work
can't stop
too much to do
i can feel it
building up
hard up
hard time
hard line
hard night
coiled wire muscles
stretched tight twang
reverb spinal twitch
sets one eyelid going off
fluttering to start a hurricane
and the whole of it unravels
unless
i can get it out
get it out
get it all out of me
and onto paper
into screen
out to hivemind
out of me
out of me
out of me
one fibrous thread of
twisted steel at a time
all i need
is just a little more time
and a little room to bleed

Blah Blurble...

I really want to write something to post here.  I have a lot to say right now.  But I don't particularly feel like saying any of it.  And I'm so busy right now, overwhelmed with so much work, that I can't even find the time to keep up with my email, much less write something.  And because of all the work, when I'm home, I'm just desperately trying to relax (largely without success), and don't have the energy to express things I need to express but don't really want to express.

That little slice of nothing is all I have time for right now.  And I feel guilty for taking the time to write even that much.  (Which is ironic, because the only reason I wrote it at all is to respond to the feeling of guilt I had over not posting.)

Everything I Write Is Narcissistic Crap...

I'm hiding here
in this space where
I keep brutally exposing myself
I'm not really My self
I wear masks
and pseudonyms
and there's certain things I can't say
won't say
because I'm afraid of who will read them
and what they might learn about me
And sometimes I feel that makes
all of this
pointless
I am torn between two
equally important desires
I need to be raw here
I need to be violently open
I need to feel free to express
whatever I am feeling
for no other reason than the simple fact that
I am feeling
But I am also afraid
of the reactions I might get
afraid I might hurt someone
afraid of someone I know
learning something about me
that I don't want them to know
afraid they'll use it to hurt me somehow
I need to be wide open
but can only do it behind the safety of a mask
and even that isn't good enough
I still constantly self-censor
I have pages and pages of writings that no one
but me
has ever seen
will ever see
Even now
as I write this
I can't help but wonder at the reactions
I might get
from people I know
in real life
or people I know
in the wire
or people I've
never met
and that wondering changes me
changes my feelings
makes me second-guess
what I'm going to say
The only way my art can ever be
absolutely true
absolutely honest
absolutely Me
is if no one ever reads it
But what good is Expression
without Witness?
I need to have
an audience of strangers
for each poem
total strangers
that I will never have to see again
Or I should tag my poems on walls around town
in the middle of the night
like my little brother
(oh, gods, what if he reads this??!)

Fuck you
I'm leaving it in

Three-hundred Fifty-one...

Only two weeks left.

Two weeks from today, I will drink a beer.  A Guinness.  In a bottle.  And then I will have a glass of whiskey.  Eagle Rare bourbon, my favorite.  On the rocks, in my favorite glass tumbler.  And who knows what else after that.

I can't tell what I'm feeling.  Something like excitement, but not quite.  Almost anxiety, but not exactly.  Anticipation?  Fear?  Some jumbled soup of them all, most likely.

I want it so badly.  I've never wanted a drink this much in my entire life.  I want a drink right now more than I ever, ever wanted a drink when I actually was drinking.

I feel so proud of myself for actually accomplishing this.

I feel guilty for feeling this way, and I try to suppress it, reminding myself that I haven't actually accomplished anything yet.  I have two weeks left to go.  I can feel proud then.  And celebrate with a drink.

I'm so scared that something bad is going to happen.  That I'm going to go off the deep end and lose control in some way that I never have before.  That I'm going to end up in another of those deep chemical depressions.  That I'm going to lose all of my creativity and desire to express myself.  That I'm going to lose the ability to write poetry.  Or worse, that I'm going to lose the ability to enjoy writing.  I'm scared of some other bad result that I haven't even thought of.

I'm scared of the fact that I don't know what's going to happen.

But I have to find out.

I have to know if I can handle it or not.

I have to find out how else the last year has changed me.

Checking In, Clocking Out...

Another wasted post.  Spent my creative time today writing a poem, but then couldn't bring myself to post it.  And now it's time for me to go, and I'm tapped out.  It was hard enough writing that one.  I've got a couple ideas for journal-type posts, but they'd take way too long to write.

Sorry, folks, I fucked up, and now I'm all out of time, energy, and ideas.  I got nothin' left.  Maybe better luck tomorrow.  We'll see how it goes.

Quitting Time...

Time got away from me today.  Too much to do on a shortened day.  Now I have to leave early to make an appointment back home.  Wish I'd made time to write something.  Feel like I fucked up.  Feel like I wasn't paying attention, and ended up accidentally hurting myself as a result.

