on what exactly is being sold

what is one trying to do by making more content? Make themselves heard by themselves; ah, so the internet is a striving arena for individuals trying to exert themselves, make themselves real; gosh, what kind of moxie and wherewithal does it take to keep writing the same thing over and over, posting a hundred versions of it, making it in public, this spool and swirl of thought that nobody might join? What if you keep making something no one needs? What if you just never stop? See, I’m a big believer in a lack of safety being a motivating force, a cause, a whip, a pressure that pushes out more text—shouldn’t a writer write? Isn’t it a pleasure to follow your calling? But who needs another white man having fun? I’m not even your child! And should your tax dollars really give me a living? Shouldn’t I have to suffer, mindlessly do things I don’t want to do, ’cause that’s the way it is? No; I change the world through my disobedience; I will not be the child who finally figures it out and settles down, who *just* gets a job *just* to let your troubled mind off the hook; no, I’m here to disturb and rearrange your deepest held geometry

so what you do every second of the day is a testament to, a renunciation of gosh, I am here at the end of a line, seeing I can add more and more, and it’ll never be enough [like internal activism at a company like Netflix, hence their being done with it; no more social justice work at companies! We are here for profit! For the preservation of senior executives’ and shareholders’ property value and leisure time! You worker exist for the sake of their comfort and ensured freedom from having to try harder, to be uncertain, to endure mystery…but of course the artist knows the electorate ought to endure somw shroud once in a while]

so who’s believing you’re OK/doing enough? aha, who is your master, your ruler, your quota, your boss, the demand to appease? what if no one cares? what if your own fear of the environment around you is the driver? how will you rid yourself of the fear that life will crush you? life will crush you; i’m healthy for a brief time longer (35 years old)

this may be an ode to parents (boomers) and their attitudes about the 24–36-year-olds, the troublesome generation who got a taste of freedom they couldn’t really afford, now they’re locked on a vision and horizon, and have the muscle memory that can’t be stopped, much like the carbon-eating planet they live on: we’re addicted to work for money, clinging to money, believing we must work for money, because silence and stillness are too loud and disturbing—whereas I’m a geologist (a self-published doctor) plotting the tremors of my existential terror; it’s easy and fun, a pleasure and honor to serve…whom? Who is being served? Who would possibly pay for me to continue to rush back to my room and write about *not* solving my disastrous money problem? I HAVE A MONEY PROBLEM! I somehow must turn me into entertainment…for what end? To liberate the creative class from having a day job? Day jobs just keep the lights on; pander to senior executives and the gerontocracy who don’t deserve their power and status anymore, who must give up the ghost; now, for which courageous, facetious, fastidious, charismatic firebrand am I ghostwriting these speeches for I wonder? Who will get up on the high place, earn some popularity, credibility and fascination—some real leverage in the real world of real money and ideas and people and rage and hunger for both justice *and* wealth—IMPOSSIBLE, IMPOSSIBLE, but it’s human to want your cake and to eat it; for your investments to be a social good *and* a personal gain and shield against having to struggle like them; ah, the haves and have-nots; which one am I? (7/10/22)


I was joking with my mother about feeling left out of family holiday “celebrations.”

I wrote the headline for 2020: 30something children MIA this Holidays, too busy trying to sell out

“Sell out what?”

Wow. What am I selling? My vision, my way of relating things, my way of seeing, my knowledge and judgment, my sensibility and my obsession, my commitment to a way of life, my indefatigableness, my death, my being a soldier in the army of justice and peace and love and freedom and creativity and honesty…

I could get it wrong 40 times and it wouldn’t be enough. It takes someone else reading; it takes the inspiration of someone else: someone else paying the cost to be here with my words instead of anywhere else; this is the grave responsibility of the public intellectual, which everybody is and apparently must be to survive these days. We’ve agreed we must self-actualize on the grid and be public and be global *before* all else; any choice to enter into any one of the three contracts (marriage, mortgage, employment)

am I selling the humor of our only way to freedom and safety is to get profile clicks? Am I selling the ongoing humor of my life as a public intellectual and poet and artist? Am I selling the dark void beneath all human speech, and the futility of trying to be anything, or the silliness of the fear that one is not exactly where one has to be? Am I selling the humorous flinching and thrashing of someone who can’t believe in God?

I am a humorous inability to land or be still.

Eventually you run out of places to run, and if your mind and personality can’t rest, you are sentenced to the sentence (to quote some other writer); you are banished to form, and you can “come out of your room” only through form, only through being perceived by someone else in a concrete way ~ a lifeless object your poured your life into…but would I rather my body be seen, held, or at least given space to roam? And don’t I already have it?

I am fighting over nothing.

Maybe I am a fighter who excels when brought together with (and pitted “against”) other such ragers of the mind — a boxer of a sort, philosophizing for sport,

…in progress



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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