keyculator, stoop and hall

already oh dear the thought where is it
it is an unflinching thing. sharp.


maybe what i liked was the unfamiliar. or wthat's what i crave. or think i did. bc i adjust to everythihng. chameleon. sinking into patterns. i crave that sinking in feeling. the passageway. maybe that's why i'm sitting in the hall right now. sitting in the floor, looking at the painting and the dust and my feet, and here's my cup of wine, and i hear jerel playing a game at the end of the hall, all the sounds. but i don't look at my hands and that's good and okay. i am just thinkig thoughts almost. isn't this ohow i think? it's sentences. it didn't used to be. i am not sure, i've wondered always, what form do other people's thoughts take? what's their shape? jerel says there's always images. that's more rare for me.
look at that. my cat comes back. the end of the hall. an angel! he's learning the house, nervous, stalking. he's learning the circle. the house is two concentric circles sort of. the hall is the main vein. there are times i avoid it. there are times it feels unnecesssary to my movement, my destination.
jerels' game is getting loud. i should close the doors.


four pockets, four directions.
a stone - a rock, really. i recognize it as one of my own, sitting on my parents' coffee table. i slip it into my front right pocket. a fake flower - fabric. pink. i like it. i was looking for whatever mom thinks willikers was playing with in the (non) living room. i don't see much / i see too much. the flower could be the thing? maybe, maybe not. but i like the color. (my room needs color.)
a twist tie - the color of cardboard. implies "recycled" or "natural" unlike the blue/white/yellow ties normally found on bags of bagels and the like. i don't know what it came off of. i feel like this is a thing that i always expct to be there, and never ever am i gonna pay for it. here is one on teh counter, unused. pocket
packet corner - the plastic yellow corner of a bag of cough drops from the floorboard of my sister's car. i am suupposed to open them for her. i do not litter. i take trash towards me. i bring it home. (i am home.) i bring trash home. i bring it towards its home, my body. you get it.

i wish i could remember which pocket housed which item. why do i wish that? what purpose would that really serve? it's not like pants have directions. i can assign them as i wish, as i prescribe to where my mind/body/center sits.

two weeks ago at movie night, franklin made popcorn, two delicious huge bowls. at some point near the end of the bowl, i wish i remembered the cue (she probably does) morgan tells me "i've been holding these kernels in my hand." i tell her "i put mine in my pocket." she asks "will you take mine too?" and i put her moist discarded mouth seeds into the pit of my pocket. along with my own, i am sowing them for somethign, the possibility of the pocket.
the pocket
the portal
the pocket
the portal
i wish i had a cigarette
i'm tempted to go buy one
instead i am gonna look for my rolling papers and make an herbal thingie. raspberry leaf and uva ursi and shit. and maybe some of this cbd business that smells like weed but isn't. let's try. i have the urge to be under moon, under wind. i dont' want to leave my cat, but the night is calling me. the cards want the night. i am listening.

p.s. when i took off those pants and found those treasures, i put on new pants and found new ones - selenite and bitten off finger nails. what to do with such things!

i'm surprised how much video game noise distracts me. (am i?)

(wondering, did you turn the game down once you heard me moving outwards? or did it just get to a quiet part?)

realizing i'm sneaking again. SNEAKING in my own home! is it for fun or is it from fear?
i realize i'm trying to small myself, curl up, walk toe to heel down the whole hall. i've already left my slippers in the kitchen to be quieter. i realize my throat is tight, closed.
this was one of the things, one of the whole same things. open open open. project. speak. fill. this one is so big. i just want to sing and squeak. instead i smoke and drink. i dont know. i dont know.
i see it.
i'm working on it.
right now i am going to smoke this herbal thing intentionally. i am drinking wine. i maybe should just sleep but i feel like this is one of *those* nights. is that fair?
i dont' care. i'm trying to follow the impulses. i'm trying to feel which are mine, if that exists.

what about holding space for the dialogue between air and electricty? earth and plastic? i know we have enough worshippers of pollution. but how can we have a beter conversation?
i don't entirely know what i'm thinking.
just remembering feeling a magic in electric light, from a distance, like a wish of fairies. the intimacy of parking lots. (and of course their opposites, going both ways. the loneliness of parking lots. the intimacy of a thicket of trees.) what have we actually changed by replacing plants with concrete? what spirits linger here now?

p.s. feather of swords is lookiing up at me when i open the box - after court last shuffled. i hold the cards just for a moment - the only peek i get is the lovers, reversed. just the bottom left 1/8 of the card, but i recognize it. goddamn.
okay.
gonna use a spread i saw on instagram a few months back and have been meaning to try. lets see.

