it’s the trying to do it yourself that gets you in trouble and leads to waste

“it’s not the hard that’s hard, it’s the alone”
— Tim (@TimCNicholson)

the difficulty is returning love for hate; turning this anger into a bridge, something useful—now I can’t run from my readers, from the others, from those in my life; I closed the gap and they know who I am, I can’t get anything by them (goalie versus shooter; I may try to lose them with metaphor, make myself more difficult to love, and we all know this is just an avoidance—avoidance of being seen (and then of course tearing down the illusion that ‘being seen’ this way, digitally, does anything; it is practice, it clears the ground (which was already clear) to go out and do something, make someone care, make someone else hurting want to stay alive rather than sink down, fold up, be defeated by living which keeps claiming more lives (now, get specific! Tell a real story! Don’t just swirl and swivel like you/I always do ~ see, now there’s no escape, you’re telling on yourself, you’re knowingly wasting your time! Isn’t it a pity I spent my life writing this swirl? So many better things to author, edit, publish, paint, write, sing, love—love was the answer, the missing piece; did I want to be above it? Now this is ordinary therapy, another hour in the week, the oppressive week, the month, the dollar signs, the not-enoughness of the money, the metrics—we know that is conquerable, walk-away-fromable, unimportant, a distraction; the heart is there, mine and yours and others; the mind…could use any sort of massaging; really, people suffering need listeners. So, what can I do? I know the disaster well, it’s well known, and this is the moment when there’s nothing left to wait for ~ so, for habit’s sake, fire this flare of a journal/diary entry into the air, add it to the pile nobody’s reading, and then do the next thing in the day, and make today your masterpiece.

But I love the struggle, or the question: the anger, the shame—this will be lyrics someday; making someday today seems to be the task of the enlightened: SWIM OUT! SWIM UP! SWIM HARDER! Work was God, love was weakness; weakness is good—maybe i can follow this swirl-swivel to the end of the day, light a headlight it will get me all the way home

(GPL 9/29/22) gotta sign and date it, prove I was here and nowhere else, THIS was the thing worth doing at this moment given all the information and sensation. Was I wrong? I still believe in being wrong; this is getting out of hell, the road you have to pave with the bricks on your back, you pluck them one by one and walk carefully, gingerly, using every word you’ve got

…the drama (melodrama? Gosh, what kind of listener do I need? Yes, I am authoring the place where I will be loved…trying to control it, to reject myself completely before anyone arrives LOL no, that can’t be it (ah, talking to my shadow again—is this a strength? The ability to keep making road into the soul/hell? To finally discover what’s at the center? Or to find there is no center, there is only a pattern and an expiring clock, but that death doesn’t mean what I thought it did

“There is one other thing to know … when you have expressed yourself to the fullest, then and only then will it dawn upon you that everything has already been expressed, not in words alone but in deed, and that all you need really do is say Amen!”
― Henry Miller, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch

waste ~ distance for no sake

you get there and see it’s the same

(this is all starter, and is art, but art is everywhere

March 2014—where were you? I know my answer but I’d rather listen, hear yours, match yours to mine, then mine gains a dimension, reaches the stars and sky—silence is really the best content; not needing to read is a beautiful thing ~ here, tonight, at this stretchiness, nothing is wrong and everybody’s welcome; it took a while to get to this point; the road is intact and articulate, a long pile of words and moments, tickets not bought, rides not taken

unfinished, abandoned; another email to archive, another battle to avoid, because tiredness, because none of this matters, it’s temporary, it’s breeze and breath; it’s a record of existence which no one on earth will ever be short of again—etchings on a wall, made while falling; there’s no ground, so one says so and keeps going, world without end, nothing to do but open up more and more, scream but not scream, turn it into something useful for others; one runs from others and finds their way to them—I’m another unreliable preacher



filling the blinking cursor with whatever comes up, letting the leviathan lead me to glory, singing popular music covers on video on Smule too, speaker, rambler

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Geoffrey Lewis

filling the blinking cursor with whatever comes up, letting the leviathan lead me to glory, singing popular music covers on video on Smule too, speaker, rambler