Thursday, March 24, 2005
Standing in the shower until the skin on my gut and chest is flushed, I am claustrophobic.
I am thinking like an animal caught in a maze, running in shrinking circles.
I am running around pieces I have already pegged in, having taken too many turns to find my way back to where I was when I first placed them
I am at the end of that game,
that stupid IQ triangle game,
carved out of wood sitting on my sunlit living room table in a memory of my house that shines only in contrast to the opaque fucksweetnothing which I live in now
I cannot be kept company only by books that teach me of colossal failures
The books don't redeem my sense that we are all hopelessly lost with our fingers inches from each other's unknowable faces
the books are long, incalculable intricate things
fuck you
you can't write a book, weekend warrior, stay at home mom
I can't write a book
the cirlce that tightens in my mind is a rat on a string, scratching faster and faster in hopes of finding something worthwhile to get across with words and paper before it pins itself to the dark, lonely heart and can no longer function
for in that there is purpose, which to neurotics like me, is sustenance
a mythic ham sandwich
And to have someone, anyone, read my words on paper and smile... is to get to eat that sandwich, although it is all a bit of a silly fantasy, because the reader and I know that we both have no idea what eachother is thinking, that we can only guess at what these intangible sandwich words mean
This is what school tells me I will do, write these words on paper
but I will not do it in a book, born of alien creatures researching the history of glove-making and staring at walls covered in sticky notes.
I have been in school all of my life and I am still no closer to understanding how to compile a thought that lasts longer than 20 pages
past those 20 pages, the books tell me, is an exercise that only discovers lonliness
but it's lonely here, too
.
I am thinking like an animal caught in a maze, running in shrinking circles.
I am running around pieces I have already pegged in, having taken too many turns to find my way back to where I was when I first placed them
I am at the end of that game,
that stupid IQ triangle game,
carved out of wood sitting on my sunlit living room table in a memory of my house that shines only in contrast to the opaque fucksweetnothing which I live in now
I cannot be kept company only by books that teach me of colossal failures
The books don't redeem my sense that we are all hopelessly lost with our fingers inches from each other's unknowable faces
the books are long, incalculable intricate things
fuck you
you can't write a book, weekend warrior, stay at home mom
I can't write a book
the cirlce that tightens in my mind is a rat on a string, scratching faster and faster in hopes of finding something worthwhile to get across with words and paper before it pins itself to the dark, lonely heart and can no longer function
for in that there is purpose, which to neurotics like me, is sustenance
a mythic ham sandwich
And to have someone, anyone, read my words on paper and smile... is to get to eat that sandwich, although it is all a bit of a silly fantasy, because the reader and I know that we both have no idea what eachother is thinking, that we can only guess at what these intangible sandwich words mean
This is what school tells me I will do, write these words on paper
but I will not do it in a book, born of alien creatures researching the history of glove-making and staring at walls covered in sticky notes.
I have been in school all of my life and I am still no closer to understanding how to compile a thought that lasts longer than 20 pages
past those 20 pages, the books tell me, is an exercise that only discovers lonliness
but it's lonely here, too
.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
unashamedely looking for chemical happiness
every day is spring break
on my couch
every day is spring break
on my couch
