Archive for the ‘proselytizaytion’ Category

I’m a creature of habit.

I like things to stay the way I’ve had them established for quite some time.

This makes me old and close minded, so I struggle to adapt.

Fine.  I have begrudgingly accepted the automatic double spacing, but I don’t like this.

Fine.  I will work with the new layout.  Blogging is an antiquated medium anyway, especially considering I’m not touting any particular theme or gimmick.

I just like to have this little space set aside to…waste, mostly.  Now, it’s all fucked up, and I…well, I need time to adjust.

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I don’t enjoy paying my bills anymore. I would rather take a four mile walk just to avoid doing it. I have been very diligent for the past…lifetime. I’ve paid them promptly and without too much scorn when I was homeless, and I’m not even on the cusp of financial ruin right now. I just don’t want to fucking pay my bills.

I’m still going to pay them. I still do. It’s not like it was ever an enjoyable task. “Enjoy” is the wrong word, but it held a certain sort of gratification. At least, I could tell myself, I was doing something tangible.

Everything gets muddled when I admit I give a shit about things outside of myself. I’m not striving for the same self-centered, albeit self-destructive, things I was a year or two ago. I’m also not convinced I genuinely care about where my life is drifting in lieu of former pursuits, so I’m essentially passively self-destructive at this point.

I know there’s a problem, but I don’t want to fucking deal with it. I don’t want to identify it. I don’t want to put in the work to find a solution. I don’t want to give a shit…

but I give a shit.

Posted: June 5, 2012 in proselytizaytion

near the bottom

Posted: May 5, 2012 in proselytizaytion
Tags: , ,

Bread burns in the kitchen, unattended and forgotten.
Cold vomit has congealed in the carpet in frothy pools of mucous.
You hide under the covers.

You stare off into space.

You subconsciously pick at the skin on the back of your neck
until it bleeds
and you constantly chase after release
or relief
some measure of reprieve
Something.
Something unattainable.
Some sort of fantasy.

What, I wonder, would make you happy?

I drop by
check in
tidy up
let myself out.

Sometimes, you must not even know that I’ve been until long after I’ve gone.

I embark upon my first openly musical relationship
in which I accept names and genres
and in return, I set down my color coded textures on the nightstand
without a word.

Attempting to close the language barrier
would be irritating and mentally taxing for both of us
and if either of us makes a move, will suffocate everything soon.

I think back to that worthless man who insisted that he painted sound.

Static.

The family room with the out of tune piano strikes my mind blind.
And, of course, I still miss you.

I’ve spent plenty of time with musicians
of varying degrees of aptitude, creativity, and standardized measures of success.
In fact, I’ve spent such a considerable amount of time with musicians
that I’ve had to generalize them into a type and quarantine that type as troublesome.

Best to be avoided at close contact.

It’s been a completely futile attempt at self-preservation, but all the same, it would be better to avoid you.

A persistent fatigue keeps me from sleeping.
Scrubbing pans and clothes and carpets keeps my mind idle.
Constantly grinding and gnashing teeth
with little to no desire to eat provokes and prolongs headaches that quiet my thoughts.

I spent years dodging confrontations with myself
but now that it’s just me
just me with me and me me me
uninterested but accepting that I’m here with myself
no longer stuck but merely acknowledging
that my own company isn’t all that bad…

well, take it or leave it.

Cats are boring, so I come to the dog-eared remnants of your life
on the invite of curiosity.
I want you to be happy, and I’ll offer what little assistance I can that you indicate that you want, but…I think I finally understand

five years too late.

the rare upswing

Posted: April 24, 2012 in proselytizaytion

I’m relatively stable right now…almost happy.

My fish survived my latest move…and my plants…and, of course, my bird.
My day job is not bothering me too terribly much.
I feel little to no need to entertain working at night at the moment
although I still look for a legitimate third shift job.
While my debts are still looming, dark and foreboding, they are all square.
In fact, I’ve paid down three smaller debts completely in the past year alone.
Even though the next payoff date is set a year and a half from now…it’s a big one
that will free up a sizable monthly chunk of change for the day to day.
A year and a half is an entirely manageable duration of time to sacrifice
with my head down.
In short, I’ve been successfully living within my meager means for the first time in two years.
I’ve managed internet access, but maybe I’m not quite as obsessive about it as I used to be.
I’ve been reading quite a bit, although my writing has not returned.
I’m okay with abandoning books and authors that I don’t enjoy without feeling guilty.
The other day, I was painting, and I find the urge more frequent since the last move.

I’ve taken the head long dive into mending the rift in my family.
I’ve been invited to Florida this autumn.
I’ve been invited to New Orleans this summer.
I might go…to both.
I’m much more at ease spending most of my time alone.
This is the upswing.
We’ll see how it goes.

Living with a seasoned lesbian that’s rarely around has been surprisingly good for me.
I’m still unsure about the cats.

Posted: April 5, 2012 in proselytizaytion
Tags:

I love you, they said, oh, I love you. Do you, too, love yourself? Do you love me, say, do you really love me? I love myself too. And from sheer love they called each other radishes, they loved radishes, they bit into each other, out of sheer love one radish bit off another’s radish. And they told one another stories about wonderful heavenly love, and earthly love too, between radishes, and just before biting, they whispered to one another, whispered with all the sharp freshness of hunger: Radish, say, do you love me? I love myself too.

Grass, Günter. The Tin Drum. New York: Vintage Books, 1964. 204.

Water stirs up indigestion in an attempt to keep anything down it’s all that goes in and it’s going to come up fighting the peripheral vision piercing from the other room the bathroom light on the bathroom empty stomach empty running on empty with a white dog snarling at the back door on the porch in the dark through the glass past the mirror with a whistle and a click tearing through curtains tearing up and turning red

eat something

Making up rules changing minds stretching truths weaving fiction stating opinions touting facts lax statistics static lack of ambition ignoring intuition shouting over elevator doors closing on toes pointed out of line up count off the number of shots fired off the table under the table under the floorboards whining about being bored ten minutes into the shit sticking to the eavesdropping out of the bottoms up to no good

pride

No place out there where it’s all condescending demeaning overstated and underground stay down the water wants to come up maybe if it’s colder so freeze it and forget it and throw it away because intellect conflicts with feeling inadequate disrespectful and fucked up full of shit inconsistent reminiscent of a protracted sickness persistently ill-defined misdiagnosed and ignoring the devil in the means unjustifiably unending to end up moribund in a dead end pursuit of happenstance undermining circumstantial insignificance with inefficacy in talking shit.