Excerpt: May 8th 2011
A reasonably edited excerpt from a handwritten journal I keep sometimes:
It is a week later & I am not going to feel sorry this time. I'm not sorry I was sick and did not journal or write because sorry doesn't change a thing. I'm not not sorry I was suspended for performance issues [or that] I am resigning from P&R Tuesday because my loyalty cost me sanity and potential [subbing] income. I'm not sorry if my first sub-job sucks ~ or if they all do. This is not an exercise ~ I'm really not sorry. Feeling sorry for my long-term fits of impotence as a man and artist is similarly ineffective. Impotence pun deleted
I'm not sorry that I bought new white sneakers & shoe cleaner I don't absolutely need; I make no apologies that the shoe-clerk was beautiful. I do not mean attractive or otherwise sexy ~ she may have had that [quality] but my eyes were lifted to her face, careful not to settle anywhere ungentlemanly. She was not pretty-all-at-once but became beautiful as... *sighs* her visage is already fading in my mind. She began to show and suggest shoes much like [former crush] had done for teas. She wore a nice blouse but on her arms and across her neck was a constellation of birthmarks. Her eyes were an unintelligible marriage {/?} of blue & hazel ~ her hair was long, wavy & brown. If only I could have studied her, I say as a noir-tinged french-accordion jazz-tune comes over the radio ~ what is that melody? "Chim-Chimmery" from Mary Poppins but done much differently. [I love Jazz for moments like that]
The fund-drive is over ~ a Freddie Hubbard album is coming my way. Shoe-clerk should and could be a poem. ~What happened? I waited for her to scan the price on those shoes; I let her tell me about athletic socks; I thanked her for suggesting the shoecleaner; I tried to transcend the fact she was so beautiful and execute the transaction without shyness or charm (,niether). Between "scenes", I jotted in my notebook ~ pictured one of my characters experiencing this. Of course, I turned back on myself & wondered "will I?"
I wrote myself a post-it note that says "Quit stalling, today is the day." Wish or promise? I'm beginning to notice my mental glitches in more detail. [Arrow indicates to turn the page]
There is the way tasks shuffle in my mind, competing to be imperative, so that I despair & draw to something certain or toward empty social interaction. I notice the way schedules are generated [by me] to amend this and fall apart due to their brittle rigidity. I notice the discipline of my cognition is nothing in the face of the dark-matter that shifts in other regions of my brain. So much describing, in eloquence [?], amounts to more stalling in most cases. I underestimated the power of my ignorance ~ the trial-and-oops. Sure, plans are good... I almost begin talking about the Mercer Ellington interview I heard and how that has affected the way I understand Art since two Saturdays ago but instead I chase another thread:
Let me shift gears. I'm catching more deadenders in their tracks ~ reasonable thoughts that never get anywhere. I'm feeling my resistances & , well, they seem so much like [WHOOPS!] the stupid kids might say:
nevermind. No, its sufficient to say that it isn't "stupid [WHOOPS!]" ~ it is too thoroughly human [in fact] -- corrupted intuition. Readers, that is your take-home lesson. Corrupted intuition. Ruminate on that.
What a huge topic. Meanwhile, my opportunity is wide-open, as always. My heart shies away, to think that I could have been productive; it keeps being sorry. Stop, my heart. Baby steps ~ today might be a day very much like all the rest but what if a string of days started with this one? What if plain-old May 8th becomes famous for being "The Surface" on that journey from the deepest trench to the highest mountain? What if we finally came to sea-level and the pressure of the depths and the swish of the surf is... hmmm...
-John G
It is a week later & I am not going to feel sorry this time. I'm not sorry I was sick and did not journal or write because sorry doesn't change a thing. I'm not not sorry I was suspended for performance issues [or that] I am resigning from P&R Tuesday because my loyalty cost me sanity and potential [subbing] income. I'm not sorry if my first sub-job sucks ~ or if they all do. This is not an exercise ~ I'm really not sorry. Feeling sorry for my long-term fits of impotence as a man and artist is similarly ineffective. Impotence pun deleted
I'm not sorry that I bought new white sneakers & shoe cleaner I don't absolutely need; I make no apologies that the shoe-clerk was beautiful. I do not mean attractive or otherwise sexy ~ she may have had that [quality] but my eyes were lifted to her face, careful not to settle anywhere ungentlemanly. She was not pretty-all-at-once but became beautiful as... *sighs* her visage is already fading in my mind. She began to show and suggest shoes much like [former crush] had done for teas. She wore a nice blouse but on her arms and across her neck was a constellation of birthmarks. Her eyes were an unintelligible marriage {/?} of blue & hazel ~ her hair was long, wavy & brown. If only I could have studied her, I say as a noir-tinged french-accordion jazz-tune comes over the radio ~ what is that melody? "Chim-Chimmery" from Mary Poppins but done much differently. [I love Jazz for moments like that]
The fund-drive is over ~ a Freddie Hubbard album is coming my way. Shoe-clerk should and could be a poem. ~What happened? I waited for her to scan the price on those shoes; I let her tell me about athletic socks; I thanked her for suggesting the shoecleaner; I tried to transcend the fact she was so beautiful and execute the transaction without shyness or charm (,niether). Between "scenes", I jotted in my notebook ~ pictured one of my characters experiencing this. Of course, I turned back on myself & wondered "will I?"
I wrote myself a post-it note that says "Quit stalling, today is the day." Wish or promise? I'm beginning to notice my mental glitches in more detail. [Arrow indicates to turn the page]
There is the way tasks shuffle in my mind, competing to be imperative, so that I despair & draw to something certain or toward empty social interaction. I notice the way schedules are generated [by me] to amend this and fall apart due to their brittle rigidity. I notice the discipline of my cognition is nothing in the face of the dark-matter that shifts in other regions of my brain. So much describing, in eloquence [?], amounts to more stalling in most cases. I underestimated the power of my ignorance ~ the trial-and-oops. Sure, plans are good... I almost begin talking about the Mercer Ellington interview I heard and how that has affected the way I understand Art since two Saturdays ago but instead I chase another thread:
Let me shift gears. I'm catching more deadenders in their tracks ~ reasonable thoughts that never get anywhere. I'm feeling my resistances & , well, they seem so much like [WHOOPS!] the stupid kids might say:
nevermind. No, its sufficient to say that it isn't "stupid [WHOOPS!]" ~ it is too thoroughly human [in fact] -- corrupted intuition. Readers, that is your take-home lesson. Corrupted intuition. Ruminate on that.
What a huge topic. Meanwhile, my opportunity is wide-open, as always. My heart shies away, to think that I could have been productive; it keeps being sorry. Stop, my heart. Baby steps ~ today might be a day very much like all the rest but what if a string of days started with this one? What if plain-old May 8th becomes famous for being "The Surface" on that journey from the deepest trench to the highest mountain? What if we finally came to sea-level and the pressure of the depths and the swish of the surf is... hmmm...
-John G