"He’s a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home” - The Pilgrim (Kris Kristofferson)
I believe in the typical life of a mammal they call this intermission of self ‘hibernation’. Those winters where the Great Mountain Grizzly skulks into its solitary cave to wait out a season it has little care for until it can stumble again upon the one it does. Only it is summer, and my cave consists of mostly memories; severe bouts of nostalgia; words of others than myself; packing boxes and strains of folk music. I have been boxing up my past and recent present quite literally and soaking up both the heat and inertia that the experience offers in full, till my time comes.
The past months have been spent avoiding the sweltering heat outside, reading The Beats – Ginsberg and Kerouac, mostly – and listening to far too much of the old folk blue banter. I have observed something about American literature (the good kind), it always talks of the illusion of movement, but it never does. Sure, there is a lot of hitchhiking and old Harley’s to be found on roads to self discovery but no movement in motivation or character. One is deluded into movement by remaining perfectly still. It is beautiful. It is slow and sticky, this soul cruising... and I am living it.
I am still.
Kerouac makes mention of the list of 30 essentials to composing prose honestly and for once I feel that I need to listen to someone other than myself to be mindful of the metamorphosis taking place beneath the surface of my skin. I shall use his principles randomly and without care for their ramifications, as the man would have wished. I have missed communing with myself far too much these past months, and the following is purely an exercise in self-gratification.
I believe in the typical life of a mammal they call this intermission of self ‘hibernation’. Those winters where the Great Mountain Grizzly skulks into its solitary cave to wait out a season it has little care for until it can stumble again upon the one it does. Only it is summer, and my cave consists of mostly memories; severe bouts of nostalgia; words of others than myself; packing boxes and strains of folk music. I have been boxing up my past and recent present quite literally and soaking up both the heat and inertia that the experience offers in full, till my time comes.
The past months have been spent avoiding the sweltering heat outside, reading The Beats – Ginsberg and Kerouac, mostly – and listening to far too much of the old folk blue banter. I have observed something about American literature (the good kind), it always talks of the illusion of movement, but it never does. Sure, there is a lot of hitchhiking and old Harley’s to be found on roads to self discovery but no movement in motivation or character. One is deluded into movement by remaining perfectly still. It is beautiful. It is slow and sticky, this soul cruising... and I am living it.
I am still.
Kerouac makes mention of the list of 30 essentials to composing prose honestly and for once I feel that I need to listen to someone other than myself to be mindful of the metamorphosis taking place beneath the surface of my skin. I shall use his principles randomly and without care for their ramifications, as the man would have wished. I have missed communing with myself far too much these past months, and the following is purely an exercise in self-gratification.
Nothing more, nothing less…in short, everything.
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
It is a hard task counting down ones own life in the dial of a wristwatch, but it is altogether too easy when one tries to. This is disappointing, clocks tend to move much slower in the summer, especially when one’s anima is bursting with the anticipation for…anticipation.
I can hear Old songs. I hear Old rights and I hear Old wrongs. I hear them far too clearly to counteract my upchuck reflex as I skate over memories that ought to expire from sheer re-cyclability. I see an old clock maker sitting on a desk in a tiny room twiddling idly with a dial that is to decide all my moments: my pasts, my presents and my futures and all the probabilities in between. He appears to me simultaneously careless and careful; careless of the consequences of his actions and careful of the mundane pride of perfection he sets store to his task.
Four o’ clock in the evening: Somewhere, somehow there is push and a pull, the birth of a flight for freedom… for inspiration.
Seven o’ clock in the morning: There is a fall, a voyage down a birth canal.
Eleven o’ clock in the morning: There is a struggle and a beginnings of a beginner’s smile.
Nine o’ clock in the evening: There is a bond with tears and terror’s.
Midnight: Somewhere else
Twilight: Someone else
Dawn: Back again
The freshly soldered clock ticks away its idle ode to a life never lived for the fear of perfection and the absence of it, paid for in micro-chasms.
