Far from feeling depleted,


after writing 100,000 words so far this year, and a trashload last year..far from feeling depleted, I feel charged, I feel poised, I feel a real freedom from having told some of my stories.  And even though in a way writing is painting yourself into a corner, because you don’t want to write the same thing twice, I’m finding right now that I feel an incredible openness and possibility spread out for me.  In terms of specific writing, yes, I’ve written a few things, and I’m not going to write those again, but instead of feeling out of ideas, I feel like the more that passes through me, the more that could.  Oddly for me, I find my ability or perception of ability to write and create new things to be greater now than it ever has been.

I like this feeling very much.

It is, truly, the feeling of fertility.  Rich soil.  Dirt that can grow life.

I am in a total bind in the ways of the world: no job, and scarcely a call back from places I’ve applied.  Fuck all that.  I’m not going back: I’m going forward.  As the ancient advice suggests, instead of stepping away from the cliff, I’m taking another step toward it..and I’ll fight my battles from there, make my camp up next to death itself and benefit from the lack of options, and the impossibility of retreat.

Are we here to suffer (as the globe continues to), to hurt constantly (as I have in some relationships), to starve intellectually and spiritually (as I have at work and in school)..no, we are not here for that.  In opposition to the common thinking of most of our human structure, we’re here to approach ****ing bliss.  I think that in concrete ways idealism is more solid a discipline than what we call realism.  Strap on your motherfucking Annie attitude.  I’m strapping on mine.

And I’m keeping on making things, in a world of fraud and murder and fear, very simply because that’s what I was built to do.

So fuck the fear.

What do I have to give?  That is the question I’m asking myself in this moment.  What reality do I want to be creating?

I’ve been systemically called naive by fearful people (and, frankly, by unintelligent people).  "Crazy.“  Yeah?  I think it’s crazy to live days with regret, to die that way.  To lie constantly.  I’m schluffing you off—I’m schluffing you off my back so I don’t have to carry dead weight (no hate to you—and every goodbye).  And I’m schluffing off my own lies, where I have had them.  You die the way you live.  The day you die will be like the days you lived.  Am I going to live, and die, in fear, hiding myself from myself, hiding myself from you?  No.  You do it however you want.  I’m going to die laughing.

Some idea of perfection still lingers, still plagues me


I can get some things elegantly right.  Some things, and some times, I can’t, and don’t.  I dwell sometimes too much on these latter.  And when I torment myself with that dwelling, I know that of the seven deadly sins, pride is the one I am most plagued with in this time of my life.  Pride: that somehow I deserve to, or could get to, live elegantly all the time, act elegantly all the time.  It’s clearly not true.  So I’m reminding myself, right now, that I am both of these: elegant and clumsy.  And I’m admitting, here, my raking myself over the coals this morning over, say, speaking at an inelegant time, or speaking clumsily, so that I deflate the power that any such pride could have over me.  Because I’m fine: I’m an imperfect, delightful person, and excessive measurement against perfection doesn’t make me any happier or help me any.  Casting that off.  Confessing my mess.  Admitting my shit.  Not going to beat myself up today for well-intentioned, slightly clumsy actions.  Writing this here helps me to let this go.  Lightening.  Free.

Dream I had gotten ready to leave my dad’s house. We were moving, but to different places, and I wanted to double-check that I had gotten all my things. Every door, every wall was painted white, there were no pictures on any wall. The house had many doors, and most were locked. I had only one key. My dad had a set, and would not lend me his so I could check all the rooms. I checked the rooms I could—and from those, I had already removed everything of mine. I knew, or reasoned, that inside the ones I couldn’t enter..were only his things, and nothing of mine, and I could leave without further investigation or discussion. He was having conversation with his new friends, new family, in an empty kitchen downstairs, and I left without saying anything to anybody, knowing that there was nothing to go back for, nothing I was leaving behind..that was mine.