10 book-length brain dumps haunt me

Brooklyn Museum 2/26/15

we were always a fool two years ago

i spent 10 years reading and writing

my past and present are perennial as the grass

american poetry means america still stands

racist plutocrats in air conditioned offices

i’m glad there is no such thing as success

i miss the simple mind that would be fascinated by these blunt truths

the truth used to really fire me up, or maybe it was writing (other people’s) that fired me up; maybe all i can lay is rocky road; maybe this isn’t and wasn’t ever for anyone else ~ if i really believed what i’ve written, i’d act on the knowledge that these mountains i’ve been carrying are only meant to be climbed. I could simply read what I’ve written ~ it would take time; i have time ~ maybe i don’t want it to be true? i want it to be easier to get out of my soul? luckily i will never think again than what i do is worth reading; i of course am suspicious of everything out there and may have overdosed on human beings for this lifetime

i am trying to remember what will make life worth living and a future worth planning; romantic love disappointed me once again. Possibility could save me; I have, for the moment, lost the feeling, lost the reason for writing and reading and thinking and knowing and loving and eating and dancing and making music; this is as dark as I can recall it ever being; I am feeling the urge to destroy all the work I have made, knowing now it’s expired; and the point was always to always be making, to keep leaning forward into the wet clay, playing what your inner voice says…maybe I’m overdosed on analysis of the inner-voice-becoming-media industry; maybe I don’t like myself and don’t feel like tweeting or can’t tweet in good faith, partly because a great man, an important man, died three days ago and my entire community is saddened

as if I am editing something important

^ this can be replaced with “living as if life is not important” which maybe I have been, and death forces us each to look at one’s own life and take responsibility for it

i think the previous writings (certainly before COVID) are practice wreckage; it was a sitting down with the material of my own soul ~ but now i see that it’s ordinary, we’re all the same underneath; i need not point to my originality…everyone’s original and sharing right now; an endless all-day carnival of remembrance and hope, faith, recommitment

so maybe I’ve lost the gall to point at any of my stuff
but of course publications are there, and books, podcasts, tweets, personalities on display…maybe one personality cannot come further than being one of many personalities

maybe “being loved alone” does not exist; one is always hitched to many things…maybe I just don’t have the guts to be in the light, to stand up on stage and Do My Thing…maybe I’m sad that I’m not doing it, that I don’t have anything to say

writing used to be important; now i know everyone’s the same; the message is death

eventually you find your people and accept your role; published content may be a way to deal with not being there yet…because the unarrival is untenable, a trembling to relieve (that would be a good song lyric if you’re listening; ah, the point of media: not being alone

now that’s good! That’s as good as anything I’ve ever said and as good as anything that can be said; of course every author ends up with a content database of what’s been said and written, and has a schedule of hard work from here until death, that plus the world has to make life worth living. Love, the love of people, loving people…it’s been a long day of not doing it

this isn’t poetry yet and that’s OK

what I can say is it’s looking at memes all the way down; it’s perceiving then responding, and choosing what to look at, so

eventually you don’t need proof of who you are. Now this might not sound exciting enough to me to think I’d have been excited about it when I was younger, say, 27 years old at the height of self-importance. The problem might be that I never did anything. The truth is I had bad relationships. The truth is ‘a writing career’ is just embarrassing yourself all the time. The truth is not important to tell once you know it; this isn’t profound and need not be. But I can’t retire from teaching; the world and the writing life is a thing to pass on. I can’t believe mine is over; it should only just be beginning. Maybe it’s a heavy day. Maybe I should write without judgment; hasn’t it been a while since I’ve written for a long time? What have I been doing? I suppose I have my Notes I can check the record, and of course Messages of one kind or another.

this is actually what I sent Gian the night I heard him on @1storypod

“do it for the ones who need it”

feral note-taking while dealing with depression and sadness

I could have written something that was really alive, now I think I’m too aloof and too aware of when I’m being vulnerable, honest and acting like it’s important

of course the goal of writing anything is to find something to say.

