I’m on my second cup of tea in hopes it will do some good with this congestion. this of course has become a typical thing, a chronic condition that I become so weighed down that my lungs go on strike at least ninety percent and I have to put in long hours awake. this is my misfortune, that I wind up thrashed before I go to work because of this. I feel limited. but that’s the way it’s going to be as long as I’m in a physical body. you know those dreams where you open your mouth but no words come out? we feel limited in the waking moments which only gives birth to these magnifications in more personal spaces. our own selves force us to see what we choose to turn away from consciously by route of nightmares. these are not the most clear lessons, but we are strange creatures after all. I feel limited with only two arms. Ananta feels limited and he has thousands of mouths that utter praise… what devotion! I’ve got one throat that gets sore, gets used up like a car part, but can’t be replaced so soon. they say it’s good for about a hundred years, but there are no guarantees – you pay and you’re out the door.
red tea on a sunday night after television, this show Carnivale, finding out now there are only three episodes left for this season. it is amazing, but is not something I go around thinking about throughout the week. only when it comes on does it really hit me, that little dust bowl world, the mystics, the protagonist in his awkward position of not knowing who he really is, waiting for it all to unfold, the depression era, the hard times, the psychics, the freaks, the carnies, the taxed relationships.
have spent some weekend hours drawing on paper and in Adobe Illustrator, getting a little better I think as I go along. if I had more arms, two or three more brains, or perhaps utilized more of my brain capacity, I’d be writing more, would have more ideas, would be posting to Polywogg, Live Journal, writing letters to the Washington Post all the time, writing to Prairie Home Companion, writing letters to Matthew, writing my novel during National Novel Month, doing art projects for school ahead of time, and not even stressing, traveling to several different poetry readings a week, and so on… all while maintaining a full time job as a print specialist, cranking out some seriously ugly business cards because most customers are so stubbornly insistent and managers in the world incredibly backward, socially inept, and lacking high levels of common sense.
I continue pushing. struggling. with life. living. surviving. others are stabbing themselves in the chest. I stay out of that kind of news. I won’t say I don’t understand. I’ll just say I’m not giving up and there are some good things. I’m trying not to go mad.
the shower hose is defunct and will not hold. each time it pops off and the water is lost, I curse at it loudly and darken black circles around my world view. a cold November day and I feel like yelling at something, an inanimate object at random. it does no good. it is better choosing to admit I’m having a hard time, that certain things will not get done right on schedule. the mood swing, health swing, has slowed me down a bit, but at least I’m acknowledging it and am aware. with that on top of me, I’m flailing like Kafka’s beetle upside down giving it my best. someone flip me over.
in my head there’s so much I want to read and reread. so much I’ve read over the years that I’ve read right over! it is certain new discoveries come when we take big ego out of things.
I hardly write out intros about myself. tonight, the idea intrigues me.
only child writes prose/poems, work situations, bitterness, calm calamities, skateboarding achievements and tragedies. quits school at 18 and travels years on and off in ISKCON Krishna movement, digs on philosophy, acquires equivalent diploma, self teaches himself basic graphic design, works nearly 5 years worth different print jobs, color correcting photographs, scanning 35mm slides, plotting posters, ripping 2/3 color plates for small press runs, business packages – buscards, letterheads, envelopes, etc. he knows he is not of this world but is dealing with the confusion that goes along with it, waiting for the third eye to open, or if it is already open, chance is this is what pains the right leg reduced to a steady limp. he has trouble writing summations. where to begin?
I’ve walked that Key Bridge hundreds of times back and forth in the heat and the cold, sometimes crying a little the winds were so high. Georgetown at times has a special feel to it, particularly around Christmas. as a kid growing up, my family started out pretty well off and celebrated this time of year with such gusto! I’d get all kinds of presents. still, it wasn’t so much that as it was the good feel the season brought, or what I had imagined it brought. I’m still not so sure. it is just more stress for some. others make the best of it, or I should say, make it really work for them, and they enjoy themselves. Bill and Meg’s family in Annapolis come to mind. such a nice family. when I would visit they would practically make me feel like I was part of the family, right in there in it with them. so I guess I’m going on a holiday tangent at this point. in Annapolis I was in such a good mood to be there with friends that I would goof off in a major way and sometimes even try everyone’s patience. I can just absolutely insist sometimes that certain jokes get out there. they were setting up a treadmill, I think. what was it? we were watching the workout video or something and making fun of it. that was years back.
May last year (2002) we left DC and pulled into Rocky Mount to watch our families house before they moved in. it was hot, hardly rained, work was nowhere to be found, and I watched a lot of Sci-Fi. is John Edward for real or what? I was really fascinated by that guy at the time. Scholastic Sports became one of the all time lows in employment, and our apartment in the city, Roanoke, was not so hot either, what with all the cigarette smoke seeping in from the apartments above. basic cable in Roanoke, no Sci-Fi, no Steven Speilburg’s Taken, no more Pet Psychic, Crossing Over, or the new Battlestar Gallactica. no big deal. the end of that year we moved two blocks away into this apartment, since laid off and collecting unemployment, relaxing a bit, enjoying the luxury of reading at least one book a week. Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer is amazing. I like it most when I understand what the hell is going on, he does a great job of that. also a great one of flying off into pages and pages indecipherable free verse. you start to get used to it. “oh here comes the free verse again.” when it’s over, the stuff that does make sense is so solid, you’re really loving life. he is an amazing story teller.
it is thirty-three degrees, nearing 1:30 am, and my condition is relaxed. I am thinking about how I am going to end this out, as if like a TV show producer ends an entire series. I must be pretty punchy at this point. I don’t know. it was a good weekend. productive in certain ways. I feel distant from many of my friends, though. I hope they don’t think I’ve dissed them in any way. anything long distance experiences strain or even disuse. it is like a body that needs exercise. put on more weight if you think you can honestly lift it.
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