Walking down the road, always forward

Words seem inadequate now and I
At turns
Want to dance and laugh
Or scream and cry
No calm thing seems an adequate response
And yet that’s all I can do
Singing lullabies into a microphone
Recording future missives
And hoping tomorrow will be a different story
But sometimes the same
Because it’s not all bad news
So I want things to change
But be the same
But different
Life twists you about
And getting untwisted
It’s less a goal
Than something that just happens
In brief moments of
Clarity quiet
That soundless void between was and will be

This pandemic life

I missed a post yesterday. I acknowledge my failure and offer this response:

Isolation from those we love coupled with physical situation changes, eg working from home and closed gyms, has effected me deeply.

It’s hard to build relationships without physical presence. Not impossible. Just hard. But it’s the lack of exercise, good food, and regular companionship from friends which just sends me deeper inside.

I try to keep up emotionally. I’m doing the work. But some days it’s too much. Today(Monday) was one of those days. Mostly I’ve managed to post a song or a haiku to cover but I couldn’t find the motivation today. I ended up sleeping for 8 hours immediately after work and I’m still tired.

Usually, I love the cold bite in the air and the approaching solstice. Now I feel like it is more of the same. And the levers I would normally use to regulate my feelings are either not available or are physically distant.

It is a lot.

I miss the family of choosing which I’ve been lucky enough to be a part of.

As to the blog. I will be better. I’ll need to devote some spoons. It is important to me. And while it would be easy to quit, the damage from doing so would have repercussions. So I guess anyone who reads here stillbis stuck with me.

Beyond the shores of Lethe

Sleep is the one thing in this world which seems genuinely good anymore
And it’s not that there are not elements of the waking world which I love
Rather it is the ecosystem of everything which surrounds us which is so perverse and broken that only in sleep do I feel free

I slide into bed and cool sheets greet me
The most comfortable pillow I’ve ever owned
Which I bought from a small local shop which I hope weathers this storm
Because I also get my beds from them
Beds that are called insidious
Because they are deceptively comfortable and lure you into deep sleep
I pull the blanket given to me by the woman I love across me, snuggling down in her distant embrace
And I slip from this abomination of a world into another
Perhaps just my own mind
Or perhaps a shard reality made real only for me
Still, sleep takes in another lost soul
Hoping that dreams become refuge for a weary heart
And when I wake
It is always with reluctance
For dreams and sleep
Is the last refuge we have

I don’t have answers. I only have questions.

The truest wish I could ever state is this: I wish I were independently wealthy. Not so I could live it up and party. But so I could take care of the people I love in the manner they should be taken care of while not having to grind away at a job.

Because, honestly, after working for the last 30 years with little beyond continued life and some material possessions as a result, I am just tired of it.
And there is no end to it, without some massive upheaval of circumstance. There is only the maintenance of this or a devolution resulting in worse circumstances.

Arguably, I have a good job. But really, it pays just enough to keep my head and the heads of my loved ones above water. Which I know is amazing, seen from outside. And isn’t that sad? To aspire to just getting by.

What have we become? When the hope of something better is fiction. When the now is an endless slog to an uncertain future.

I’m weary beyond bone. So tired that my body spontaneously creates wounds. Aches, pains. In deep response to a continued existence. What is the answer? I don’t know.

Struggles with an open heart

Some grow wild
Untamed by neither wind nor rain
Roots sinking deeply

Some grow by roadside ways
Hardy and beautiful
Pulled up from the ground
Given and discarded
Seeds of self grow anew

Some are plucked by hands uncaring
Trammeled underfoot
Hurting they grow in ways unimagined
But still they grow

Some are replanted
In soil unsuited for their growth
But still they reach and strive

Sometimes they are replanted
By hands soft and hard
Allowed to grow as they will
Beauty remarked on
But wild and free

Sometimes they adapt
And become what they were meant to be
Despite all circumstances

In the solitude ache
Of a quiet stroll
The urge to find fertile soil
For those which struggle
Wars in the heart

Perhaps to fall
And become soil

Think but this….

Living in a tragedy gets old. Dystopian elections of battered hopes where men fall prey to honest ignorance and are pulled to pieces drowning out the message. Each rally set outside of an election year calls to mind another authoritarian in black and white; a dead mans message of terror spread out to the stars propagating at light speed. Years pass and life continues with battles and fights to hold on. With love and a renewed hopefulness and the crush of long distances. To hear her voice, to watch her dance in joy. Then a waking from a dream and a virus wreaks havoc, exposing the flaws in logic more boldly than a hundred hours of documentary and late night talk shows. But still conspiracy conspiracy conspiracy they whisper and while I speak only in shadows and darkness still my heart remains because of she’s there. Hair wet symphonies and silence. Driving to work for a company who has tenuous grasp on reality but the commute is short. Trying to convince aging parents to take this seriously but hearing Fox news reach up their spine and spout false talking points. Despair but with rapid eye twitches from lack of sleep. Still…I’m not dead yet. Time enough for love and joy. Death is coming and that’s no lie. But he is my brother. I know him well. And I am not afraid.

A lifetime of coping skills

I forget the hells I’ve been through working through trauma
I forget them having lived with them daily
Having worn down paths I my soul
Having found bolt holes in those paths which could short-circuit a memory
Or provide a moments respite
I can see the moments of trauma and the pain is distant
Not disassociated
Just distant
What forgiveness of self
What justice
What clarity feel like at the end of a long road
But those bastions of safety
Those places and thoughtforms
Which gave solace
Those places of peace I hollowed out
Lay forgotten
But I’ve begun to revisit them
And realize that they provide safety from the daily trauma of being alive
Refuge for the broken
A realization that healed doesn’t mean mended
That acting as if the trauma was the only reason for pain has inflicted more trauma
If only by tiny increments
Now I sit, in my bastion, not alone
Not alone anymore
But still
Free to feel pain
Even if everything is better

Dry river remembrance

I’m broke down tear streaked cold nosed sleep deprived humanity
In other words normal end of weekend depression
Having to go to work to earn that money to live another two weeks and spend enough to feel just a little bit in control of my pain addled life
Each day begging for an end only to stumble through my door and collapse into bed asleep
Waking up way too early
To roll the dice on forlorn hope
Fucked up that chance is the only solution that I can think of
Broken bone words splintered in forgiveness without the chance to heal
Slow decay
I’d give up I think
But I’d rather be if at all possible
In your arms

The flensing knife turns inward

I’ve been creatively burnt out for the last few weeks. It’s not entirely anything to do with the big things like work or relationships. It’s the little things that I have let eat away at my free time. Leaving me with no time to sit and be. No time to experience the world as time slips away.

Being so busy that any time…and here I have to stop and redirect because work crept in. Because it’s gotten to be insidious. It slips into any crack which if I turn it off, it becomes that I was unreachable and that is the issue.

Which is why I am writing this at 4am.

In alot of ways work is better, my relationship is better but my friendships and my writing and my actual life seems to have all suffered.

I have never been one to strike a balance. I throw myself completely into things. And that passion sees me through but it also breaks me.

It’s the inevitable, inexorable schism between what is needful and what is best. And much as I thrive in the situation where the world is burning and every action I make can turn the rudder, eventually…the boat sinks and the drowning begins.

And I am oh so weary of dying by inches in that way.
Something has to happen. And I don’t know if I have the mental fortitude to make the life choices required.

It seems like I was so much happier when I was a villain. But maybe it was just that I was young and didn’t see the terminus. The inevitability of less ahead than behind.