I fell asleep and woke up with double vision. A bleary eyed and headache inducing dizziness and a lethargy that could make a happy whale beach itself. What source is this? I'm not sure. I listen to music and the faint buzzing of my periphery and feel as though I might implode. Maybe my reaction to a great pressure is one of frail defeat and I fall into myself without regards to the ground or the clouds or the pain of the neck and the spine readjusted and the delirious tremens triggering their synapses reminders that the soma must be introduced to the system or else it all falls apart like a hot air balloon caught on fire, is this a meditative calm or a horrible indifference and what if a combination of both. Oh yes I have a cumulative exam this afternoon (in two hours or so) and I am not concerned about it. I have a 7 page intertextual analysis paper due tomorrow evening and I am not concerned about it. If this nausea and general disease prevent me from high performance, there is no excusing.
These words act a testament to the mind that controlled the results of these assignments. Tonight I draft. What do I do right now? Prevent the sickness from taking complete control of my sensations. Probably best to go outside and walk it off. This is no joke. It is a sensation of consistent vertigo paired with a bile-burning feeling in my throat. There is pressure behind my eyes and within them. I feel out of body. This is the best way to describe a perpetually haunted feeling I've had recently. I feel as though I'm hovering over myself looking down disapproving of my actions. Like a soul departed from a body too soon. The body is not dead. On both planes of existence, a somnambulant plateau, the eternal bridge crossing but the death of the world wouldn't reunite these personalities. A body without a compass. The soul seen in glimpses in the clouds as the consciousness zooms in between the two during each blink. Maybe I feel the pull of the earth. Gravity is hurting my eyes and I move slowly because my earth-legs have not yet developed. The sea of sea legs and the arms of sky arms and the lips of earth lips and the teeth of tree teeth. Cavernous depths of the psyche when taxed and stretched over the openings. the horror of poor executed attempts at success-given opportunity. feel the burn in the eyes and the ears and the teeth clack together. wonder what this is all about. why must it be today, if some virus has taken my body... give it a few days! please!
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Saturday, June 7, 2014
2:40 am
What does it say of a thirsty young man to avoid bar scene with miles walking and to go back and drink chlorinated water and a big lonely apartment in the suburbia quiet of a well rested and time tested tomb a loud and chloroformed status of quiet contentment when the locus of control is faded out into a vague mystery of forgotten quiet and the memories all wink at one and other with intent to start a new kind of poetic motif when the canopy collapses and the groundwater wells up and the shrieking reaches a decibel higher than human ears can hear so we can ignore. We can so dutifully ignore and fall through until the end of time when that happens and the antique clocks with the clock master insignia fall through our eyes like placid comets melting before even reaching our atmosphere and then breaking up like constant strains of ridiculed contentious claims of well being. I am nauseous and I can barely hold it together. This is the result of throat pain and amazing music and wild well being as a mask. as a mask. a dull mask!
Thursday, June 5, 2014
june 5th
June 5th - 4:20 pm
I woke up as a burning pine tree and each little leaf is a day or a second and eventually I will collapse into embers and ashes... maybe a phoenix or a redwood will rise out of my demise. These thoughts are whatever. They matter less than cleaning your car once a week.
I tried to walk with the perception of a philosopher. Away from those unique people... "I'll probably never see you again." Well, yeah. Why not be happily absent to that idea of full disconnection. Then I realize it is absolutely my own problem. Another group of people who could form into decent relations disappeared because I don't know how the hell to feed social conscious. I die a little when I walk away from any conversation. How could it have gone worse? Well. Not the point. The point is larger. Narrow social settings do not matter. How does one cope with such transient friends who like similar things and study with a great fervor and speak in riddles and tongues and use uncommon words and probably play music on the side and aren't graduating and I have no parties to attend, what in hell have I done with my time and how can I break this ridiculous spell, what is the secret to a less somber isolation? Contrast probably. When I want to get away to have the ability to. I get away when I really shouldn't and everything burns down like a funeral pyre of social intention.
Miserable. With my 3.7 on an exam I thought I bombed. Why not happy and exceptional and say sorrowful goodbyes and then I found the clique again and disappeared into the fold without room to breathe and god damn it all was great fun and I am worse for the where. The what. What is it?
I woke up as a burning pine tree and each little leaf is a day or a second and eventually I will collapse into embers and ashes... maybe a phoenix or a redwood will rise out of my demise. These thoughts are whatever. They matter less than cleaning your car once a week.
