Sat nov 15 08
Today I did a little bit of walking through a very old forest. I meandered through a mesh of wet black deadened bushes, sickly vines snaking along the ground and up a few trees, a few sad blue purple berries crying and clinging to the frail arms desperate to let them go. A stark electric silvery lavender sticker bush buzzed surreally against the foggy gray sea of decomposing forest. It was silencing and unsettling. I looked up at the skyline to watch old old sickly trees swaying and swooning and hoping the next storm wind would bring them back down to their safe soft ground so they could finally sleep.
The wind felt refreshing except when it occasionally brought with it a vague smell of rotting animal. I want afraid. I almost kind of felt in place here. Everything here felt so old and exhausted and weak. A beautiful giving in. a beautiful self silencing giving out of the limbs. A beautiful appreciation and acceptance of transformation. Leaves dangling from blackened twigs so ready to drop and dissolve back into the ground. Undying energy caught in up in a false visage of death and decay. Ironic and invigorating and indescribable.
I lifted my arms up above my head and stretched toward the sky. Stretching myself apart, making spaces within me to let the air incorporate itself more readily inside my body. Deep affirming breath. I was in. I wanted to lie down on the ground but it was a little too wet and muddy. But oh its just mud and water. Im made of the same things. Gloomy beautiful sad drifty drafty day. Im glad the wet earth gave way under my feet. Im glad I sunk a little. Im glad I can feel myself in this earth and not just on it. And anxiety keeping me on a painful edge. Maybe ill shake it tomorrow. And grow more coherent. Maybe ill swallow the pain whole. Hug and embrace it. Thrive on it. Thats what ill do.
Then I got in the car and began to listen to leaves turn inside you and I rode home with the dying forest swaying in my ears.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Friday november 14
when I label myself I negate myself. I distract myself. I dissociate from myself. I lose myself. I lose touch. When I sit on the stiff sofa on the third floor of the library, drugged by the flurosecent artificial lighting and the air vent somewhere several feet from my head, communicating with a book, connecting with it, integrating it, im calm, alive, in a sort of active still. This is where true living lies. Where bright flurescent lights fuzz out five minutes ago and five minutes later. Analyzing with my left side, gushing through my right. Maybe I glance at the clock. Not in anticipation necessarily, but just out of curiosity. I decide not to let it mean anything.
I think im learning to write what I feel instead of to write what I think I feel. Notice how thinking tends to get in the way of things. Dont say what you think you should say. Dont say what you think you want say. Just say what you want to say. Say. Hey im really thirsty
I have a tendency to be a hypochondriac. This happens when I move from my feeling sphere to my over analyzing one. Every slight ache (many of which are only psychological or at least originate in my overactive imagination) turns into a blood clot, heart attack, or some other extreme illness. Its a horrible feeling, a horrible way to live, when you feel like cancer is hiding behind everything as though it were all just a giant screen to block out the black illness thats obviously taking over me quietly from the inside out. Hypohondria is almost like cancer. Its all too easy to fall into a state in which the overwhelming feelings grow grow grow snowballing exponentially while you shake and pulse in anxiety. Listening to music is a good way to snap the brain out of an overly analytical frame of thinking, at least for me it is. It is my medicine. My liberator.
Sounding stilted is one thing. But feeling stilted is the worst. Feeling stilted is feeling only partially alive. It is a weakened, fragmented form of living. Feeling stilted is when your battling between your intuition and the “rules.” And you keep giving into the rules sometimes even though you know, you know, you will ultimately feel more whole, more alive, once you stop giving into the outer and give in completely to yourself. So you almost consciously deny yourself of yourself and you keep doing it, maybe out of habit or seemingly apparent ease. This pulls you apart in weird directions. Its an uncomfortable straddling that ulteriorly feels wrong but, on the uppermost levels of your consciousness, it manages to find itself preserved by repressive justification.
Being an introvert, I feel so aware of the all the seemingly minuscule changes I go through day after day, week after week. All this constant evolution, occasionally sprinkled with “devolution” unfortunately. But then I find myself evolving back out of the pits. I always seem to be gaining a little more than I happen to lose, fortunately. I guess im too restless if im caught in a state of overt recession. Well duh.