and to forget what you were looking for, and not rush to fill the blank, and live your life while you can


every man has such a book of his life, compressed into chapters, of course it’s unreadable and unedited

the blinking cursor asks me what I hope and wait for; the blinking cursor keeps time, measures out your life in coffee-spoons for you, shows you where on the calendar you will die…yes, death and books go well together

there is no ending; a reader can jump to the next paragraph or zoom somewhere else; by my age i am a little weary of thrilling reading experiences, maybe i have been thrilled enough, have read enough literature and news and now would like to live my life, sort some of my own actuality into the infrastructure of what a life looks and sounds like ~ shaping, living, going off from the grid only to return and resort (sort again, which is I suppose it’s own kind of vacation) to sorting artifacts again, and it goes on and on, and music corroborates this model, and I have escaped being enclosed by logical, intellectual language; the writing is the work of freeing oneself and getting above life and taking possession and control of one’s own reality (added Fri feb 12 7:50 PM, 2021 while listening to Michael Franti & Spearhead)

What have I done?
What I have done…

“Death twitches my ear. Live, he says, I am coming.”
— Virgil

let us play with this one, Fri Mar 6 11:33 AM aka 3/6/20 lol having fun with linear time, making the whole thing great again

it’s wonderful to remember the pleasure of writing a line out to the end, matching it to your internal resonance, then hitting the trusty ‘return’ button and going down a line & doing another one, then another and another until you get bored and hit the big, green ‘Save and publish’ button up top

I have learned the form of Medium, Tumblr, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn — some Pinterest [link in bio]

Thank God I had the good sense to back up and archive most of this! Sh1t! I just remembered: I woke up with the thought today to back up all my stuff to my external hard drive in preparation for a HACKER to HACK my accounts by BRUTE-FORCING my password and gaining access to my online speaking voice! Imagine how one’s life could be ruined if all of a sudden you couldn’t be yourself and trust was decimated, reputation massacred.


Just because I couldn’t stop talking to digital paper for five years doesn’t mean you ought to read the stuff…it’s mostly whatever you think a man would say to himself in a room by himself circa 2010–2020, at least that’s the vintage I’ve trampled out so far.

If only I could make a proper introduction to the writing I’ve done; oh, writing into this fear and shame is wonderful, electric, hot like lava—what is pain good for except using it to become somebody whose livelihood depends on continually fostering and burning and refining the gunk in his soul’s engine? What more divine life than selling your soul? Well, capitalism could fall any minute now, a viral disease is ravaging the workforce and people are clapping in the church next door // it’s a ladies’ coworking space and worship hut, or something, they do yoga and trainings and work remotely and sweat and chant, it’s called The Assembly and I live next door in the Mission District, San Francisco, I am there right now at the walnut kitchen table in my very lucky 4BR apartment where I have held the lease for over a year and can bail out and change positions and directions like a feral bulb or node or electron

and/but of course, I am receiving inbound messages (they are my oxygen) and if you wanted to, well, I would find something just for you, just for that moment. This is all raw material which, even when I remove it from my current workflow, it is in me, because I did it. Our bodies have stored up all our previous actions; we are made of choices of what to do with our time, our thoughts…we are a massive block of responses.

89 Notes (as of 6/24/19)
Pages: 5,958
Words: 1,878,222
Characters (no spaces): 8,959,656
Characters (with spaces): 10,709,647
Paragraphs: 132,127
Lines: 268,269