I tried to walk with the perception of a philosopher. Away from those unique people... "I'll probably never see you again." Well, yeah. Why not be happily absent to that idea of full disconnection. Then I realize it is absolutely my own problem. Another group of people who could form into decent relations disappeared because I don't know how the hell to feed social conscious. I die a little when I walk away from any conversation. How could it have gone worse? Well. Not the point. The point is larger. Narrow social settings do not matter. How does one cope with such transient friends who like similar things and study with a great fervor and speak in riddles and tongues and use uncommon words and probably play music on the side and aren't graduating and I have no parties to attend, what in hell have I done with my time and how can I break this ridiculous spell, what is the secret to a less somber isolation? Contrast probably. When I want to get away to have the ability to. I get away when I really shouldn't and everything burns down like a funeral pyre of social intention.
Miserable. With my 3.7 on an exam I thought I bombed. Why not happy and exceptional and say sorrowful goodbyes and then I found the clique again and disappeared into the fold without room to breathe and god damn it all was great fun and I am worse for the where. The what. What is it?
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
June 4th
I've shunned sleep like a friend I am avoiding. Perhaps I cheated on her with day. That nap in the afternoon. Night-sleep upsets herself with me and tossing me out into the day without much energy to perform surgeries or diagnostics or trampoline tricks- the bridge is crossed by only kindred spirits and I hear them rustling about in their tomb cottages making floorboards creak as if they had anything more than celestial, transitory weight. Alyson, though. Why didn't I ask you about your life? This space is huge and ridiculous and expensive. My body is numb. I walked away from the theory examination with a dull roar in my head. One of insecurity and disbelief. Allison. How did you do on your test? Shouldn't we have talked about something else? Dual citizenship. Asian-American. How is your existence? What do you like to do when this is over? Can we be friends, get coffee, lunch, laugh a hundred times, share music, consider the following, cancel magazine subscriptions, share gum, stumble listlessly across the dark planks of a dock party well spent and then our drunk friends carol us back never knowing we knew they did not know what we knew.
It is an illusion. She walked off to her vigilant feminism and her artistry. I walked into a cloud and floated around for awhile. An out of body experience, so pointless, barely hanging on to the atmosphere, the tug of outer space was felt and I could have melted away for eons before returning. What if they found my body on campus. Not dead. Just vacant minded and melting into outer space. What medical miracle could resuscitate such evacuated consciousness and then when my eyes connected with theirs could I transfer information as adequately as words are tossed through the air, caught in the teeth of a fetching dog, the ears of a friend, the mild voiced and restless tired soul of the stomping soldier- the mine field and the ballroom dancing. The volcano eruption and the alpine picnic. The tsunami and the stand up paddle board. Does it all also melt into the whirlpool for you? When this feels like insanity and never waking up is a genuine threat after some heavier meals how can social relationships, Alison, be difficult, be worthwhile, be real, golden, sparkling, active, outdoorsy type, haunting... Then with you Laura, just as well. Ph.D and the snow shoe kayaking weekend. The dragon in the sky at gas works. Lake Leena. Lower. the Calanque along the Mediterranean. Et. al. It is a wild experience to find my own life disappearing so strangely. Time is a bandit and stolen moments caused by a faulty wired mind create these voids and these lulls in my demeanor not to be filled out easily by new information. It is a suction and a forgetting of urgency.
It is an illusion. She walked off to her vigilant feminism and her artistry. I walked into a cloud and floated around for awhile. An out of body experience, so pointless, barely hanging on to the atmosphere, the tug of outer space was felt and I could have melted away for eons before returning. What if they found my body on campus. Not dead. Just vacant minded and melting into outer space. What medical miracle could resuscitate such evacuated consciousness and then when my eyes connected with theirs could I transfer information as adequately as words are tossed through the air, caught in the teeth of a fetching dog, the ears of a friend, the mild voiced and restless tired soul of the stomping soldier- the mine field and the ballroom dancing. The volcano eruption and the alpine picnic. The tsunami and the stand up paddle board. Does it all also melt into the whirlpool for you? When this feels like insanity and never waking up is a genuine threat after some heavier meals how can social relationships, Alison, be difficult, be worthwhile, be real, golden, sparkling, active, outdoorsy type, haunting... Then with you Laura, just as well. Ph.D and the snow shoe kayaking weekend. The dragon in the sky at gas works. Lake Leena. Lower. the Calanque along the Mediterranean. Et. al. It is a wild experience to find my own life disappearing so strangely. Time is a bandit and stolen moments caused by a faulty wired mind create these voids and these lulls in my demeanor not to be filled out easily by new information. It is a suction and a forgetting of urgency.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
june 3
9:57 am
Slumber stays in the corners of my eyes like an anchor weight, a ship pulled down into depths, the chain tangled up in tentacles, and my mind is drowning in a daze unlike one I have felt in awhile. To wake up utterly asleep and to expect to function and to succeed on an exam and to begin writing two essays and to feel okay through the whole thing like I don't need caffeine as a crutch this kind of depraved morning. Insomnia has haunted me as a physical presence for a number of nights. I should exorcize and survive.
