I notice it first in what I write.
Or more what I dont write, cant write.
I sit down, and what comes out is about as interesting as the ingredient listing on a bottle of coca-cola, and about as honest and descriptive as the words natural flavor.
Theres another part inside that I live through when Im better, I used to think it was the medulla oblongata, trickling little secrets through to the more cognitive centers of my brain. I still do think that, but I also realize now that sometimes and for extended periods theres some sort of clot that gets in the way, forcing me to simply rely on that other part of me to continue to make sure my heart beats and my lungs pump slowly while Im sleeping.
I dont notice it for a while. Not until I write and find that all my words are broken. No meat. And then I realize that what I could only call a flat line a few weeks ago was obviously the beginning of my realization that that clot was forming again.
Its not just writing.
Noticing it in writing is simply the most obvious symptom of the thing, and the thing is huge. Its the same thing that allows me to stop for a second and notice how for that split second in time that seagulls outline perfectly matched the shape of the edge of that cloud, its the thing that lets me notice how the reflection of the geodesic dome of Science World reflecting off the still surface of the ocean that I see as I ride my bike down the seawall is actually more of an explosion of light in all directions and I am simply riding through it, picking up on one infinitesimal shard of it thinking incorrectly that that is what it looks like. Its seeing the same feather stuck in the trunk of that same tree on Burnaby street outside of the apartment building where Errol Flynn died and actually noticing it, then realizing that if trees had actually evolved into creatures that could fly that we would have long since farmed them in mid migration locking them to the earth long enough for us to get every last one of their fruits.
Its clutter.
Thats a part of it I think. Too much going on at once, and I get overwhelmed by all the changes I have to make to catch up to where I am happy again.
I need to simplify.
Clean up.
Do a little bit each day in this place perhaps. Develop some new habits, regain some old ones, and in the push of their new place in my life, shuffle off the some of these ones.
I just need to get back. Come back. Be here.
I just got home from the gym, where I have not been in over a month.
First thing through the door, my habit is to step on the scale there as I dont own one.
Shock.
Gained 12 pounds in the last month of way too much beer, way too many lunches of chow mien, and not nearly a single visit to the gym.
Course, once I saw that, I tried to burn off every single calorie of that 12 pounds in the next 45 minutes of a workout which of course I know wont work, but its symbolic of the way I feel about all corners of my life right now.
Shock, sudden understanding, and a manic need of change.
Hang tight medulla Im diggin you out.
Or more what I dont write, cant write.
I sit down, and what comes out is about as interesting as the ingredient listing on a bottle of coca-cola, and about as honest and descriptive as the words natural flavor.
Theres another part inside that I live through when Im better, I used to think it was the medulla oblongata, trickling little secrets through to the more cognitive centers of my brain. I still do think that, but I also realize now that sometimes and for extended periods theres some sort of clot that gets in the way, forcing me to simply rely on that other part of me to continue to make sure my heart beats and my lungs pump slowly while Im sleeping.
I dont notice it for a while. Not until I write and find that all my words are broken. No meat. And then I realize that what I could only call a flat line a few weeks ago was obviously the beginning of my realization that that clot was forming again.
Its not just writing.
Noticing it in writing is simply the most obvious symptom of the thing, and the thing is huge. Its the same thing that allows me to stop for a second and notice how for that split second in time that seagulls outline perfectly matched the shape of the edge of that cloud, its the thing that lets me notice how the reflection of the geodesic dome of Science World reflecting off the still surface of the ocean that I see as I ride my bike down the seawall is actually more of an explosion of light in all directions and I am simply riding through it, picking up on one infinitesimal shard of it thinking incorrectly that that is what it looks like. Its seeing the same feather stuck in the trunk of that same tree on Burnaby street outside of the apartment building where Errol Flynn died and actually noticing it, then realizing that if trees had actually evolved into creatures that could fly that we would have long since farmed them in mid migration locking them to the earth long enough for us to get every last one of their fruits.
Its clutter.
Thats a part of it I think. Too much going on at once, and I get overwhelmed by all the changes I have to make to catch up to where I am happy again.
I need to simplify.
Clean up.
Do a little bit each day in this place perhaps. Develop some new habits, regain some old ones, and in the push of their new place in my life, shuffle off the some of these ones.
I just need to get back. Come back. Be here.
I just got home from the gym, where I have not been in over a month.
First thing through the door, my habit is to step on the scale there as I dont own one.
Shock.
Gained 12 pounds in the last month of way too much beer, way too many lunches of chow mien, and not nearly a single visit to the gym.
Course, once I saw that, I tried to burn off every single calorie of that 12 pounds in the next 45 minutes of a workout which of course I know wont work, but its symbolic of the way I feel about all corners of my life right now.
Shock, sudden understanding, and a manic need of change.
Hang tight medulla Im diggin you out.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
I am not too sure what to say but what you write always leaves some impression on me somehow, some sort of awkward silence which isn't awkward becasue silence is just another noise.
Ah now I am trying to be all intelectual or phylisophical and I can't even spell right...
Well...
I am hoping that, even though this is typed, you can hear what I am saying when there are no letters, the space bar, and the enter bar,
those times... I hope you can know what I am saying when I am not typing it because I can't form logical sentances so instead I hope you can read the space bar..