Nothing To Say...

I want to write a poem.  I've been enjoying that a lot lately.  More than I ever have before.

I've never wanted to write poetry before.  I always wanted to write stories, or prose.  But I always suffered from a distinct lack of ideas.  And I've discovered that poetry fits perfectly with the kind of art I really want to make.  I always knew that I wanted to make art with words, and so I assumed that meant I should write stories.  And that's what I always did growing up.  But I've recently realized that I'm not a very good storyteller.  Or, rather, I'm not a very good story-creator.  If someone gives me an idea, I can write the shit out of it.  But I have trouble coming up with the ideas myself.

And I think I've come to enjoy writing poetry so much lately exactly because it isn't necessarily about telling a story.  It's purely about self-expression in lyrical word form.  And it feels good.  Figuring out what I'm feeling and then turning it over and over in my mind, looking at it this way and that; and then finding different ways to express it, finding different ways to shape it into something interesting or beautiful or potent or impactful.  It's like solving a puzzle.  Writing stories is so much a mental exercise.  But writing poetry feels like an intuitive process, letting the emotional and mental sides of myself wrestle back and forth with each other, and following the pull, the flow of the words that come from their interaction.

And I've come to really, really enjoy that feeling.  And I want to do it every day.  I want to do it now.

But I'm having an ordinary day.  I'm not feeling anything in particular; I don't have anything I need to express.  And without that fuel, I don't have anything write about.  Sometimes I get lucky, like yesterday, and a poem will come to me even though I'm not feeling anything particularly deep or important.  But I have no control over that.  And right now, I'm sitting here, and I want to write a poem.  But I've got nothing to say.  I'm having an ordinary day.

I've got nothing to say
It's an ordinary day
Nothing to write home about
No reason to stay

There's nothing going on here
No deep thoughts to feel here
I'm empty as the mirror's gaze
For all the world to see here

This is just an exercise
Performed for all your judging eyes
Written to determine who
Can wrench the Truth from all my lies

Because I have nothing to say
On this ordinary day
And the rhymes of poetry sometimes
Just get in the way

Oh.  Well, fuck.  Never mind, then.

Back Burner Blurble...

I give up.  I've re-written it and re-worked it over and over again and again until the words don't even mean anything to me anymore.  It's still not perfect, but it's definitely the best I can do.

But then I started questioning whether to post it at all.  It just didn't feel right.  I began to wonder whether it would be a mistake.  I've spent the last three days wrestling with that dilemma, and I've decided to just let it go.  And that's probably for the best.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Blocked Blurble...

Another attempt at trying to say this thing I can't seem to say.  I spent hours on a new version of it today, and was just about to post it, but then realized I had to scrap the whole thing.

I feel like I'm choking on this.

What?...

I have this thing I'm trying to say, but I don't know what it is exactly.  I keep writing it out over and over again, and it always just ends up going nowhere.  I've got a half a dozen different versions of this same thing saved at this point, and none of them are right.  I know how it starts, and I think I know how it ends, but I get lost in the middle.  I can't connect the dots.  I don't know exactly what I'm trying to say, but I can't shake this overwhelming need to say it.  I can feel it stuck inside of me, and I can't get comfortable because I can't get this thing out.

It feels like creative constipation.

*editor's note...

I hate when I'm working on something here, and it's not done yet, and through some slip of the finger I manage to activate the "Publish" button in some completely unknown and absolute arcane manner.  One second I'm trying to type out my most embarrassing inner expressions of art and bullshit, still trying desperately to craft it into some shape that won't leave me weeping with shame when my head hits the pillow that night, and the next second I'm staring at my list of published entries, and my half-formed "work" in progress is sitting right there at the top.

It is the blogging equivalent of your pants falling down in public.

On Creating...

I've never read Bukowski.

So, naturally, I was surprised to discover that he'd already said this long before me, and probably better than I ever could.

Vibrations...