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
F.u.c.k.
I do not know when it happened, but somewhere along my route to emancipation I developed a dastardly double standard. Five years ago a friend coerced me out of my inhibitions and asked me to try alcohol and I did. Another one convinced me to try dancing on a party table and I did. Yet another one thought smoking weed for an asthmatic might be fun and I tried that too before I almost gave up.
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
It is a hard task counting down ones own life in the dial of a wristwatch, but it is altogether too easy when one tries to. This is disappointing, clocks tend to move much slower in the summer, especially when one’s anima is bursting with the anticipation for…anticipation.
I can hear Old songs. I hear Old rights and I hear Old wrongs. I hear them far too clearly to counteract my upchuck reflex as I skate over memories that ought to expire from sheer re-cyclability. I see an old clock maker sitting on a desk in a tiny room twiddling idly with a dial that is to decide all my moments: my pasts, my presents and my futures and all the probabilities in between. He appears to me simultaneously careless and careful; careless of the consequences of his actions and careful of the mundane pride of perfection he sets store to his task.
Four o’ clock in the evening: Somewhere, somehow there is push and a pull, the birth of a flight for freedom… for inspiration.
Seven o’ clock in the morning: There is a fall, a voyage down a birth canal.
Eleven o’ clock in the morning: There is a struggle and a beginnings of a beginner’s smile.
Nine o’ clock in the evening: There is a bond with tears and terror’s.
Midnight: Somewhere else
Twilight: Someone else
Dawn: Back again
The freshly soldered clock ticks away its idle ode to a life never lived for the fear of perfection and the absence of it, paid for in micro-chasms.
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
F.u.c.k.
I do not know when it happened, but somewhere along my route to emancipation I developed a dastardly double standard. Five years ago a friend coerced me out of my inhibitions and asked me to try alcohol and I did. Another one convinced me to try dancing on a party table and I did. Yet another one thought smoking weed for an asthmatic might be fun and I tried that too before I almost gave up.
It has always been the words that are the problem, they have also always been the solution.
I find that I have severe qualms about writing ugly things. Ugly words, ugly images…the crass, depraved honesty that I find all too apparent in my existence must always be kept absent from my words because that would spoil … ‘it’. I have never be-fouled the world within my world, my Neverland’s and utopia’s must remain pretty if they are to prosper at all. I have never really told the truth in its element.
So…FUCK!
19. Accept loss forever
Here is what I know: I know that it bothers me how badly I need to feel important. I know that I miss chances just so I can begrudge someone, anyone…something, anything. I know that I am longing for something that I will -in all probability-deny myself if it ever finds me. I know that loneliness is a fragrance one finds neatly folded in the bedsheets after they wake up tossing in the middle of a bed without ever needing to choose a side to sleep in. I know that the past can never come back, but it doesn’t really need to because it lives in your skin. I know that I hate the fact that I can see people’s thoughts and I never like what I see. I know that I want more and will probably get more, but it will still never be ‘more’ enough.
4. Be in love with your life
Little Mermaid Diary , November 29, 1992
Late Night Time
Dear Diary,
I am reading the Peter Pan book and it is much harder than watching the cartoon. I always have to look inside the dictionary and there is a word that is not even in the dictionary: it is “Hoop La!”. It is the only word Tinkerbell says in the book. I think the reason it is missing from the dictionary is because Tinkerbell is a fairy and does not speak English.
In the book by Mr J.M Barrie, Peter is very childish, which is why Wendy pretends to be his mother. But Peter also wants to kiss Wendy! I think Peter is stupid.
But I really like Neverland and the Lost boys.
They get found in the end.
Maria
Maria
8. Write what you want bottomless from the bottom of the mind
It is odd how the moment you dread most creeps up on you at the most unexpected time. I have spent six years now, dreading the day I might run into you, but in retrospect I am relieved I did. I am even a little happy. A very little.
