Months away from writing, rereading, seeing sparks of creative goodness, seeing progress. No journaling but freewriting and yet still can remember the limbo of April as contrasted by the freefall of June. London is its own world, we just hide in one corner at St James. It is raining outside. It is welcome. Hungover mildly but calm and steady.
What about writing? I have always had a way with words, lots of stories, lots of experience. And writing is portable. And and and and what about a. No edit so not sure what that sentence was. Always my mind on the future, on where I am going, or on the past, in remembrance I relive… Never on right now, on what i am doing. Except when in the trance of others.
Therapy would be a good way to make a living. But like most things, requires planning and schooling and tying shoes and making the bed and eating well and so on. So that’s out. Maybe sucking dick under the overpass is more my thing. Sigh. (Joking, readers…)
I realize traveling (or am realizing) that there is never a destination. Fellow travelers seem to get this to more or lesser (?) degrees. That if you are on vacation for a couple months, get a job, go to the gym, cook good meals. There is no pausing, no break from real life. Real life is everywhere you go. Likewise, finding an apartment, in a city, with a stable job, yes, is calmer and routine, but just as filled with pain and dilemmas and stuckness as traveling (though perhaps cheaper?).
Hostel life is social. Too much so, but it is never dull. Emotional roller coaster, but perhaps a boot camp for living among people. Perhaps. Resting is good. Writing is a way to expunge without so much noise. Lisa suggested a silent meditation retreat. That’s not a bad idea, if I weren’t so hung up on going “home”.
But mom… does she deserve to die without me there? Does she deserve the pain of being abandoned by me? It rips me apart.
Freewriting is a good habit. It’s like sprinting around the gym before shooting hoops. Limbers you up and words spewing and all that. Meta talking abotu freewriting is boring and why do I always have to say what I think?
Lying and the lying liars who lie are … the world is filled with factions and secret clubs and fam (Romania/Alabama girl learned me this word) and insiders and outsiders. Life on the outside SUUUCCCCKKKSS. We all want to be inside. To feel each other from the inside. Brings us closer to god. Yeah.
Art is oblique. Not direct, not explicit, not literal, not saying what it’s saying it’s saying. That is so …
We drift within vapors
Left in the wake of early
Risers to the sun clear the air
Sinners bleeding in slumber from the night’s falling
Dividing the world
I never much liked poetry too much all that much, but Keats is a fucking genius and Shakespeare too. I guess I always struggled with the non-literal. I say what I mean, if you know what I’m saying. But yeah so I’m running out of juice and coherence.
A novelization of one’s life. Is that a memoir? Is it biography? Is it kosher? Is it ethical? Self-destructive?
How to find coherence? Is there something solipsistic/narcissistic about writing one’s memoirs? Especially when there is no happy ending. Who the hell wants to read the biography of a loser? Ouch. That hurts to say, but yeah. That’s the rub. I mean, it’s a fascinating story (to me), right?
Let’s take stock:
Abuse! Neglect! Struggle!
Boy genius. Gifted classes. Computer camp. Lecturing grads on linguistic parsing. Teaching the music class. Harvard night classes in writing, psychology, and particle physics.
Delivering pizza, painting houses, basic lawn care, tennis club lackey.
Pothead, acid, drinking in the woods, lost kids.
Honor roll dropout. Absentee valedictorian.
Dating a goddess. Ah such memories. Crazy first date, abandoned house, Beethoven, spitting on concert goers. Love.
Loony bin. Suicide. April Fool’s Day, ruining Easter. Mother. Father visits from Italy. Birdsongs. Catatonia.
College is hard. Drop out, drop out, drop out. Skip classes, sketch and play guitar. Go to the woods. Oops, got a psych degree.
Moving back with mom. Yikes. Get a job, get an apartment, on my own. So lonely. How do people meet each other? Wandering alone.
Collapse. Dad’s gone. Fucked up job. Antagonism. Break up. Unemployment. Drifting. Lost. Suicide.
Carpentry. Abuse. Growth. Ripped.
Kicked out of the nest. On my own. Homeless. Lost. Found… (Bend.)
With an anchor, organize. Work hard, study hard, put all eggs in. Try to run, try to break up, try to be free, keeps bouncing back. Marriage. Immigration. Career building. In over my head, but getting something done. Why am I paid so much? Is all life like this, just imposters bullshitting their way into positions of power and money? It looks that way.
Everything falls apart. Hell. The CIA. False flags. Divorce. Shunned. No more trivia. Depression. PTSD. Unraveling.
Year of solitude. Woods. Nothingness.
Flight to Europe.
Lost in translation.
Not as good a story as I thought?
It’s light rain. Want a cigarette.
Maybe I have other things to say than my horrible story.