aww, is baby tired?
this post was called “fresh rage” and by now it’s cooled—is it any good? Is it true? Probably; everything I say is true—true means nothing anymore; everything is possible—the mind is unhinged, all doors are open, I am just another creator with a backlog of obsession-driven markings, done in a room alone instead of any other job or fathering children (yet! I have not ruled out falling in love and supportive partnership! Domestic bliss could happen! But I keep talking to the wall, to the blank; I wonder if all my love is spoken for) (7/9/22)
*
i need some Red
i’m just sad
it’s so easy to make a little smear and put it at the top of my Work
i will trade the whole of my Work for my latest feeling
is it ever a bad idea to write publicly bad little snippets? is my self-loathing a welcoming place? am i competing with the many creative white men who are well-acclimated to their office and their inner voice? i would like to be as good as them ~ aww, that’s nice; i didn’t know i wanted anything
that’s a fun discovery, a fun paragraph that popped out; luckily i don’t need to write what i do not and will not write: i don’t need to do anything other than be myself — is it true i just haven’t done it yet?
isn’t it my job to give myself over to the mystery of faith in the writing process, just lean into the crack? i never speak like i have arrived or know the formula; oh, this is just elementary self-making here, remembering in process, giving myself to The Work; is it this easy? Maybe…what would life be like if this (work, MONEY hahaha) were easy? Oh; being loved, being paid attention to, being cooked for, being given a bedroom…is that love? Or work and money? Isn’t this the most basic divide to stare at and draw in these dark times?
Questions of surveillance and security don’t bother me; that’s white male privilege. I wonder who I need to see me admit my faults; surely a woman. Am I ready to face my sexism? This must be the place and time, the center about which all my loose threads have been swirling and tangling: yes, a latent apology; no, it can’t happen in conversation, it has to happen in this prayer-like state I can create for and within myself anytime I sit down and relax into shedding layers, becoming a floating eyeball medical instrument going inward toward my heart reporting the scene, a weatherman on the ground in a hurricane; there is no crowd cheering as I descend the staircase, as muck hugs and moves past my ankles…where am I going, and from where? Is this therapy I am doing to and for myself? Ah; this is, for better or for worse, the only writing voice and story I can come up with: a continual bewilderment at what I am doing, who I am, where to possibly go from here. Is this art? Is wanting to solve the problem of being alive art? It has to be something; it can’t just be slowness and decay. But I don’t know how to get out; there may be nowhere to get to. This isn’t good art but maybe I need to stand by it and let someone read it
but I’m always walking away; I would not listen to a reader who has read this (this isn’t true) but just because I write it doesn’t mean you should read it. This isn’t important; I am not important, I am a redundant human being and I do not do anything worthwhile or important. This also isn’t true. Is this the voice of depression? Sounds like an excuse. This isn’t hard for me, it’s a slow fitting together of boards, a puzzle, yes: life is a puzzle.
