more crazed ramlbling... to exercise the fingers.
that monstours immesnity? it might be silly. but it's real. and i'm the one making it.
if no news is good news, the mere presence of this news doth speak for itself. i'm just seeing red, layers upon layers of fucking red. and boy i never knew what vulgarity lie within me- and i was vulgar to begin with- until this now-passed weekend. phew!
at least i can detach; but that might precisely be the problem, the self-interruption, the ground i seek being the root of self-destruction. (along with of course, the detachment inherent in writing this drivvle to myself. )
i was just calculating hours- fucking HOURS!!- or, should go without saying, STARTED to calculate hours, to myself..- before monday. my due date. exempting THAT monday, it's just today, and the next six days. with some sleep in there, unless (as i hope) it becomes unnecessary.
i'm sick of pacing back and forth everywhere i go. people must be thinking i belong in a fucking loony bin. if they still think in that sorta way (and i am reading really about loony bins and the aims behind such places, if only proverbial? were i a colonial or victorian american i know i would've been in one for sure...), for i'm full of alllll this energy and instead of sitting down and putting petal to keyboard metal, i pace. circle. fret. wait... on myself. i'm scared. shitlessly, mindlessly, really. and i can feel the look - the look in others i've looked 'down' on, or sillily come to help- of crazed desperation, lurking. surfacing occasionally, for some air. it is times like these- for there have been "times like these," and this is NOt the end of my world, but another beginning...- taht i know make me what i am.
you see, there are lots of times when amid rushes of joy everything seems ok and workable- when i doubt myself, and wonder how things could ever possibly be wrong (for myself anyway, not for the world) that teh world has just been wayy too good to me and i sit there baffled by how other people ever get along, when i'm just the one that's been so lucky. when my life is so.. unfairly... right, in its way. when as my grandpa would say i've ahd a guardian angel protecting me; or as raluca says, ive been covered by that lucky cloud. these are the moments- with the stark bad-ness taht brings me back to this planet. (or really, both do i guess... it's teh swinging pendulum, with a touchdown in between...) these moments are the reason i know empathy, the reasons i don't run when i see bitter sadness balding on some other face (and are they not all strangers?)- and probably the reason i can even feel that other stuff in teh first place. once released- *really released- from teh clutches of agony (however it justifies itself and whatever its cause may be), all else is bliss.
but in the meantime, i don't wanna show my face, i don't wanna have to coordinate THINGS, to figure out when to sleep or what to eat or where to go or how to be or what to say or how to say it... i don't wanna have to BE, anywhere... and i hate the face of everything. i just wanna evaporate, to be made into mere conduit, be it what it may, be i (myself! for i am not mere body) whatever i may contain, be i whatever channels i come into before like all things passing, i turn back into dust. (and this i know my mother, despite her criticism, must see all too clearly: i am not my house or my housework. i'm allowed- asked even, in a sense- to be me. and a 'me' she's never quite seen.)
for what is there to compose before we as bodies de-compose? (and indeed we do. i ask this having now lost all my grandparents, and just friday yet anotehr elder, seldom seen by me before my grandpa's passing this september.)
this i hope to ask unselfishly, somehow. and yet i know no other way: everything i go to write, every composition breathing or bursting into song has been there- in me somewhere- from teh beginning. a beginning as i can only konw it. and - this too i'm realizing- as only i can know it.
(and as for those murmurings, those compositions-in-waiting, i can't know how many there are, for like the din of crickets they are just voices together, diffuse. (diffuse, for tho the visiblle be diffuse when it is apart, sound is diffuse in being simultaneous... might music be sound making itself distinct?) and mostly whispering, hush, hard to decipher, at that.)
but in this mean-Time, here i hide in the nite on badly-bided time in labs (scuse me, a lab) that should be closed. writing myself lullabies. so i, this lady clearly crazed, should bid you, dear reader, adieu. (and yes, some sleep too. for you.)
if no news is good news, the mere presence of this news doth speak for itself. i'm just seeing red, layers upon layers of fucking red. and boy i never knew what vulgarity lie within me- and i was vulgar to begin with- until this now-passed weekend. phew!
at least i can detach; but that might precisely be the problem, the self-interruption, the ground i seek being the root of self-destruction. (along with of course, the detachment inherent in writing this drivvle to myself. )
i was just calculating hours- fucking HOURS!!- or, should go without saying, STARTED to calculate hours, to myself..- before monday. my due date. exempting THAT monday, it's just today, and the next six days. with some sleep in there, unless (as i hope) it becomes unnecessary.
i'm sick of pacing back and forth everywhere i go. people must be thinking i belong in a fucking loony bin. if they still think in that sorta way (and i am reading really about loony bins and the aims behind such places, if only proverbial? were i a colonial or victorian american i know i would've been in one for sure...), for i'm full of alllll this energy and instead of sitting down and putting petal to keyboard metal, i pace. circle. fret. wait... on myself. i'm scared. shitlessly, mindlessly, really. and i can feel the look - the look in others i've looked 'down' on, or sillily come to help- of crazed desperation, lurking. surfacing occasionally, for some air. it is times like these- for there have been "times like these," and this is NOt the end of my world, but another beginning...- taht i know make me what i am.
you see, there are lots of times when amid rushes of joy everything seems ok and workable- when i doubt myself, and wonder how things could ever possibly be wrong (for myself anyway, not for the world) that teh world has just been wayy too good to me and i sit there baffled by how other people ever get along, when i'm just the one that's been so lucky. when my life is so.. unfairly... right, in its way. when as my grandpa would say i've ahd a guardian angel protecting me; or as raluca says, ive been covered by that lucky cloud. these are the moments- with the stark bad-ness taht brings me back to this planet. (or really, both do i guess... it's teh swinging pendulum, with a touchdown in between...) these moments are the reason i know empathy, the reasons i don't run when i see bitter sadness balding on some other face (and are they not all strangers?)- and probably the reason i can even feel that other stuff in teh first place. once released- *really released- from teh clutches of agony (however it justifies itself and whatever its cause may be), all else is bliss.
but in the meantime, i don't wanna show my face, i don't wanna have to coordinate THINGS, to figure out when to sleep or what to eat or where to go or how to be or what to say or how to say it... i don't wanna have to BE, anywhere... and i hate the face of everything. i just wanna evaporate, to be made into mere conduit, be it what it may, be i (myself! for i am not mere body) whatever i may contain, be i whatever channels i come into before like all things passing, i turn back into dust. (and this i know my mother, despite her criticism, must see all too clearly: i am not my house or my housework. i'm allowed- asked even, in a sense- to be me. and a 'me' she's never quite seen.)
for what is there to compose before we as bodies de-compose? (and indeed we do. i ask this having now lost all my grandparents, and just friday yet anotehr elder, seldom seen by me before my grandpa's passing this september.)
this i hope to ask unselfishly, somehow. and yet i know no other way: everything i go to write, every composition breathing or bursting into song has been there- in me somewhere- from teh beginning. a beginning as i can only konw it. and - this too i'm realizing- as only i can know it.
(and as for those murmurings, those compositions-in-waiting, i can't know how many there are, for like the din of crickets they are just voices together, diffuse. (diffuse, for tho the visiblle be diffuse when it is apart, sound is diffuse in being simultaneous... might music be sound making itself distinct?) and mostly whispering, hush, hard to decipher, at that.)
but in this mean-Time, here i hide in the nite on badly-bided time in labs (scuse me, a lab) that should be closed. writing myself lullabies. so i, this lady clearly crazed, should bid you, dear reader, adieu. (and yes, some sleep too. for you.)