Inconsistently consistent. Who u gonna call? Maybe. I have nothing new to say. Stick to the Liturgy.
World’s changing. Like usual. Saints, rebels, prophets, philosophers my friends, hunting for good Will. Hey, I’m not that clever. What’s normal is what usually happens.
Sickness abyss.desperate anything. consciousness drifts so quick. In and out up and down left right inside out head heart body spirit glides to infinite finite night light to dreams forever. Formula: no formula. Broke poet knows it. Lone but not really. reality casualty. Unreality more real to me as the battle draws near.
“Rafe gradually discovered the secret of how he could be in close touch with those whom he had loved…and from there, with the whole communion of saints. “When you’re a true hermit,” he once told me, “you’re never alone.”
Bourgeault, Cynthia. Love is Stronger than Death: The Mystical Union of Two Souls (p. 49). Monkfish Book Publishing. Kindle Edition.
My heart sold callousness for decades and a deck a’ cards. Heart yard sale. Gripes against humanity. Crimes against profanity. Morality chained me to puberty. I’m looking for an analogy to set me free from sour sponges. pierce my lungs so I can breathe. Sick of friends coming through a screen tv. Homesick for the holidays. I’ve been right all along. Like trying to speak but only screams come out and no one can listen when u shout. Where have they been? Held me in. Chain me free. But what would I write about then? Everything happens as it is meant. Predestined? Calvin? It’s more like what we need, when. What do you see?
I’m not crazy. Just don’t feel like translating (yet)
Hey feels like I’m coming back alive today. This seems to be what’s helping. It’s good to be seen. Sometimes that’s all I need. Wrote this a couple years ago when I really started coming back alive as well:
so rebellious against us. against me. against ourselves. the inside turns out. now im going out on a limb. I’m bursting through my own skin. snake and a venom. wait a villian. the lines aregetting crossed. like meyses the lines are blurring. I see it. on the vherizon the phones ringin. I’m picking up the phone but why, what whos on the other line? Yea we got caller ID. But i can’t see it. But my screens cracked. WHO IS IT? I WANT TO KNOW!! but it’s so much more fun not. wheres the mystery? not an adventure without the adrenaline. I’m divin in. heard that one too much Mr. Chapman. I gotta write my own story. Ill hold you to it. and here we go again. new day. new light new memories new thoughts. new feelings, which ones do we follow? who’s advice do you trust? It’s like a light with a candle and a compass and a camp, with a map. follow your heart? but its in my chest? maybe they meant to chase it when it’s beating out of it. maybe we write our own prophecies. I hope so.
Lately, I wrote some prose/poetry (not exactly sure what you would call it) inspired by a quote from probably the most well known and cited author on Bipolar, Kay Redfield Jamison. The book is called Touched With Fire, and it looks at the overlap between artist temperament and psychopathology (mental illness.) Here’s the quote then my work is below it:
“We have seen that the creative act always involves a regression to earlier, more primitive levels in the mental hierarchy, while other processes continue simultaneously on the rational surface—a condition that reminds one of a skin-diver with a breathing-tube. (Needless to say, the exercise has its dangers: skin-divers are prone to fall victims to the ‘rapture of the deep’ and tear their breathing-tubes off—the reculer sans sauter of William Blake and so many others….) The capacity to regress, more or less at will, to the games of the underground, without losing contact with the surface, seems to be the essence of the poetic, and of any other form of creativity.” – from Touched With Fire by Kay Redfield Jamison
Became pain to create. Lost, fell way to the floor of the ocean dark depths cracks lasted so long but now gone rose raised came back up to the surface deep breath gasp breech the glass waves regain the deranged senses lenses cleansed.. oh no it’s all bad I’ve done so much wrong wait none not all bad reframe some good some great ride the spiral through the next cycle live die resurrect natural pattern divinely inspired cut the wires held up by smoke touched with fire bolts of voltage so strong can’t handle it alone thank god for holding me cosmic dust bursting at the seams spirituality and dreams energy so extreme screaming thoughts so loud can’t hear reality.
Calm peace within a storm waters wakes placid lake cool breeze beach daze feel the tides hydrate cells membrane divide breath expands contracts sun warms bright simply alive inside mind drifts with the crests of the waves way away places no traces pristine peace leaves gently clean air crisp brisk quickens the heartbeat streams rivers run beneath skin seen blue as the sky high above gesthemane garden olive press lessened with divine weightless fabric assistance… singed but slighlty more trancended.