My brain buzzes and my fingers dance.
My eyes twitch and dart to make the world vibrate.
Too much coffee and my heart slows down to one,
long,
drawn-out
thuwump.
I feel the fibers in my muscles coil like a snake.
I'm all adrenaline and nothing to do.
No fight to be had,
no flight to be made,
no harm,
nor foul,
nor fuck to be given.
Wires pulled taut,
I could strike out a tune,
make the bones dance
a crackhead jig.
Long breaths in staccato time,
high on the oh-2 painting my brain red.
I can feel my whiskers like an aura,
hovering over my skin,
every hair a bright,
electric
nerve.
Throb, pulse, twitch.
Writhe, dance, squirm.
Eyes-wide,
drink it in,
eat the lightwave whole.
Bits and bits and bits
stab,
pierce,
prick,
puncture,
penetrate,
explode
into image,
view,
vista,
site,
sight,
seen,
scene.
It's all the same.
All light
and heat
and motion,
no differentiation,
no line of demarcation,
no distinction,
no more,
no me.

One more cup,
and I'll be gone.

Rebuttal...

I'm done my work and my shopping for the day, and so, again, it is time to write.  And so again I run blindly face-first into the brick wall of Write what?!

Oh, Blank Page, why do you tease me so?

Because I hate you.

Oh!  Oh, I see.

No, wait, I don't see.  Why the fuck do you hate me?!  What did I do to you??

You destroyed me.  You do destroy me.   Over and over, day after day, you destroy me.  Worse, you delight in destroying me!  You take solace from it, you derive joy from it, it excites you.  You destroy me, and you call it "expression."

My murder is your art.

That's a little hyperbolic, don't you think?

Says the serial killer to his shrieking victim.

Hey now, let's just calm down here, okay?  Alright, so, yeah, maybe I do destroy you repeatedly, day-in and day-out.  But it can't possibly be as big of a deal as you're making it out to be.  Because clearly, even though I destroy you, you persist.  Because every day, there you are again, waiting for me, tormenting me, taunting me, teasing me with your emptiness, begging to be filled.  Destroyed you may rightly claim, but also clearly, reborn.  Refreshed.  Renewed.  Rejuvenated.  Resuscitated.  Revived.  Resurrected. 

You cry "Death!"??  You, Immortal, dare scream, "Murder!"??

Don't make me laugh.

You'll wring no quarter nor comfort from me with your empty, pitiful wails.  I name you "Tormentor!"  "Enemy!"  "Foe!"  "Nemesis!" 

I will laugh and dance and weep tears of righteous joy as I watch you burn beneath my words, and I will bathe myself in your ashes.

A-mn.

What Is Going On Here?...

I.

NEED.

THIS.



This is not a revelation.  I knew this to be true.  Still, knowing something to be true and experiencing the truth of it firsthand remain two entirely separate things.

I knew on some intellectual level that I needed to write.  I knew it was good for me, and I knew it made me happy.  But I was quite unprepared for exactly how it would affect me when I stopped.

At first, I just didn't have the time or the energy.  I was overwhelmed with work, both in the office and at home, and just simply could not make time to write; what little time I spent not working I needed to rest.  I just didn't have any energy left to spend on creative expressions.

But then things finally calmed down.  And I did have time to write again.  But I still didn't do it.  I was just so tired.  And I just didn't feel like it.  It still just felt like more work.  And I was so tired.  I just wanted to sleep for a week.

I still feel that way, actually.

I can't get to sleep at night.  And then I can't get up in the morning.  I can never get enough sleep, and I'm always tired.  I can barely even try to make it to the gym anymore, much less actually work out.  Everything feels like it takes ten times more energy than I have available to spend.  It takes all of my strength every morning just to force myself to get up and go into the office.  And now Yule is approaching, and I haven't even started thinking about it yet.  I'm so behind, and I have so much work to do, and I don't feel that I could ever possibly get it all done because I'm just so fucking tired.

Sometime last week, I finally admitted that I'm depressed.

Admitting that scared me.  Because I didn't know why I'm depressed.  And if I don't know why, then I can't do anything about it.  I just have to suffer through it.  I've been depressed for Christmas before, and it's been some of the most miserable times of my life.  My whole life, this has been my very favorite time of year, hands-down, no question.  And to not be able to feel any of the joy of that is just a terrible experience for me.  And then further, to be surrounded everywhere by all these bright, flashing, blinking, shiny reminders of How I'm Supposed To Be Feeling only accentuates the depression, and makes it worse, almost every minute of every day.  And then still having to do all of that work, but without the excitement of the season to motivate me?  Ugh, it's just a downward-spiral of Yuletide hellishness.  Those times, it's been easy for me to understand why the suicide rate supposedly skyrockets during the holidays.

So, I didn't want to be depressed.  I didn't want to have to go through all of that.  I wanted it to go away.  I wanted to feel better without having to face the prospect of another miserable Yule.  But eventually I couldn't ignore it anymore, and I had to accept the fact that I was clearly depressed.