People have told me that time heals wounds and ego’s. My mother and I always listen to them patiently and we seriously pretend to absorb their words as we look into each others faces to see the sheer ‘knowing otherwise’ that rests there. We never speak of you, you know. It is rather odd, because we speak about you far too much… but never of you. You are an easy person to caricaturize, demonise but a hard one to absorb, especially in memory. And we share far too many memories to acknowledge you any longer.
I never really expected to look up from my menu that day and see you staring at me from across the room. I didn’t anticipate the distant sound of a gun shot still echoing in my ears either. It is still as loud as I thought it was. I am proud though, that I did not look down and hide under my table. I am ashamed though that I hoped your face would soften slightly.
It didn’t.
You didn’t.
And I no longer need you to.
I walked away once, I'm doing it again and this time I wont be looking over my shoulder.
17. Write in recollection and amazement of yourself
A prison guard stands calmly outside an Iron cage door. His smirk speaks all too loudly of lofty opinions bought from nothing more than a higher vantage point.
“I am proud of myself.”
His smirk deepens as he seats himself on the rickety stool perched against the wall.
I have never really known what it was like to feel pride in one's self. I have only ever, been a spectator to the accomplishments of others, the hired help on most occasions, the court jester to cheer on their victories.
And I feel that I have played my part well, I was never blatantly jealous or resentful. I took in stride the entire childhood spent being told I was ugly and stupid. I believe I bore it well, exhibiting only the faintest traces of reactionary wry wit and sarcastic humor. I read my books and kept my head down.
So now, as I take this one step that opens a door to a future I never saw myself seeing, yes I am proud. Am I overbearing? I am not sure…but were I to be, who would be witness to it anyway, so where lies the harm? And now, I absolutely refuse to ‘be told’ how to feel anything about anything.
“You may leave. I shall not be needing your services any longer.
I never hope to again.”
His smirk fades slowly, making its way carefully into his dark eyes. But it is not alone in there, it shares uncomfortably close quarters with something he had not anticipated…
A sallow, begrudging glimmer of pride.
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
And even as I know that they make me the way I am, I know that it is not their fault. They were never meant to be Him, and my attempts to make them such were not only futile they were full of spite.My fears are my fault and their favours. I wanted them to fail as much as they wanted to, but you know what they say about the best laid plans.
I have not really ever tried to give away my heart. I am not much good with hearts. And yet I find it odd how one can still manage to collect so many sticks and stones without ever going in for the gamble.
“It’s all your fault, you try too hard to be good for everyone, but you're not. You will never be because of all your bloody trying”
I walked away once, I'm doing it again and this time I wont be looking over my shoulder.
17. Write in recollection and amazement of yourself
A prison guard stands calmly outside an Iron cage door. His smirk speaks all too loudly of lofty opinions bought from nothing more than a higher vantage point.
“I am proud of myself.”
His smirk deepens as he seats himself on the rickety stool perched against the wall.
I have never really known what it was like to feel pride in one's self. I have only ever, been a spectator to the accomplishments of others, the hired help on most occasions, the court jester to cheer on their victories.
And I feel that I have played my part well, I was never blatantly jealous or resentful. I took in stride the entire childhood spent being told I was ugly and stupid. I believe I bore it well, exhibiting only the faintest traces of reactionary wry wit and sarcastic humor. I read my books and kept my head down.
So now, as I take this one step that opens a door to a future I never saw myself seeing, yes I am proud. Am I overbearing? I am not sure…but were I to be, who would be witness to it anyway, so where lies the harm? And now, I absolutely refuse to ‘be told’ how to feel anything about anything.
“You may leave. I shall not be needing your services any longer.
I never hope to again.”
His smirk fades slowly, making its way carefully into his dark eyes. But it is not alone in there, it shares uncomfortably close quarters with something he had not anticipated…
A sallow, begrudging glimmer of pride.
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
And even as I know that they make me the way I am, I know that it is not their fault. They were never meant to be Him, and my attempts to make them such were not only futile they were full of spite.My fears are my fault and their favours. I wanted them to fail as much as they wanted to, but you know what they say about the best laid plans.
