January 17, 2025

apparently
i first opened this version
of scrivener
in january of 2021.
or,
more specifically,
january 17
in the morning.

and i only noticed the “first opened” notification
on this january 17
today
in the morning
[though in the 7:00 hour, not the 8,
as was the case
in 2021]

and i still can’t get over
the passage of time,
nor the happenstance
and connection
in my life.
but
i think it’s interesting
when things just kind of
align
and line up
and i can take that however
i like

January 1, 2024

getting used to the
new spacing/
new calligraphy
of the four
at the end of the year,
promising myself
i’ll give grace to my own mind/fingers
for inevitably forgetting
during the first three to six months of this year
and letting myself have patience
with my own soul
as i get used to the inevitability
of the passage
of time

September 30, 2022

an end
to September
a month i thought i had
far more of
to do
and plan
and write
and post

but October is not an ending
it is a beginning
[as are all months,
but the winter ones feel more like finalés
than startings]
a beginning to a full month of fall,
a beginning to full-out spooky mode–
set out decorations
finalize plans for costumes
(maybe even plan a party),
a start to drawloween/inktober/drawtober/whatever we
decide to do
daily/weekly/monthly tasks
making the shorter days
fly by
with creativity
and panache
and a little bit of stress
and a whole lot of art

and i could get overwhelmed
with planning for November
and then how it’ll turn to December
in basically the blink of an eye
but i
have decided to live fully
inside this October
when it comes

but right now
good-bye,
September,
good-bye.

May 15, 2022

how are we
already
halfway through May?

(i blinked and April was gone)

but nothing will ever compare
to 2020
and the collective pressing of time
lasting forever;
that March that took
approximately eight years
to pass
and past that
i honestly don’t remember
anything
until June
(it was all March, you see)

i joke that
“time is a mortal construction”
because of a show i was in
(i was going to say once,
but technically it was twice)
and 2020 really showed us
how much of our society
really goes in to
how we perceive
the passage
of time
(and the abolishing of dst this year
did nothing to help the case
of time being anything near
concrete)

(i read once
that the only true marker
that we have
for time passing
is entropy,
all the rest of it
is simply our
perceptions,
so…)

~~~

why
do i
constantly fall into the trap
of thinking that
i don’t deserve
a “big
ol’
breakthrough”™
in my depression
if i’m not at
rock
bot-
tom
?

i’ve looked back at times
in my life
in my time
with this struggle
that seem pretty near,
but i recall clear
as day and night
are far apart
that those particular times
felt like i could always go
farther
down

depression
looks different
for different
people

so why can’t i get it through
my tick-ass skull
that rock bottom
would look different
for me
than other people?

i am not in a place
of rock bottom now,
that i can guarantee
to you and to me,
but i do feel plateaued
in a way i’ve felt
for years and years and—
–i also shouldn’t fall into the trap
of thinking that a plateau
deserves breakthroughs
any less
than a drop past the
“point of no return”™

so why
do i
find excuses
in every place
i find myself?

~~~

the puppy
wants so badly
to be friends with the cat

she sits
as calmly as her little puppy muscles can muster
and waits
for a sign of friendship

the cat, on the other hand,
simply hisses
and growls
and hides
and sighs

as the dog takes that all as signs
that the cat is conversing
and she excitedly talks back
in whining yips
and barking excites
‘come play with me!’
she seems to say
‘let’s be friends! please!? pleeeeeease!?!?!’
but the cat
is already
halfway
up the stairs
to hide just out of plain sight
or tuck herself deep under the bed
and the dog still whines
and climbs on the couch
to wait for her to show her face
in another hour or two
and the puppy whines start up again
and the hisses too,
and i hope one day
they do
actually
become friends
but today that seems…

damn near impossible

August 26, 2021

a little in my own head
a little outward reaching
a little writing for an audience
a little writing for just myself.

i spent years trying to quiet
the cacophony of my mind
and now i find
i’d love to hear just a tad of it
again;
the thoughts racing each other
to the finish line of my mind
my fingers scrambling to keep up
every moment a passing thought
could pass me by
so i sat by
and wrote,
caught
as i could
a word here
a concept there
and it made me feel
important
it made me feel
artistic
it made me feel
invincible
it made me feel
somehow
more.

and when the thoughts disappeared
when my head was no longer too much
but, instead, not enough
a blankness surrounded in mysterious anxious feeling
the emptiness louder than any giant conglomeration of too-much-thought
ever was…

i’m in-between now
the thoughts are fairly loud
but they’re not all-encompassing
nor would i call them a cacophony;
i still have moments of blankness
that scare me
surrounded by anxiety,
flitting worries,
depression,
but overall it’s much better than it was
(but i do miss
the racing
the hugeness
the cacophony
the need to get everything out in writing
that desperation;
it was like a friend.)

~~~

craft the words
pull them towards
needing to express
needing to relax
deep breaths
four counts
(why does that make me feel like i’m drowning)

~~~

my sleek black panther of a cat
with nary a speck of other color on her
(save for the bright amber-yellow of her eyes)
has developed
four
white whiskers
but only on her right side

and i suppose it’s a sign of aging
and i suppose i should take it as a natural indication of time
passing
and i suppose i should admit she’s getting old

but she still chases nothings
like a kitten
and yells at us
all day
and climbs on top of us
like she’s less than the ten-pound bowling ball she’s become
and meows and purrs on my lap
starved for attention
most mornings
and acts
in most fashions
like she’ll never grow up

and i love her so.

July 8, 2021

what is with
these weeks of summer
streaming by in the goddamn blink of an eye?

(and how many more will i have have have to endure
until i finally find it in me to accept
the inevitability of time?)

July 1, 2021

the first
of any month
scares the crap out of me

i’m so much more able to ignore
the steady, streaming, passage of time
if the dates just keep flowing.

but the reset,
the sudden jump back to single digits,
the shock to my system as i readjust…

write new dates,
set new goals,
pay new bills,

(does it never end?)

~~~

you’d think
for someone who has new years in their top favorite holidays
new beginnings wouldn’t hurt so damn badly

~~~

poetry about something real
(kind of like prose)
flows out of me smoothly,
effortlessly,
the words coming even without me pondering them
the appearance on the document
pristine
and as i go
i think more and more
and harder and harder
and second guess
and try to have a nice ending
(are poems made for tidy endings?)
and i fizzle,
or overanalyze,
and what started as a journey
ends in near virtual reality

can my poems ever truly reflect
what’s happening
in my brain?