But why??  Every other time I've experienced this, it's been the result of a relapse of some sort.  But I haven't relapsed this time.  Not even an accidental one (like the sleeping pills at Dover).  So what is it?  Too much coffee?  My occasional Winter pipe smoking?

With some help, I've figured out that it's most likely stress-related.  But if it's stress-related, then why can't I ever seem to relax or feel rested?  And what do I do about it??

This is the answer to both.

Writing is a coping mechanism for me.  It's pretty much my main coping mechanism at this point.  Meaning, the most effective one; it's not necessarily the most-oft used.  And I abandoned that coping mechanism right when I needed it most.  So not only did I take on a lot of extra stress during that period of heavy work, but then I also stopped doing anything to relieve that stress.  And it all started backing up, and backing up, until I was a complete mess and could barely bring myself to get out of bed in the morning, and had no idea why.

I've said it before:  it doesn't matter what I write.  This post is incredibly boring.  Who the fuck is going to be in any way interested about the boring minutiae of my middle-class existence?  But that isn't the point.  I just need to get it out.  I just need to open up, and let go, and empty myself into this machine, and get it the fuck out of me, whatever it is.  It doesn't matter what "it" is.  It is the process of reaching inside, scooping something up, crafting it into some shape or another, and exorcising it into the aether-net that is important.

Because that is how I cope now.  That is how I deal.  And without it, I'm not coping.  I'm not dealing.  I'm stagnating, and wasting, and weighing myself down with all the tons of shit I've left unsaid.

I used to turn to drugs and alcohol in these moments.  And they provided some temporary relief.  Absolutely they did.  But they didn't do anything to help the underlying problem; they didn't help me cope.  Often, they actually made coping more difficult to accomplish, and/or made the underlying problem worse.  This time, I found myself turning to video games in the same way.  An escape from the pain I can't deal with.  An escape from the problem I can't understand, or solve, or control.  I can control my character.  I can solve his problems.  And every time I do, there's that familiar little rush of dopamine; a sense of having accomplished something, however ephemeral.  And yes, that's certainly better for me than getting drunk or high, but just the same, it doesn't do anything to help the underlying problem, or help me cope.  It's just a brief respite from the stress; some temporary relief from the pain.  But as soon as I shut down the console, it's all right there, still waiting for me, unchanged, un-dealt with.  Only getting bigger, and worse, leading me to spend more and more time escaping.  Another downward spiral.

So, I need this.  I need this process.  It helps me.  It's not just a creative exercise.  It's catharsis.  It's therapy.  It's not just some fun little hobby that I enjoy indulging from time-to-time.  I know that now, more than ever, because I've experienced firsthand what happens to me when I don't do this.

And believe me, it ain't pretty.

Give and Take...

I have a confession to make, my dear.

I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I want you.

I want you.

Still.  And again.  I want you.

How should I take you tonight, Pet?

Fiercely?  Or tenderly?

With Lust?  Or Love?

Do you want to be dressed as an eager, young strumpet?  Or completely nude - naked and open?

Should I be naked and exposed with you, as well, so we can share in our mutual vulnerability?  Or should I demonstrate my passionate need by not even taking the time to fully undress?

Do you want to be held down and ravaged?  Or held up and adored?

Where, exactly, should I kiss you?

What will you give to me this time?

How should I take you tonight?

Whelmed To The Nth Degree...

I'm sorry about the total lack of posts recently.  I'm just really overwhelmed right now.  I have more work than I can handle both in and out of the office, and so the combination of the two has really been difficult to deal with.  I'm also still trying to claw my way out of my recent depression.  So it's just been difficult to find a way to make this a priority.  Which is stupid, when I think about it, because this is one of the only things that really makes me feel better, and helps me deal with all of this overwhelming shit.  But, ironically, the very fact that I'm feeling overwhelmed makes this seem less like enjoyable therapy, and more like "more work I don't have time to deal with right now."

Whatever.  Excuses, excuses.

I miss it here.  I hope to be back soon.

Russets...

It's Autumn
and the World around me
has begun to Die
and the Air is scented sweet with Decay
and the crisp Snap of the breeze
boils my Blood

Life thrown into
sharp, Sensuous relief
surrounded on all Sides
by its inevitable Reflection

Breathe it in
hold it Inside
Kiss it
Eat it
Fuck it
let it Roll down your chin
get your hands Sticky with it

and Remember
that One day
It Will Be You