Gil Tamin

perhaps I am at my limitation: trying to pull the past up to the present, trying to lean on my old tricks and not succeeding; trying to debunk and destroy the FEAR VOICE in my head; or, just trying to do the thing I say I do: thrash my spiritual development out loud — but I didn’t even update the post below, I just spaced it out, and it isn’t designed or edited well (there are editors and designers who could know me; is every day an 8,000-brain-cycle journey back to other people and the real world? Why am I…

damn, busted...I asked those very questions in my Patreon post earlier this morning, where I asked the audience that might (not) be there to tell me who they think I am and what I'm doing...after telling them I and any real artist shouldn't seek outside for an answer, and the enlightened self is able to be its own listener.

another Morning Pages exercise, preparing for a creative day I have no idea where it will go, and it need not “go” anywhere because I’ve learned there’s nowhere to arrive but Here

The only “genius” is picking yourself up off the floor of consciousness every day; after a point there is no continuity between yesterday and today — maybe this is just because I don’t have real relationships, I live in an invented world, and of course I am not just “me”, everyone is like this in a way; when I write from or about myself, I am writing about…

that’s me | January 20, 2020

I don’t know if anger is the right word; poetry comes from a sense of things being ajar — I don’t know if I’ve distinguished poetry from breathing; this sounds romantic, I am romantic but my life is boring — I’m not the only man online today writing down what he is; I think it’s every man’s fate — everyone makes themselves known, it’s human nature to belong, to be seen by others; I wonder why I stay alone so much and think about this and the nature of things in general — maybe I’m at the point where I’m…

Who’s going to finance my being human and free? Who’s gonna finance my childhood? A parent? You can rely on the old man’s money. There’s an old man without courage to grow who needs stories, needs somewhere to direct his eyeballs for meaning; we’re addicted to meaning, anchorage, rest, routine…who will finance our footsteps required for mental health? …

if only the laser-engraver of my deleter and writer could rush as fast as my blood does, and on the canvas would be reflected exactly what I feel for myself and the world: rage mixed with blood, water, fire, fusion, desire, chemistry, science — of course these are all just nouns, I’m a walking fountain of unpredictable dictionary, a terrible service, fine art, a doubt machine claiming “no one cares” walking around shaking it off until it’s untrue; but I have nothing but my clinging, and there is “no way” except filling up another long page with whatever the daily…

this is probably going to become a poem about hope
but it’ll be another bad thought-painting I simply have to make
on the road to being a good-enough poet, artist ~but see, the thing about
that word, those titles, is it’s about commitment; coming back to the work
even when it seems hopeless, ridiculous, selfish, absurd, impossible, unreal —
as if just typing whatever comes to your head as you sit around your apartment for hours
is art, is divine, is a truth we need to hear

and dare I read this? Dare I take up space somewhere? Is it…

really all I have to say is I keep going no matter how impossible it is, and even if I should, I don’t do what I have to do to support myself ~ someone else can. Am I proud of it? I don’t know

I haven’t forgotten my haters, but is my rehearsal of that interesting to you?

Maybe I’m just proof I badly need an editor. I do admire my effort and volume of work, maybe not the result…maybe when I leave the computer later and go for a walk, I will chew away on all this…

La Belle Captive by René Magritte, 1947

“It is difficult to write a paradiso when all the superficial indications are that you ought to write an apocalypse.”
― Ezra Pound

can all I do is sketch? I always start my essays with something else to read, never do I make it easy — perhaps I’m trying to edge out Zoom classes, work email and other social media from your intake: I’m trying to battle the other names and pictures and voices vying for residency in your reading voice. Do you see and hear your reading voice? …

🎨 linda vachon

let’s see if I got this right ~ my new sensibility of this is “shit-post a lot on Twitter in public, read carefully, jam with people in the DMs, post and Retweet what you admire and what challenges you, articulate your sensibility, share true and beautiful things, read voices who are in the fight, see yourself as in the fight, fight against bureaucratic laziness and people playing games for safety and positions in hierarchies for personal financial security out of fear and really BOREDOM and EMPTINESS, yes I can rage against suburbia from suburbia living for free after five years…

Geoffrey Lewis

inventing myself again & always. Writer, singer, thinker, artist, vessel, judge. Mains: Smule, Patreon, Substack, Medium, Tumblr. Others/all:

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