I feel like im returning to the white fluffy pleasures of being. Just being. The perimeters of this state are whitened out and hazy. The focus is sharp. Im centered, in myself. Not by force, not by contrivance but by giving in. is this selfish self indulgence? Yes and no. self indulgence? Yes. How can one live without indulging in one's self? Selfish in that I will listen to myself. Ish. A tendency to be focused in the self. Take it how you will. You can't live wholly or effectively, unless you know yourself. Maybe im done with trying now. Now. I burned all the rule books. And the words. Even the ones I wrote. Because once I write them, and then undergo a change myself, which inevitably I will do, they are no longer mine anymore. So I just go, I just swim, moment by moment. Living by something more real than words. Stale words engraved and distorted with the inevitable dust that trails from the tongue absolutely.
-sg
when I label myself I negate myself. I distract myself. I dissociate from myself. I lose myself. I lose touch. When I sit on the stiff sofa on the third floor of the library, drugged by the flurosecent artificial lighting and the air vent somewhere several feet from my head, communicating with a book, connecting with it, integrating it, im calm, alive, in a sort of active still. This is where true living lies. Where bright flurescent lights fuzz out five minutes ago and five minutes later. Analyzing with my left side, gushing through my right. Maybe I glance at the clock. Not in anticipation necessarily, but just out of curiosity. I decide not to let it mean anything.
I think im learning to write what I feel instead of to write what I think I feel. Notice how thinking tends to get in the way of things. Dont say what you think you should say. Dont say what you think you want say. Just say what you want to say. Say. Hey im really thirsty
I have a tendency to be a hypochondriac. This happens when I move from my feeling sphere to my over analyzing one. Every slight ache (many of which are only psychological or at least originate in my overactive imagination) turns into a blood clot, heart attack, or some other extreme illness. Its a horrible feeling, a horrible way to live, when you feel like cancer is hiding behind everything as though it were all just a giant screen to block out the black illness thats obviously taking over me quietly from the inside out. Hypohondria is almost like cancer. Its all too easy to fall into a state in which the overwhelming feelings grow grow grow snowballing exponentially while you shake and pulse in anxiety. Listening to music is a good way to snap the brain out of an overly analytical frame of thinking, at least for me it is. It is my medicine. My liberator.
Sounding stilted is one thing. But feeling stilted is the worst. Feeling stilted is feeling only partially alive. It is a weakened, fragmented form of living. Feeling stilted is when your battling between your intuition and the “rules.” And you keep giving into the rules sometimes even though you know, you know, you will ultimately feel more whole, more alive, once you stop giving into the outer and give in completely to yourself. So you almost consciously deny yourself of yourself and you keep doing it, maybe out of habit or seemingly apparent ease. This pulls you apart in weird directions. Its an uncomfortable straddling that ulteriorly feels wrong but, on the uppermost levels of your consciousness, it manages to find itself preserved by repressive justification.
Being an introvert, I feel so aware of the all the seemingly minuscule changes I go through day after day, week after week. All this constant evolution, occasionally sprinkled with “devolution” unfortunately. But then I find myself evolving back out of the pits. I always seem to be gaining a little more than I happen to lose, fortunately. I guess im too restless if im caught in a state of overt recession. Well duh.
I feel like im returning to the white fluffy pleasures of being. Just being. The perimeters of this state are whitened out and hazy. The focus is sharp. Im centered, in myself. Not by force, not by contrivance but by giving in. is this selfish self indulgence? Yes and no. self indulgence? Yes. How can one live without indulging in one's self? Selfish in that I will listen to myself. Ish. A tendency to be focused in the self. Take it how you will. You can't live wholly or effectively, unless you know yourself. Maybe im done with trying now. Now. I burned all the rule books. And the words. Even the ones I wrote. Because once I write them, and then undergo a change myself, which inevitably I will do, they are no longer mine anymore. So I just go, I just swim, moment by moment. Living by something more real than words. Stale words engraved and distorted with the inevitable dust that trails from the tongue absolutely.
-sg
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