je n’aime pas
le
shouting out into the ether
le
feeling like i’m one amongst a billion strangers
how have i never felt like i ‘found my community’
online?
[how had i never felt like i ‘found my community’
until last month?]
~~~
my brain
seems too be flowing
un-predictably
today.
~~~
early risers
may get the most done
earlier
but they may miss out on
important announcements
from the night owls
(unless…
unless
those night owls
make the announcements
the night before
the thing…)
what to write about
what to ponder about
what to mull and meander in the mind?
~~~
[but] do i have a poem
to put
on my site
of poetries?
one from the beginning of todays’ mullings?
one from a day gone by?
no ideea…
what poems are
‘meant’
to come up
to blossom out
to emerge into fruition
full, tangible, edible fruit
of the creatively-writing tree
round your lips around them
digest them
feel them in your heart
but which
ones?
~~~
three short poems?
is that enough to quiet my inner capitalist
constantly telling me i’m not enough
unless i
produce
produce
produce?
rest is a thing
it’s a damn revelation
in a society that only supports
working oneself to the bone
burning the candle at both ends
living fast and
whooshing out
(and/but why the sudden need
desire
pull
to consume as well?
why do i just want to be looking at
vintage trousers
on etsy
and buying more gifts
for my spouse?
…’tis the season?)
i’m feeling
settled
[not settling]
comfortable
in my own skin
in my place in life
content.
this is not an emotion i am familiar with
at all
but it’s nice to know it can come to me
every once in a while
(and maybe, just maybe,
this settled/comfort/contentment,
can propel me towards my next
endeavor.)
~~~
i feel like
i don’t do
Morning Pages/
Morning Poetry
the same as i used to,
but that could be ok.
maybe there are days when i need
to write/poem it out,
and those are the days when my word count
lands solidly into the mid-three digits,
and there are a few days when i know what i need to say
and one short poem
is all i need for the morning,
and then there are days like today
when i don’t need to write to figure things out,
but i’d like to write to
have something written
(and also because i’m figuring out how to be awake)
so i suppose
it’s all
alright.
~~~
someday
i’ll count all the hobbies
i’ve acquired
over the years
(and those with supplies
but no real forward movement)
but for today
i’ll say
i’m happy i have a spouse
who keys into my ever shifting hobbies
(and also flits in and out of their own)
so soon, this house will be filled with
wood whittling projects
and perhaps even a soldering pencil!
i always forget
before leaving on any sort of
vacation
just how much i will
miss
new york city.
~~~
what to do
what to say
what to write
what, today?
~~~
is sleeping
in one’s
childhood bed
truly as relaxing
as it seems?
(i’ll check in after another day or so
to inform of my personal findings)
oh no,
forgotten poem
let’s fix that.
~~~
A Peaceful Town Where
NothingEverHappens
the song,
and beat,
strikes chords in my soul,
bopping my head
along the predetermined rhythm
wait wait waiting for the weird interlude
of words,
otherwise wordless,
the songs slip
into
and out of
me
A Peaceful Town Where
NothingEverHappens
~~~
how much of my writing,
these days at least,
is actual
“good”
poetry?
how much of it is getting into the crux of the matter/
brain matter/
how much do i matter?
i want inspiration,
inspiration to squeeze perspiration,
perspiration from my brain stem
where all the cogitation
infiltrates…
but i don’t ever know
if
when i rhyme-scheme like that
is it more me
or less?
am i playing by someone else’s rules?
am i becoming ‘cringe-y’?
although, the concept of awkward
is always from the dominant culture
so why am i so worried
if i want so badly to destroy white supremacy
and stick it to the man
and burn it all down and start something new
better
kinder?
is it because i was raised within the dominant culture?
it’s been embedded in my brain to worry about things
such as
keeping the status quo
all status
all quo?
as much as i try to fight for what’s right,
i definitely get a little fearful
of rocking the boat
too much
…
does that say i don’t actually want to rock the boat at all?
or am i simply aware that i have a lot more internal work to do?
or is the dominant culture simply one of invisible,
undefinable,
imperceptible,
unmeasurable,
strength
that sticks its claws into every fibre of our being
until we are still working for what we so long to work against?
fuck the idea of awkwardness
of status-ing the quo
i have rainbow hair, for goodness sakes,
i crave validation of my “weirdness”
i have rarely tried to dance to anyone’s beat but my own
(i’m just often unaware what my beat actually is…
i hear so many others
and it’s wonderful
and cacophonous
and beautiful music
but i would like to pick out mine
amongst the others
at some point
soon…)
i feel as though
the month is almost over
(though there is still plenty of plenty of time)
i feel as though
i’m running out of time
(even though
i’m still young
vibrant
virile[?]
alive)
i feel as though
i’m only half living
(even though
i’m more in tune
with being
a living person
than i have
in years)
i feel as though
i’ll never connect
with other human beings
(even though
the humans i want to connect with
align more with cryptid
than anything else)
and i feel like
i’m not allowed to identify as cryptid,
as anything other than man/woman
boy/girl
alive/dead
artist/not
driven/giving up
even though
the world
is filled
with
shades of
neither/and
~~~
maybe
some creepy/Disparition/music
will calm my spooky soul
and make me feel more like myself
~~~
my brain isn’t fully functional
fully awake
and i already feel i have
enough poems for two today
so will i write a third?