This quarter = a time warp. I burrowed through a tunnel into the future with my gnashing teeth and torn up fingernails. Somehow, oh god, I'm about done with a second quarter among a few dollars worth. Am I any more educated? Or does this all amount to a deeper debt and a more profound confusion because my stripes are revealed... I cannot stay hidden and write in the shadows of other pretense, oh music sure, but what are their motivations? What is the driving force behind them, fear? Now when I must succeed with the brightest flying colors imaginable I wake up sleepily, fail to dream happily during the night or day, crumble into myself like a canvas painting suddenly removed of its wind perhaps by a hurricane wind, or a monsoon, or a dust storm, or a typhoon, or lightning, or thunder in the rumbling distance, but then it shakes the house and is it a sonic boom from a jet or an earthquake or an epiphany?
Under the microscope. My own heart pulsing and pumping fluids out into the sea. Somehow I must reconcile. I must move forward with a skeleton smile. If my skin dissolved. I would be smiling without choice.
I wonder my passions and if my distractions are always so big and prosaic and transient that I will forever be forbidden from a raw creation of any of my ideal visions. What I need are artistic friends who push boundaries and talk about interesting things. I have them in the periphery. Inspire me, oh great philosophers, oh mountain climbers, bury those ashes at low tide so they wash in and scatter over the shores to be discovered biologically involved with the tide pools, the urchins and their secret mouths and the poison stings of miscellaneous ocean born blobs that no one pokes with a stick anymore because it was thought of as a bit of unrecycled plastic and the chemistry of the ocean changes which then will change the chemistry of our skin if we swim in it too much.
Self motivation. The commitment to writing. Reading. Music. Something. Something voracious. It is all so half assed and the growth so slow. Not even in college upon my return do I feel as productive as I can be. Blame alcohol. Blame isolation. Blame poor routines for even the simplest and healthiest activities that feel honestly good and provide a natural high, a natural energy. Running, for example. Desire to find myself a bike and sell the old bass cab. Use the money for Europe, that odd thread dangling out in front of me like an oasis or a mirage and I can't tell what the hell it is yet though it is a disconcerting break in the landscape like a roaring waterfall suddenly appearing in a slight creek you were rowing in with your angry when drunk girlfriend and two bottles of wine and she glares at you instead of openly and gently at the passing scenery, the every and each moment that holds more beauty than is capable to be described but this is not a giving up. Soon I will commence the "word-paintings" and then some other truth might be reached.
Notebook for europe. Lineless papers. Write observations and happenings. "Word-paintings" poems and sketches of scenes - dates and locations. to be combined later with pictures and writing about in greater depth. shrthnd.
9:18 pm
I have sorely neglected accurately explaining my existence in this apartment. In Seattle as a ghost in a small community of ghost cottages. My windows have dried up rose brushes pressing against some of them. None have screens and when I leave them open flies and spiders practically flock in as if they thought it was a good thing to be so domesticated. The neighbors all close up their blinds in fear. Many I've never seen open. I'm sure people live there, somnolent and sleeping with eyes open, in the fabricated light of lamps and television screens. Life is too short and ugly to miss every single sunset because your favorite show is on at that time. You realize the time of the sunset changes every night slightly. Your consistency has turned you into a piece of machinery. A blind chopping motion at a meat processing plant. No blood on your hands because you wear gloves. When I ran earlier I saw feet kicked up on ottomans in at least 6 windows. A numbing light coming from a wall I am parallel to. May as well be a mirror to their dead or dying, dehydrated and malnourished dreams. I ran and when I lost myself the music and the flowers and the breathing all combined into a single sensation of selflessness. Not the mission trip kind. That is not selflessness. That is acting like a sieve for an organization that does not appreciate you unless you are money and the heaven's gates are slammed shut if the donation hat does not make it back to altar. I sought out selflessness to appease a mounting anxiety about a huge amount of tasks surrounding the end of this spring term. Oh how neglected my writing and my study. I must keep my mind constantly in pitch with my environment. That is how I succeeded so readily in Arizona. I was a fine tuned machine. Now I need oil. Maybe I found my groove. There is no consistency for me. I should run to find a sunset viewpoint every evening and return to my writing and my studies. I should join the circus. The impressions acquired through the day last and expand and must be exorcised or else I expand and bloat and explode light a great flaming blimp in that fatal sky that mortal day when the car flew off the bridge or the cliff and the meadows all sang sad mourning songs of a tribal tongue when all knew from somewhere. Where?
Where does it all go?