Last night I found out that I was accepted to live at Baltimore Free Farm, which I was anticipating but still anxious about. Now that it's real, I find a whole new set of anxieties crashing down on me, including

• MONEY
• getting there
• getting my stuff there
• my cat
• my health
• not getting sucked up into the usual shit whirlwind

Somehow I have to find a way to make money that doesn't run my life. I bet I can live on $500 a month, or I'd like to try. Biggest expenses:

• rent = $300
• phone ≈ $50
• cat ≈ $75?
• food
• booze
• smokes          

Not so bad.....?? 

BFF is not yet income sharing and I think it will be my first big project to push to make it happen. After all, this was a large part of the draw! So can I be okay with a coffee shop gig or do I need to do somethign more "real" or "important"? Am I even capable? Just reading job descriptions stresses me out. Maybe it's pointless to do that to myself. The way to get experience is to live and learn, not to build a resume. At the end of the day, I don't give a shit what $$ I make or what org gave it to me. If I can finally focus on art and activism and that means slinging coffee, I think I'm okay with that.
How to not forget?
--Real goals. Rad people. Join groups.
What's important?
--Writing. Reading. Making. Doing. Being.

I have forgotten what it is to be me, too much time spent being a sponge. I have felt too much guilt to do things for myself, things I wanted to do. But this is IT! Time is running out. I can't delay anymore. And there's still so much to learn + see - who knew I liked public transportation so much?

on the road with Gil

the time of being a culture people sponge is coming to a close. after the solstice, in the new year, I will curl into reflection, back to written words,worlds, follow pen and paper trails to make the story.

I will follow up with my own ideas, goals, visions. don't let them down.
I will follow up with new friends and comrades, keep connecting with the visionaries and the big beautiful planners. how can we all connect?

seeing myself as a connector: bring people toward each other, facilitate meeting of minds and ideas for bigger goals.
an organizer: making events come alive, planning for the big beautiful. MAKE it happen, no more waiting.
this was always the goal: to create a beautiful world. to be my own ugly in it. to transform what ugly does.

last night again you were in my dream

but thank god i don't remember it. somehow you floated into my mind while i was brushing my teeth, and i remembered you had been there. even asleep, i ignored you. two rows over in the theatre, and not a word. but you just followed us around and didn't say anything, so it was easy. and saying it like that sounds like the living you, but the dream you pulled and twisted, and glowed and hummed. brushing my teeth, i laughed at how the reality is flat and cold and easy to ignore. (and yet this dream.)

"the days go by like butterflies...." the days move abruptly from coffee to beer. my head aches with a constant tender worry, my skin feels thin and useless over imagined/probable ills. i can't shake this damned cough, after being sick ever since the vagina overkill/amy oelsner show (almost two weeks ago now) and then chainsmoking at bobby's going away party (though he isn't yet gone away). it's a wonder i haven't infected anyone. mostly i just want to know what the hell is going on, and why i can't choose, and how i ever fell this stagnant. who is driving this contraption, who calls the shots, and what do they want?

maybe it's not all bad. there's drinking an appropriate amount of beer, the bartender saying that you have the best laugh -- the bar folk don't bite every night. tipping off your stool, leaning and laughing, canoodling all night, a dozen poses at his place, and tiptoeing home at dawn before the long drive to see your grandparents in georgia. the audiobook narrator's voice makes your head reel, but it's almost puss in boots, and you will live through this. it has often been worse.

your goals fluctuate wildly, from grand and wild to status quo to suicide, depending on the time of day and how much art you're absorbing. versus how much media. some nights it's okay to watch bad movies with your parents, play unblock me, and believe that having a 9 to 5 job would be the greatest thing that could happen. (from there, imagine the range of other possibilities -- it feels like sacrilege to write them down.) mostly, obsession is the thing, whether fleeting, ongoing, or recurring. you will consider every relationship, exhaust yourself over a moment or a text message, wonder and analyze and reconsider, all while knowing what a goddamn waste of time. but when you're not alone, how the time trips on and the thing takes over and you don't know who you are anymore- how much you change depending on whose company. how you seem so unsure of what you really want. how well you can pretend. how you never can stick to the plan. or the designated curfew, the number of drinks, the amount of money. you are sickened by your privilege and indecision, this rotting, waste. you don't know how to change.

like clockwork, your grandma wakes up between 2 and 3 every night to let the cat out (or in, apparently). "you're still awake? are you working on your.....?" she doesn't know what she is trying to ask, but no, of course you're not. you really don't deserve any of this; you're too lucky to have fucked up this bad. you should have done so much more.


listening to: joanna newsom - go long