it takes someone else to dust off your stuff

Geoffrey Lewis
5 min readJul 7, 2022

maybe I am that other
it’s a pleasure that no one’s coming
I have to become the one I need; metaphysical salvation built in to the creator’s condition: EAT YOUR OWN FOOD, dog food founder; eat what you serve, MAKE WHAT YOU LIKE, it is your taste where the world is born —— these are poetic lines lost in this coal-diamond mine NOBODY EXCAVATES because it is silly (and I’m too old) to ask to be seen; my emergency is a practice one, a metaphor

*—sadly no, the new addition isn’t automatically connected to the old, there’s CONTEXT-SMOOTHING needed; only with the zoomed-out eye of God can the truth here be transmitted from Me to You, though of course Me is gone as soon as I write the next word emerging from my head ~ but it’s romantic, to be here in North Loop, not too old for an 8-person co-living space (shall see how long it lasts; these Medium posts might not get read ’til I’m 50, if it’ll matter by then; earlier tonight I thought I’m too old to write about myself; probably not true, though I prize the fact that I can’t even find “me” anymore, “I” am gone; “I” am dedicated to what might be possible with an “I”; maybe it’s a gift not a burden that I can’t function as normal, am disabled in a sense, can’t work, won’t obey, am too enlightened or divine, LOL; this must be humor

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ah, now this is a post worth posting; it proves I need you, my Notes are useless without you, they are a pile of crap, a boat to cut ties with, to leave behind; my notebooks were practice; I am here, capable of service, yet I don’t want to and maybe can’t part with my privacy, my distance from what’s called real life—I remember real life (mortgage, marriage, employment…the American way: pay rent, get/keep/live in a job half or two-thirds of the time, then leisure time apart from the game of money and being good…maybe that part never made sense, “leaving work” is antiquated, off-time and downtime are to me to be taken seriously…maybe “me” is the problem and it’s best to liberate from “me” into “I” and just luxuriate in presence and stop thinking about measurement and discrete objects (gosh, how useless is my writing; it’s like breathing or taking a shit, it doesn’t say anything or offer anything, there’s no value to be found, it’s simply therapeutic, a draining of fluid and expulsion of sap, hey that’s a good line of prose…who could organize my output into product and put it on a cadence so I am like the other writers? Ha, ha!

Clearing out my Drafts and Unlisted from my Medium account here, it is a pleasure to get back to square one and Zero, a fresh beginning, encountering my beating heart and the onrush of the calendar as if it is the first and only time I am coming to the internet to write, to say something, settling down into this beautiful annihilation of becoming the shape-making impulse and letting fate and destiny take the language from me and give it to you and many others, whoever winds their way in the media hell we live in toward my digital front door, and I am not above or below any of the other competitors and peers who are trying to pour their awareness into a smartphone or personal computer in order to cure the fear of running out of money ~ i see reality clearly; this alone does not rescue me from it—real life is the only place to live, and somehow i go on believing in stream of consciousness as a replacement for a day job; though we may disagree that this is job enough to give me a place to live in the ZIP codes, it is undeniably true that this is how I spent my day; I did it, there’s no disputing it—the question is who am I trying to prove it to? Who do I imagine is asking? What happens when it’s revealed no one’s watching and no one cares seems to be the obsession of my work, my writing voice always animating some encroaching judge and jury, someone who had the power to eliminate me, exile me, throw me out—is that a sick fantasy? I wonder (7/7/22)

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I sent a reader 91 pages of the latest stuff I wrote. He got through half and sent back these lines he noticed.

The education of the heart is an urgent matter

how many promises have you made to yourself?

time will swallow and recast all the iron

some of humanity’s most fertile minds have traced the origin of their creative purpose in childhood moments of epiphany — Pablo Neruda in his anecdote of the hand through the fence, Patti Smith in her encounter with the the swan, and Albert Einstein in his formative memory of the compass.

I look for where the whole tent might collapse

if someone saw what I saw

love can’t be optimized for

night thoughts is when growth becomes apparent

it is shocking how fast youth has gone — not just this year, but every year

new metric for creativity is how long you can go without commenting on politics

A dream. A collapse between internal and external

the strength to not answer

the strength to keep going alone

So many men are tortured. And they have computers…they can make content and find people to talk to. The nodes of the network are always twisting. Cognition and social data are exploding like CO2; chemistry never ends; biology and funerals march on, everyone is getting older recently,

they have screen life too

the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting

language is quicksand

if only my pleasure could be yours

I remember you in fall and maybe every fall

avoidance of pain runs the world

time is lyrics

the strength to be silent

let time and blank space explain for you; they will backtrack timestamps based on what the present has become just like you do

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I almost don’t want to post this drivel, which is here only because I wrote it once (ah, writing, that investigation into time and consciousness ~ does it end? Does judgment end? Does deciding what to do end? No; maybe I can leave this post without a picture, treat it like a new thing [the habit I hatched of posting posts here without pictures; it is part of clearing out my Drafts and Unlisted, turning it all into Published and Responses {speaking in Medium technical terms now, under the hood for the artist/author, the one who keeps breaking their heart like an egg and putting yolk on draught and letting you pull the handle, pour yourself a pint

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