[everything in threes]
when the ultimate goal is not, necessarily, posting
the goal is to exercise my writing
each morning
every morning
every day
write at least one full poem
that i’m proud of
(or, at least, that i can look at and call a ‘full poem’)
so when i’m feeling so out of sorts
when i am uncertain where myself/body/mind/spirit
actually is
i can write and write and write and write
until
i find myself once again.
but what happens
when the more i write
the farther away i feel?
(am i just relying on the house
to fix everything?)
(that’s a lot of pressure
on one building…)
(at least i still have this cat
draped over my arms,
tail flapping without breeze,
purrs echoing in my soul,
claws digging into my skin
as a constant reminder
that she probably loves me,
or at least sees me as comfort
which is
honestly
pretty neat.)
be
the cryptid
you wish
to see
in the world
~~~
is my poetry
like everything else about me,
where it flows better
when i stop thinking about it?
~~~
didn’t write anything yesterday
almost not writing anything today
i was about to ask where my passion went
but it’s right here in me;
i was just reading, re-reading, going over old words
to bring to new light
and that’s what i always expected,
right?
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.
it is approximately
one month shy
of the one and a half year mark
of Kip
going into work
physically.
and i’m getting all nervous
about them going into work
physically today,
though their work is vaccine only,
and mask encouraged,
and Kip told me they’d probably keep their mask on all day long,
but i’m still all nervous
maybe it’s because i’ve been the one to actually go outside
in this Global Patrick Stewart;
i’ve gone grocery shopping
and picked up prescriptions
and had doctors’ appointments
and circus classes
and marches
and protests
and Kip has accompanied me on a couple adventures,
a protest here,
a vacation there
(a vacation where
we still only stayed inside our airbnb the whole time)
so i’ve been out on my own
and Kip has not
and they are a grown adult
and used to make this trip
into physical work
every
work
day
arriving between 8 and 9
leaving between 5 and 9 (depending on after-work activities)
and they learned the streets of manhattan
around their work
and maybe i’m just nervous
that they will once again
have a life apart from our tiny Brooklyn living box
but i also want them to have their own experiences
so we can come together at the end of the day
and share our stories
together.
i have no need for them to only have a life as i can see it,
similarly, i enjoy their encouragement of my
circus classes
and acting classes
and film projects
and artistic endeavors,
but i’m still all nervous…
(i wonder if this is how they’ve felt every time i went in
physically
to an aerial space
over this last year or so…)
~~~
i know
it’s possible
to hold in one’s heart
the gratitude
that one has personally
dodged a bullet
as well as the support
and solidarity
of those who experienced it entirely
but i can’t seem to convince my physical form
that this is, indeed, a thing that can happen.
~~~
my creativity
is still part of me
even when i’m not actively
making up worlds
and writing new words
and surpassing my own expectations.
my creativity
never leaves
just sometimes
it might need
a bit of a
nap.
i don’t know how
i knew it was approaching
the end of july
but somehow didn’t remember
next comes august,
because as soon as i see the date
my stomach turns
and my heart palpitates
and i start worrying about the summer reading i only half finished
and the schedule i need to complete
and the downhill roller coaster snowball out of control truck
that is
School.
even though it was only public school that started in august,
and i haven’t even been enrolled in a school for eight and a half years,
there’s a trauma that’s associated with
the educational system here
and it teaches us more
about how to be uncomplaining drone workers
than anything critical thinking
enjoyment of learning
sort of thing
and any amount of years of higher education
won’t help us recover
from 12+ years
of…that…
and i do call it a trauma,
though nothing about it was grossly traumatic,
because if your body reacts to a thing as a trauma
it is.
~~~
don’t know if i want to be so dramatic as to post that
implication and bias and only a half-way understanding of how our american educational system was actually built
but i do believe my therapist when she tells me that if something feels like trauma in your body, it is,
because our bodies often know more about what’s happening than our brains
which is why sometimes it’s an easy coping mechanism
to divide ourselves from our physical selves
to avoid that confrontation, that knowing,
in order to simply survive one day, one hour, one minute, one second at a time…
~~~
i would watch a movie/tv show
about a villain
who truly believes they’re the hero
and everyone around them insists they are,
they have state of the art gadgets and mentors
[which my autocorrect changed to monsters]
telling them where to fight, and whom,
and they go about their time fully believes they are doing good,
for a solid 7-8 years they feel they’ve done such good
and then, for whatever reason, they have all their gadgets and things taken away,
as well as a fair amount of their people,
but with less people insisting on their heroism,
and more interaction with the world as it really is,
they start to suspect they’ve been the villain all along,
and they get into an artistic expression as a form of therapy
to understand the awful things they’ve done
and they begin to represent the people they’ve hurt
in said artistic endeavor
as a healing,
and though they don’t expect their own personal healing will help the families of those they’re representing,
they try to raise money
(as they are still in the public eye)
to help those families.
a roller coaster ride of a hero/villain/citizen story
a true story of redemption
a cautionary tale of only listening to those on your side
(and of blindly going into the ‘family business’)
and obviously not inspired by any real person or story in our country or society
at all.
kipventures 