I can make anything depressing

I will never be as excited as my cat.
She’s just discovered at 10 years old that she loves going outside. But only with an escort.
So I take her out to the backyard and she munches on grass and looks around. She is so happy. She crys to go out and she almost never crys for anything.

Even when she wants into my bedroom, she’ll just sit calmly out side the door. Quiet as can be. Waiting to be let in.

I’ll never be as excited as her but I get to give her that. It’s the same thing I’d do for anyone I love. Attempt to give them or help them get the thing that makes them most excited. Selfishly. So that I can feel a bit of what they feel. Just for a few minutes.

Too tired to die, too awake to sleep

Doomscrolling is the death of creativity.
It sucks me in. And with my tastes there are a ton of poets saying poet things. And rather than inspired, I feel like I’m not going to be able to write. Because they wrote it better. Their personal journeys. Their blood on the page.

My lukewarm days. My pedantic pedal boat. Moving slowly into the certain uncertain.

I’ve bled and cried. Burned and created. But here I am, a product of doomscrolling and too many days stuck without the people who make life good.

I gave up caffeine. More to do it than for any health benefit. Haven’t seen one 3 months in, to be frank.

My cats receive my attention. For both I am either never enough or always too much. And if that isn’t the echo of all my relationships, I don’t know what is.

My problems are small. Even if they are insurmountable. I have shelter, food, and safety.

What I find I have less and less of, is hope.
I used to believe in the undelible goodness of humanity. That when push came to shove, humanity would choose the brighter path. I can’t believe that anymore.

The trump years proved the overall despicable traits which simmer beneath the surface. And the now times have so far proved that this isn’t going to change.

I know that when things advance, there is a backlash. But this backlash is like a flywheel. By the time it stops, our wounds will be so grievous we will either fall or fury. And everything I’ve seen points to fall.

I feel like I’m spinning my wheels. But I know this world. And I don’t have the means to switch tracks.

No spoons, no funds. Just the endless parade of days. Wishing it were otherwise.

When you love physics but hate math

My creativity feels like a stream of photons being scattershot through a pinhole. Hoping to magically land against photosensitive paper and thus become known.

To leap full formed like Athena from the head of Cronus.

But this pandemic and the life that has been forced on us because of it, bends away the light.

A black hole forcing away a mind used to the sounds of a raging river. Changing to the low hum of the background count.

And each day is a question. Is the cat alive or dead?

Will today be one which makes light?
Or simply a burden which necessitates the digging of a grave.

This slow spin down

Wondering when again I will wander in a direction strange.

Living different lives

I was having a dream I’ve had before where me and my people were all trapped in our home. A derelict sprawl of a building which was dangerous in multiple ways but ours. A heavy rain was falling that mutated the animal life that got caught in it. The water itself was fine. It was something in the storm.
We were safe inside but the waters were rising and it was flooding the lower levels. And some strange infectious energy was creeping along the walls. Changing things.
I’ve had this dream before and the only way we’d devised to save ourselves was to lock ourselves away and take a pill that slowed our perception of time, and our bodies experience of it. We were gathering the survivors together when something strange(r) happened. The waters froze. They froze solid and we were able to escape.

The dream reelled forward 10 years and I was different. I was alone and had internal cybernetics. I also had a vehicle that had group of AI drones. They each specialized in a variety of energy which were known parts of this world. 2 life based, one dark based, and 2 necrotic. They had offensive and defensive capabilities and I recall having built them. They stayed in the car while I went into a high end restaurant where the owner owed me a favor and I was calling in the marker for a table and a conversation.

I was waiting for my table when my cars proximity alarm went off. I went out to see and it looked like a team of jetpack jackers had descended on the vehicles of this high end parking lot. My drones deployed. First hitting with life energy to push the attacker back while the necrotic drones erected a barrier. At first he was amused by the harmless energy attacks which are street legal if uncommon, but then the dark beam weapon hit him, shutting down all of his optical gear. The drones retreated beyond the dome and he was like WTF, when he saw it was necrotic energy which is both rare and deadly.

The owner came out to watch and said to not worry. That they were imperium protected. And my perspective shifted to the cockpit of some kind of fighter jet, though it was more like a space based plane that was only flyable in high atmosphere. It fired a missile which was headed straight for the guy looking at my shield. The missile was odd. It looked more like a container for something rather than a normal missile.

I heard the ring leader tell his people to bug out, that the imperium was here. But then he switch channels and said, “See you around, flyboys.” He had the scrambler codes for the imperium communications and he used them for something frivolous. He was a spy, a plant in the gang, from the imperium.

The missile hit my shield but nothing happened. Well, the necrotic shield flared and the missile flared with the same energy but my shield held and the missile spent its without effect.

I went to check my car and heap accolades on the AI’s but there was a man sprawled in the seat. He was disoriented and confused. The life bots were quivering with the need to protect but they are not allowed to fire in the confines of the car without permission. I got a look at the man and was shocked. I knew him. From the compound, from before.

He saw me and was relieved. I was not. The last time I saw him he had died. He was fighting imperium forces and they killed him.

He said he was happy to see me but he had to get back.

Back where, I asked.

To the Imperium, he replied. Looking at me like I was a quizling.

“Why would you go back to those monsters”, I said, my voice rising.

He looked me square in the eye and said, “they aren’t monsters. We were wrong. I’ll take you to them and you’ll find out.”

A local security guy came around and said that the restaurant would be pressing charges on all trespassers and looked pointedly at my old friend.

My bots took the opportunity to act on the perceived kidnapping threat and pushed my old friend out of the car. He got up, unperturbed and walked to a clear area. He setup a homing square for interdimensional transport. A risky method of long distance travel for any organics.