I have not really ever tried to give away my heart. I am not much good with hearts. And yet I find it odd how one can still manage to collect so many sticks and stones without ever going in for the gamble.
“It’s all your fault, you try too hard to be good for everyone, but you're not. You will never be because of all your bloody trying”
It is funny, how this one never seems to collapse on itself. As it turns out when you try to be good for yourself, it still is your fault.
“You will never get what your looking for, there is no such thing as a happily ever after, and if that’s what your looking for or working for, you should be prepared to remain alone for a very long time.”
Needless to say I am prepared, a tad whimsical…but most certainly prepared.
“Learn to settle! Life is all about settling, nobody’s that special”.
Settling is all I know. I refuse to settle this one time, trust it to be the one where I'm expected to!
“You are nothing but a brainless cunt.”
Silence.
I have dealt with bruised ego’s before.
This is the only way I know how.
18. Work from the pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
Our perpetual confusion rests in the not knowing of whether it is our words that give birth to our thoughts or our thoughts that beget our words. There is a someone I am writing this for, a somebody too busy being nobody, anybody, everybody just to escape being who I need them to be.
So I sit sipping currents of forgotten kisses in tiny plastic spoons, recalling their jaded reprisals of rank afternoons spent knowing things I know absolutely nothing about. Lazy evenings spent drowning in conversations we would both never dare put to action, lest they expose us. A variety of subjects: the number zero, the volume of frequent flyer miles to their credit, cough medicine, whether they think I am in love with them. They don’t, they won't…and so I don’t and I won't.
“You will never get what your looking for, there is no such thing as a happily ever after, and if that’s what your looking for or working for, you should be prepared to remain alone for a very long time.”
Needless to say I am prepared, a tad whimsical…but most certainly prepared.
“Learn to settle! Life is all about settling, nobody’s that special”.
Settling is all I know. I refuse to settle this one time, trust it to be the one where I'm expected to!
“You are nothing but a brainless cunt.”
Silence.
I have dealt with bruised ego’s before.
This is the only way I know how.
18. Work from the pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
Our perpetual confusion rests in the not knowing of whether it is our words that give birth to our thoughts or our thoughts that beget our words. There is a someone I am writing this for, a somebody too busy being nobody, anybody, everybody just to escape being who I need them to be.
So I sit sipping currents of forgotten kisses in tiny plastic spoons, recalling their jaded reprisals of rank afternoons spent knowing things I know absolutely nothing about. Lazy evenings spent drowning in conversations we would both never dare put to action, lest they expose us. A variety of subjects: the number zero, the volume of frequent flyer miles to their credit, cough medicine, whether they think I am in love with them. They don’t, they won't…and so I don’t and I won't.
It is a pretty pattern.
My sorry excuse for tales of talent ripe and bold, are only introduced so that they can be battered down by their need to criticize everything... but with a smile. A polite smile, no less. There are promises to be plumbed, dreams to be framed on pink walls. But I shall not dream them here, now. I refuse to swim in these savage waters any longer.
Luscious lies dressed in ball gowns dance a kiss we will never manage
Terrible truths clad in pin stripe guard the doors, half open… for me to run out of
And I shall leave now
For I am a turquoise sprite, riding a unicorn, eating a bowl of chili and dancing in delusions of daisies and sugar candy and they are a charcoal grey Armani suit inside out.
It is time to shatter my friend
It is time to scatter.
29. You’re a Genius all the time
& 13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
It is now time to decide who we are to be. Not who we want, mind you…wants are misleading. Are’s are attainable. So, dear sprite…who ‘are’ we to be? A choice must eventually come from limitless potential. And all potential is limitless.
So where are we to guide this flood of potential and genius? Kerouac himself said that writers are made, but genius’s are born. But they do not discover their genius in their life time, that is for others to do so. And if indeed it is for others to discover and for you to do then you needn’t worry about your reception.There are no rules, only resolutions. Everything, that has not been done before, in this manner before… is genius, he said.
