Just Write

It’s hard, lately. To speak or not to speak. What comes out is a lot of babble in between, that carefully avoids anything too center. So I make my fingers move, to try and get at the center, pin down what’s happening here. What isn’t happening here. At all.

Fear is pretty close to surface now, and I wanna laugh. Is this progress? In the night, all I hafta do is think the word ‘fear’ and it’s there, like panic, like all overs. The all-overs…is that some sort of eastern phrase from the little mountain people? I get the all-overs. It’s the space that gets me. The connections between this and that, the tree, the house, the post, the stars, me, anyone else in the world- those connections seem so tentative and small and easily broken next to all of the space.

I reached out for an object last night, groped blindly in the dark, by smell. A shirt. Somebody’s. Still have faith, small, humble, dying off faith in the connection there. He’s not here, but that’s what’s so good about the fucking shirt. It doesn’t speak. I don’t say the wrong things to it, I can just bury my face in the scent and the warmth, and pretend that I’m not a point of awareness blinking out in this vast, eternal dark.


I don’t write this phase of the moon cus I sound like such a cracker-jack.

Hard to be wanting. Not hard to want, just the act. If parts of you get unfrozen, and the rest of you still is, isn’t that worse, in a way, then being all frozen at once? That seems more uncomfortable.

Lost steam.

It’s a perfectly beautiful day. I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Maybe that the joy imperative will fade altogether. Seems like less and less *feels* like something. And whatever moves me to go forward kinda dies or kills itself off. I like new things better than old. New stuff has its own momentum for awhile. Old- or- accomplished, I donno. Once I get good at something I don’t want to do it. Or when it seems less. urgent. I don’t know.

I do know.> Do I? No. NOt this part. I don’t know is a good way to hide yourself if you don’t feel very acceptable. I don’t know. It’s vague. It’s ephemeral, it’s mercurial. It’s a word, I can hide behind, because I don’t think it’s very good under there. It’s probably pretty awful, maybe, I don’t know.

I kknow.

Sort of just wish it wasn’t all…

There are people who never get cured. Know that? Not in a mental health or problem-solving, health or injury way, I just mean- we get so programmed to think there’s a happy ending, that there is a life-long love for everyone, a good place they hafta find. So how come so many don’t? Some people live out their life lonely, angry, shouting out everyone, or not aware quite what it is about them that makes them feel so cut off from the human race. I look at my dad. Lonely. Totally lonely, so that’s horrifying, but also such an awful guy sometimes. There’s no one else that really matters in his universe except in this conceptual symbolic way. I think I learned a lot of my morality from him. Conceptual principles. Killing principles. He doesn’t have the warmth to back up those lofty ideals, he doesn’t take care of the people, but he’ll fight and flail for the principle of the thing, till he’s the last, goddamn voice shouting at the wrong, railing for justice and not noticing noone else really cares.

It’s good to temper that sort of thing. Cus noone really cares to the point of wanting to align themselves with the daft old meany-weirdo.

I think it’s easier to approach ideas than it is to approach people.

I’m kinda stuck in a room. THere’s two people in it, and probably a lot more, right outside, in chambers and ante-chambers that go out in rings like the ripple of the pond. And there’s nothing particularly threatening about the other person in that center room with me. I don’t know why I avert my eyes, or talk over and around her about the weather, the world, my *ideas* that might have some import, never really addressing warm-blooded creature who looks to me so patiently like any other young thing would look to its mother, expecting that that creature must know the right thing to do.

Good God, what if she learns from me?

What a lonely life.

I can still talk to the people on the outer rings. In fact, make connections, care for, truly communicate with them. If they don’t get too close.


My heart is talking. Talking bout a boy. Talking loud, so loud, it drowns me out. The sober, patient, aching thing has become el demandingo. I am in a crux. A conundrum. What if you find someone your heart cannot let pass you by and the rest of you isn’t cooperating? Maybe if it stays loud and demanding and unreasonable, I will just obey. People obey authority with a sort of mindless, zombie-type child-likeness. That ancient wiring, the old listening to the boss, the master, that’ll kick in. If someone seems to know what they’re doing, it’s amazing how people will listen to them.

I wonder if my feelings know what they’re doing. Its pretty weird to be this inept at yourself.


5 thoughts on “Just Write

  1. This is a great post!
    I read it through my entire body, not just my eyes.
    Your descriptions and flow generated a reaction that let me leave my own life in my chair while I followed you.
    Thank you for that brief journey and emotional experience!
    You ARE a writer.

  2. A lot of things caught me as I read this (you are gifted writer), but this kind of stood out right away:

    I like new things better than old. New stuff has its own momentum for awhile.

    I’m still working on this but I think the trick might be to make it all new, as if you have a really bad short-term memory, although not quite like that because it would be annoying. There’s some Zen thing about seeing with beginner’s eyes. Others talk about seeing as through a child’s eyes. I guess it’s the same either way.

  3. I think the one aspect of this piece that impresses me most is your honesty. Do you understand how many folks (even those of us of advancing years)are not even willing to admit to misgivings about interpersonal relationships without claiming to have found the high road to wisdom despite cringing from fear in our own personal darkness?

    Yes, you’re a wonderful writer, but more than that, you’re unafraid to be honest. Who wouldn’t be thrilled to be associated with such a person? Certainly no one of value to you.

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