Then I woke up

Begin at the beginning

I can feel myself slipping into depression. There’s this deep uncomprehensible sadness that looms just out of view. I’ve just eaten my favorite dish, watching a show I like. I am restless and want to do something. But nothing sounds good…no,that’s not right. There are things that I know, if I started, I would enjoy. But I can’t work up the will to do anything.

So I lay in bed. Isolated from anyone who might check on me. And I hope that sleep will find me, before the crippling self doubt. Before my brain starts whispering lies. I write this in the brief calm before the storm. Because on some level I’m trying to reach out. Even though I won’t send it to anyone. At least not immediately. Maybe I don’t want help. Maybe this is what I deserve. Maybe I’m too late. Maybe I always will be

To be a blade

I’m a book nerd and I have an admitted love for a turn of phrase.

One of the phrases that always makes me happy is “the old pacts will be honored”

It always gives me a thrill that the old ways will be honored. That the compacts made in the early days will still be in force and that others hold their word sacrosanct.

I hold within myself several such compacts. Oaths sworn that I will not break. And to see that reflected in fiction gives me a thrill.

Like the first time I saw a pansexual person(David Rose) on television, seeing myself on screen.

Though, in the case of a former, I do wish I saw the same amongst reality.

It makes me feel a bit isolated and alone that this is not the case. And I know that there are honest people.

But that’s not the same. Holding yourself to a high standard, never breaking your word. That’s a rarity bordering on the mythic, in my experience.

So I love when I see it in fiction, though my mind turns and, always with a wistful sadness, sees the world.

Hear the rattle(of the snake)

When I go out into the world, I wear a specific style of dress. I wear black. Black pants, black shoes, black socks and a black button down dress shirt(short sleeve). And in some ways it’s to express my dark side of life nature and my gothness in a corporate world. That’s what I’ll tell you if you ask.

But, it serves other purposes as well. It marks me as other. Which, is a reflection of how I feel about myself. Other. I don’t belong to the crowd.

It’s not about alienation so much as an acknowledgement of fact. The way I think and hold myself forth is different. Which isn’t even my thought, it’s a comment that friends of mine make.

And there’s a third reason…I’m brown. Long hair and brown. Light skinned but brown. And I have a distinct aversion to being mistaken for else.

Through my dress and demeanor I reject any external notion that I might be a grocery store employee. I don’t know where the apples are and if you expect me to and voice it to me as if my place is one of subservience… Well, expect to hear an earful.
I’ve already done my best to flash danger and other with my dress. You’re failure to see reality is not my problem and if you make it my problem, it will swiftly become your problem.

People are afraid. To be confrontational. To be seen as the ‘minority’ with the chip on their shoulder. But what they see, when what I am is contraindicated, is not my emotional responsibility. I refuse to take up their burden.

The bottom line is not blue

Cops want to believe that they are to protect and serve. That is the ideal they espouse. The motto of nearly every city or department. But it is not their function.

The function of police is to determine 2 things. 1. Has a law been broken and if so, by whom.
2. To gather evidence of said infraction to present to the District Attorneys/prosecutor.

That is the base function.
That’s it. Anything beyond that is frosting.

But when we allow them to believe that ‘protecting’ is their function, we get into a quagmire of value judgments. Where personal bias and institutional bias meet and have a toxic baby.

Yes. There was a time when police could execute some judgment upon execution of the law. But we’ve grown too far beyond that. It’s no longer true that street cops actually know the people on their beat. Further, they have no investment in the community that they patrol because they don’t live there. They don’t need to make sure their neighborhood is a good place to live.

And the internal culture reflects this mentality. They see themselves as a community under siege. That ‘civilians’ don’t understand. That cops should be given freedom to persue their goals to protect.
Without true scrutiny, oversight, or interference.

That is the worst kind of false narrative. One which creates a Us vs Them dynamic. Which makes it so that actions outside of the rules become justified. Because they are trying to ‘protect’.

This culture which sees itself as us vs them. Which denounces those who report the crimes of other police. Which considers the body which is there to police them as the “Rat squad”. Which eschews civilian oversight. Which relies on police unions to keep them in power. Its a broken system.

One which functions more like a gang than the military that they play as. Gangs don’t want you to ‘rat’. Gangs want you to rely solely on them for solace and support. Gangs create a us vs them society. And gangs only care about the gang. The thin blue line.

Police use the perpetual threat in negotiations that their members will pull their protection from the cities and citizenry that they serve. That is the definition of a protection racket. Pay up or you don’t know what could happen.

This is a system which requires drastic change. Which requires drastic measures. And it is evident that the change is no longer possible from within.

Police in our country(the USA) are flawed and corrupt on such a fundamental level that internal reforms are no longer an option.

It’s a incendiary statement. But if it is, perhaps it’s time to light the pyre.

What’s yearned for is not simple

I wrote this 11 years ago.

To understand this world you must feel it, breathe in its air as it breathes you in; dance with it as it dances , caress the wind and be caressed in turn. And as I dance and breathe and touch I wonder if there are others experiencing the world as I do or are they all just caught up in the mundane details unable to see the larger world except in momentary glimpses.

And now I feel ensnared. Caught fast in amber. Unable to feel my way through.

I remember that feeling. That singular euphoria of feeling so much a part of the living world that I was connected to its very breathe.

And I now only see it in brief glimpses, which feel insubstantial. There’s no time, it seems, to just be.

And that is what is required. Time to just be in the world. Without tether. Free. With only those physically by your side to share it with you.