01. The Chapters
02. The prequel no one asked for
03. First New iCloud Note
04. The night in the mirror
05. To New York
06. Connection is the electric pursuit
07. Confronting all my demons at once
09. What fiction is, and is not
10. you broke another mirror
11. My Creative Vision
12. Friday @ advertising agency
13. what else does the artist or journalist do?
14. It’s not “about” any one person
15. Love Like A Sunset
16. New Year’s Day
17. What do you offer that no one else can?
18. Pressure Makes Diamonds
19. Before Sunset, Rain Man
20. £€¥ou must be absolutely modern
21. Use Sparingly
22. Goethe; earning it anew
24. Metro North, 27 East
25. Art of the day you leave New York
26. no one’s been me before
27. Novel Idea
28. Facing The Sun
29. I have no doubt money will come
30. here’s where we really ge5 in trouble
31. Things on the phone are good
32. Post a fucking tweet, LTE!
33. I am the man in the window
34. n=1
35. Master your impatience and you win
36. reminded is my default state
37. Categories are already instruments
38. The only problem is “I don’t want to”
39. Take the next vulnerable step
40. Being myself was never good enough
41. Dispose with the unnecessary drama of leaving
42. Understanding the features of your vehicle
43. what I am <==> what I could be
44. no more lists of things to do
45. it’s cold in my apartment and the food is unprepared
46. triangulate what you alone can write
47. The Future Starts Today
48. At computers counting our eggs
49. Toward Zero Moments Wasted
50. All there is is going forward
51. Be loved, however detrimental
52. Central questions of inquiry
53. Driving toward the end of the search
54. Wow
55. Lucky to be me
56. I can empathize with their seat
57. Myself is not an employer
58. Distance takes care of the question
59. like painting the Golden Gate Bridge
60. morning contradictions 11/1/17
61. but everything changes so violently
62. embrace your financial insecurity
63. all I do
64. we buy iPhones because
65. my head keeps telling me I’m gonna be OK
66. understand the words and the body
67. Follow someone long enough
68. I can call him anytime
69. all I needed was the infrastructure
70. the only good day is one with her in it
71. Certain outcomes didn’t come to pass
72. Maybe boredom is key
73. the construction of hands
74. Wherever I was, You were there
75. Keep it down
76. “i can’t do it” isn’t the worst thing
77. trying to get six pages a day
78. a subtle but important shift
79. the truth has forgiven me
80. whoops, I wrote a biggie
81. we return to the bed of human nature
82. the laptop kissing the phone in real time
83. how do I feel about linear time?
84. my vocabulary is growing
85. when I’m old, this is what I’ll look like
86. human nature gets simpler the longer you play
87. everything I do creates a relationship
88. figuring out my sermon
89. instead of sheep I count heartbreaks
90. doing no less than digging
[not counted: the latest document for new entries, demons, hucksters, filaments, any words I need to use in my day or anything I can’t help but recording, the life of the mind on overflow: Twitter, texts, uninhibited thinking, new reflections…this is the document that becomes the past]


thinking now again today I don’t want to do this, to make each of those things sing and be as full as they can; it’s too hard to be as good as I can be, it takes way more time and work than I would like to put in; this is what made me quit everything I’ve ever quit; now, Sylvia Plath was right that wanting nothing is…wait, I’m too incoherent to finish any of this; anything I do is NOT good just because I did it, being good costs everything, takes working around the clock at the simple work of awareness and being what you are; all being an artist costs is being yourself which paradoxically is a battle to fight; staying out of the clutches of mediocrity. How to be important. Ha! Be kind. That is the one lesson, where Vonnegut netted out; all the greats say the same thing and now I’m sounding like a commencement address telling the graduates you’ve got it all in you, no one knows better than you

but we’re sentenced to the screen, to cognition, to living, to being perceived, to being people, to thinking about it, to language ~ this sounded like salvation once, now it’s endurance; do I use nouns in an honorable way? Am I doing more than asking God and/or nothingness if I am worthy of being here? What comes after that drama? Maybe I’m tired of conversation; maybe I have lost the gall to call this art. I am not desperate enough to land or be embraced; I know if I embrace myself, it’ll be fine…right now I’m dancing in not loving myself and I’m mature enough to not rush and point to the fact that I am doing such a brave, risky thing.

I doubt display. Visibility is for the lonely. Maybe it takes strength to admit you, a complex intellectual, are lonely in the most ordinary way. Maybe that is genius. Of course no one will edit this for me; it takes ME to make these drafts into something I would submit; it takes other people to make me more than a nobody. The lift it takes to make me not a nobody is heavy lifting; it is easier to be defeated on the sidelines than daring to speak your stories and be known. Living is harder than dying. This is all true but I don’t think I’ve put a fresh enough spin on it yet; I haven’t discovered what my style is, like a singer on American Idol…they still aren’t themselves. It does take a long time, Miles Davis was right. But I take letters and cognition seriously. I really haven’t taken a reader seriously; I have written for me.

Maybe I should delete all this. I see now that writing and deleting are one; the point is to sharpen attention. Maybe I don’t care about getting my point across. Maybe I write for pain relief, anxiety relief, fear relief, depression relief. Maybe what I write cannot be read; well then where will money come from? What if nowhere? What if I don’t want to live enough to figure it out and apprentice my body to more days? Maybe my hunger for more days is not strong enough. But something presses me on.