Slumber stays in the corners of my eyes like an anchor weight, a ship pulled down into depths, the chain tangled up in tentacles, and my mind is drowning in a daze unlike one I have felt in awhile. To wake up utterly asleep and to expect to function and to succeed on an exam and to begin writing two essays and to feel okay through the whole thing like I don't need caffeine as a crutch this kind of depraved morning. Insomnia has haunted me as a physical presence for a number of nights. I should exorcize and survive.
This quarter = a time warp. I burrowed through a tunnel into the future with my gnashing teeth and torn up fingernails. Somehow, oh god, I'm about done with a second quarter among a few dollars worth. Am I any more educated? Or does this all amount to a deeper debt and a more profound confusion because my stripes are revealed... I cannot stay hidden and write in the shadows of other pretense, oh music sure, but what are their motivations? What is the driving force behind them, fear? Now when I must succeed with the brightest flying colors imaginable I wake up sleepily, fail to dream happily during the night or day, crumble into myself like a canvas painting suddenly removed of its wind perhaps by a hurricane wind, or a monsoon, or a dust storm, or a typhoon, or lightning, or thunder in the rumbling distance, but then it shakes the house and is it a sonic boom from a jet or an earthquake or an epiphany?
Under the microscope. My own heart pulsing and pumping fluids out into the sea. Somehow I must reconcile. I must move forward with a skeleton smile. If my skin dissolved. I would be smiling without choice.
I wonder my passions and if my distractions are always so big and prosaic and transient that I will forever be forbidden from a raw creation of any of my ideal visions. What I need are artistic friends who push boundaries and talk about interesting things. I have them in the periphery. Inspire me, oh great philosophers, oh mountain climbers, bury those ashes at low tide so they wash in and scatter over the shores to be discovered biologically involved with the tide pools, the urchins and their secret mouths and the poison stings of miscellaneous ocean born blobs that no one pokes with a stick anymore because it was thought of as a bit of unrecycled plastic and the chemistry of the ocean changes which then will change the chemistry of our skin if we swim in it too much.
Self motivation. The commitment to writing. Reading. Music. Something. Something voracious. It is all so half assed and the growth so slow. Not even in college upon my return do I feel as productive as I can be. Blame alcohol. Blame isolation. Blame poor routines for even the simplest and healthiest activities that feel honestly good and provide a natural high, a natural energy. Running, for example. Desire to find myself a bike and sell the old bass cab. Use the money for Europe, that odd thread dangling out in front of me like an oasis or a mirage and I can't tell what the hell it is yet though it is a disconcerting break in the landscape like a roaring waterfall suddenly appearing in a slight creek you were rowing in with your angry when drunk girlfriend and two bottles of wine and she glares at you instead of openly and gently at the passing scenery, the every and each moment that holds more beauty than is capable to be described but this is not a giving up. Soon I will commence the "word-paintings" and then some other truth might be reached.
Notebook for europe. Lineless papers. Write observations and happenings. "Word-paintings" poems and sketches of scenes - dates and locations. to be combined later with pictures and writing about in greater depth. shrthnd.
9:18 pm
I have sorely neglected accurately explaining my existence in this apartment. In Seattle as a ghost in a small community of ghost cottages. My windows have dried up rose brushes pressing against some of them. None have screens and when I leave them open flies and spiders practically flock in as if they thought it was a good thing to be so domesticated. The neighbors all close up their blinds in fear. Many I've never seen open. I'm sure people live there, somnolent and sleeping with eyes open, in the fabricated light of lamps and television screens. Life is too short and ugly to miss every single sunset because your favorite show is on at that time. You realize the time of the sunset changes every night slightly. Your consistency has turned you into a piece of machinery. A blind chopping motion at a meat processing plant. No blood on your hands because you wear gloves. When I ran earlier I saw feet kicked up on ottomans in at least 6 windows. A numbing light coming from a wall I am parallel to. May as well be a mirror to their dead or dying, dehydrated and malnourished dreams. I ran and when I lost myself the music and the flowers and the breathing all combined into a single sensation of selflessness. Not the mission trip kind. That is not selflessness. That is acting like a sieve for an organization that does not appreciate you unless you are money and the heaven's gates are slammed shut if the donation hat does not make it back to altar. I sought out selflessness to appease a mounting anxiety about a huge amount of tasks surrounding the end of this spring term. Oh how neglected my writing and my study. I must keep my mind constantly in pitch with my environment. That is how I succeeded so readily in Arizona. I was a fine tuned machine. Now I need oil. Maybe I found my groove. There is no consistency for me. I should run to find a sunset viewpoint every evening and return to my writing and my studies. I should join the circus. The impressions acquired through the day last and expand and must be exorcised or else I expand and bloat and explode light a great flaming blimp in that fatal sky that mortal day when the car flew off the bridge or the cliff and the meadows all sang sad mourning songs of a tribal tongue when all knew from somewhere. Where?
Where does it all go?
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