continuing
on
a trajectory;
a reconstruction?
a fun date deduction:
[2/22/22]?
a pondering of poetry and pain?
the contemplations i create
co-habitate in my brain
until the day
they’re ready
to be
set free…
…and even then, they never truly leave home;
they come back and visit
for dinners,
for vacations,
for mid-week excursions,
for time away from their new habitudes
and i conclude
that i’m never truly concluded
with any sort of
meditation
which is good?
i guess?
deconstruction time
necessary
to reconstruct
the self
at a later date
pondering
but not writing
thinking
but not prose-ing
mulling
but not having anything to show for it
(but isn’t that the point of meditating on a subject?
you get a better idea of your own relationship to it
without having the capitalist urge to prove it?)
(maybe?)
(i do a lot that stems from capitalism,
though i abhor the entire philosophy,
or at least the way it’s influenced us societally;
i feel the need to constantly be productive
and have something useful grow from that productivity…
but sometimes humans just need to human,
sit around,
enjoy company,
enjoy having a body–
but i’ve been taught that my body is lesser,
and therefore i should change it to redeem its worth,
and the idea of simply enjoying my body
as is,
natural,
and naturally,
is revolutionary…
and boy do i love breaking rules
and being contrary,
so why do i still feed into this capitalist myth
by feeling it necessary to not feed this body?
…different parts of me feel so at odds
all the time)
i could be resistant to capitalism
in so many better
more revolutionary ways:
revolutionary love
revolutionary joy
revolutionary rest,
but i choose to stress
and strike
against my body’s needs
and worry about all who can’t be
anti-capitalist revolutionaries
and worry about those who buy into capitalism
and patriarchy
and white supremacy
and worry about pretty much everyone
and everything
(because, i’ll bet, if i’m worrying
i can’t be bringing revolution)
but also,
revolutionarily,
an entire change in structure/mindset/philosophy
is not solely mine to bring,
this is just another capitalist myth
clouding my mind
once more;
humans are social creatures
and we can depend on one another.
no one pulls themselves entirely up by their bootstraps,
there will always be someone willing to give them a chance,
or an account full of parents’ cash for the ‘just in case’ fall,
so why
why
why
do i buy
into this story
that i need to be
solo
for
ever
to have
any
worth?
capitalism;
coming to a brain-washing station
near you.
i always find myself at my wit’s end
with exhaustion
just before something happens that makes me
really
actually
truly
tired.
my brain is not awake yet,
nor is my body, really,
and the first sip of coffee is cheap
when
you know you could sleep for hours
even with the whole mug in your bloodstream,
and i keep getting distracted by tiny chores
which probably could/should be done,
but will it take away from these
morning page poetry streams of [semi-un]consciousness(?)
and
why can’t i think of myself like i did
at fifteen
seventeen
nineteen
when i fancied myself a mini-ee cummings
well on my way to
making language my b*tch(?)
even though now it’s probably more reality-based
to think that someone else has thought of
‘streams of [semi-un]consciousness’
before,
but boy,
did it give my ego a boost
to think i was thinking
entirely new thoughts
new concepts
new words
new communications
with new people
instead of how my brain is now
knowing that there are no new ideas
and instead of that spurring me on
to create without worry of plagiarism,
it instead spurns every concept i have
with the barrage of
‘you will never be creative enough
to think of anything
fully
new’
[
you
].
don’t be scared,
be you.
don’t be safe,
be you.
don’t overthink,
trust your instincts,
be you.
this seems like positive,
encouraging,
enlightening
advice
on the surface
but then my
[overthinking]
brain
turns it all on its head
again
aren’t the scared/
safe
parts
part of me,
too?
is it just another
nature vs. nurture?
how i was born
vs.
what the trauma turned me into?
what do i do
who can i be?
i contain multitudes
it’s why acting
so why can’t i trust the multitudes
within me?
trust
let go
surrender and embrace
there was no poem today.
i know you’re seeing one now,
but
there was no poem today.
the thing you’re reading
is an artifice,
a false artifact,
post-written and post-dated
(pre-dated?)
to make the tallied streak continue.
and though it is false,
it isn’t exactly un-true,
for some days i write so much
and some days i don’t share all
and some days i steal from the past,
so today i decided to give back to it instead,
and besides,
i made my own rules for this,
and i decided long ago this isn’t breaking them
at all.
a therapy appointment
a good ‘vamlumtimes’
and a cbd night’s sleep
and i’m feeling ever so slightly better today
than i was yesterday
morning
i’m still a little on
the stuck side
a little on
the slower side
a little on
the i don’t know what to write or if i’ll ever really want to write again
side
but
there is a whole day ahead of me
and instead of seeing it as a negative,
as an entire,
bleeding,
long
ass,
gooddamned
day,
i would like to see it as an opportunity;
not necessarily to get things accomplished
(but that would be nice if that happened)
but to get to do things
i want to do
(don’t know what that might end up being
but i’ll do it
!)
~~~
a therapist once told me
to listen to my body,
to let my desires direct my day
that would be great
if
i knew what my body was trying to say…
~~~
when i tell stories
for the first, second, third times
i am testing out wording,
making sure the way i tell the story
in the future
(the memorized-like-a-monologue version)
is the best one,
the most truthful,
the one that elicits the best response.
but sometimes,
when i tell stories that are more than stories,
explorations of trauma,
a tale of something that impacted me
hugely,
i tell it in such a way that,
in observing myself,
i can tell i’m telling it
in order to understand
how i feel about it.
(because, if nothing else, i sure know how to intellectualize)
where do these sads come from?
and where do they go when they leave my head?
because, without them, i swear they never existed at all
but with them…
with them, they are
all i’ve ever known
and all i’ll ever have
and the desolation brings with it such desire
to run
to hide
to thwart off
to give in
(even though the only thing that truly helps
is simply
waiting it out,
feeling it,
but waiting it out)
but worse
i think
than the fullness
of with
or without
are the days when i can feel the sads
simply
laying in wait
they’ve not left
but they aren’t overwhelmingly there
everything just feels too
grey to hope
too
stale to cope
too
desolate to even try
to have a good day.
at least when the sads are at their
full force
it’s something;
it’s a feeling,
an emotion,
a carving out
of this day different from the rest
the in-between times
feel like a never-ending
static
in my mind/heart/life
and numbness
to it all
yesterday
Kip and i walked outside sans coats,
and built a greenhouse on our deck,
and swept away dead leaves,
and soaked up the sun
as long as we could
(and still a little longer)
knowing that
February 50-degree weather
lasts not nearly as long
as most would like…
and lo and behold,
this morning we woke to
giant, wet snowflakes
dropping from the sky,
piled high on the greenhouse,
and packed atop the steps
kip had so painstakingly ridded of leaves
less than twelve hours prior.
but we still walked
(with coats)
and kip built a tiny snow-person
and the sun didn’t shine as brightly through the snow-clouds,
but i suppose this is the point
of living somewhere
with cycles of weather
that come and go;
so you remember to enjoy the sun
when it arrives…
and it will arrive
again
soon.
kipventures 