So pick your poison.
Choose a path and act it.
There is to be no hiding, skulking, waiting, wading and marauding now. There are only to be now’s and be’s. If the choice is to write…
Then by all means…
WRITE.
1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild type written pages, for yr’ own joy
It is the end that must come at the beginning: for my own joy. There is an all too fragile notion that must be shattered here, now on this precarious juncture of this particular sixth page and second last paragraph: that life must be lived for others. It mustn’t. It is mine and those that wish me well want me to embrace it, those that don’t must be left behind.
For all the scribbles that my seven-year-old self began in her bound Little Mermaid Diary, that have led my twenty five-year-old madness wrapped in her boundless notebooks and paper scraps to this place…here is my gift to that girl.
To be given the gift of birth, of life, of possibility
To wait till one is ready to receive it…
To receive it.
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
I find it surprising that I have somehow managed to escape the loss of grandeur that one anticipates when disposing with ‘holiness’. If anything withdrawing from the ‘need’ to believe in something has made it much easier to believe in what is. And there is so much. There is a world to be seen, words to be written and wonders to be wished for. There is an open road and all one needs is the spirit to travel it and the naivete' to keep one going even when it gets ugly.
My sorry excuse for tales of talent ripe and bold, are only introduced so that they can be battered down by their need to criticize everything... but with a smile. A polite smile, no less. There are promises to be plumbed, dreams to be framed on pink walls. But I shall not dream them here, now. I refuse to swim in these savage waters any longer.
Luscious lies dressed in ball gowns dance a kiss we will never manage
Terrible truths clad in pin stripe guard the doors, half open… for me to run out of
And I shall leave now
For I am a turquoise sprite, riding a unicorn, eating a bowl of chili and dancing in delusions of daisies and sugar candy and they are a charcoal grey Armani suit inside out.
It is time to shatter my friend
It is time to scatter.
29. You’re a Genius all the time
& 13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
It is now time to decide who we are to be. Not who we want, mind you…wants are misleading. Are’s are attainable. So, dear sprite…who ‘are’ we to be? A choice must eventually come from limitless potential. And all potential is limitless.
So where are we to guide this flood of potential and genius? Kerouac himself said that writers are made, but genius’s are born. But they do not discover their genius in their life time, that is for others to do so. And if indeed it is for others to discover and for you to do then you needn’t worry about your reception.There are no rules, only resolutions. Everything, that has not been done before, in this manner before… is genius, he said.
So pick your poison.
Choose a path and act it.
There is to be no hiding, skulking, waiting, wading and marauding now. There are only to be now’s and be’s. If the choice is to write…
Then by all means…
WRITE.
1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild type written pages, for yr’ own joy
It is the end that must come at the beginning: for my own joy. There is an all too fragile notion that must be shattered here, now on this precarious juncture of this particular sixth page and second last paragraph: that life must be lived for others. It mustn’t. It is mine and those that wish me well want me to embrace it, those that don’t must be left behind.
For all the scribbles that my seven-year-old self began in her bound Little Mermaid Diary, that have led my twenty five-year-old madness wrapped in her boundless notebooks and paper scraps to this place…here is my gift to that girl.
To be given the gift of birth, of life, of possibility
To wait till one is ready to receive it…
To receive it.
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
I find it surprising that I have somehow managed to escape the loss of grandeur that one anticipates when disposing with ‘holiness’. If anything withdrawing from the ‘need’ to believe in something has made it much easier to believe in what is. And there is so much. There is a world to be seen, words to be written and wonders to be wished for. There is an open road and all one needs is the spirit to travel it and the naivete' to keep one going even when it gets ugly.
I am reminded of the Greek custom of commemorating a eulogy for the fallen, they asked only one thing, “ Did he have passion?”.
That was all it took to make or break a person then.
That is all that ever should.
That was all it took to make or break a person then.
That is all that ever should.
