oh golly it’s novemeber 2 and I haven’t written a single post yet. already blew it! that’s ok. I’m going to try to hit the remaining 29 days.
I might try some weird stuff this month, like incomprehensible gibberish. it may amount to something or it may not amount to anything or it may seem like it does not amount to anything but for that very reason be of some value in some land where words are daily dismantled and reassembled in order to amuse children idiots and lunatics.
in case you want to go an an anti-ableist rant I’ll just point out that I am not particularly grown up, not particularly party to knowledge that is not freely available, nor particularly what is understood in US culture as well-adjusted or even sane at times. which may mean I have internalized negative messages about people like me or I might be using epithets ironically or I might be using them for reasons that are neither self-denigrating–why would that be necessary?–nor intended to distance me from the whole messy affair of how language strikes us when used as a weapon but to plunge me into battle in a way that does not involve arguing for my views. doing that only stresses me out so I am trying to give it up wherever possible.
maybe it is premature to make that decision but in any case I think it is more important to do the things with language that you think should be done rather than send out a call for some others somewhere to do something related to their interpretation of your call.
not that that would not be productive but it would be sort of the long way around for one and for two if anything I write is interesting enough then anyone who wanted to do something similar or different could do that. if it is not interesting enough to cause any sort of stir even in one person in a place I will never visit well it will have been a way to pass the time.
not that time needs help in passing but it does happen that every now and again it occurs to me that I have to keep myself heavily medicated in order to generate enough energy to overcome the dull throbbing dread that greets me when my eyes open after sleeping a few hours or so.
coffee helps. if it were not for coffee I probably would never leave my bed. well except to stretch a bit because if I lie in bed for too long I end up in a fair amount of pain because my body is built crooked but my bed is just flat like every other bed. I have one of those memory foam toppers that is supposed to cradle my every crook but it does not do what it promises that is it is soft and comfortable to fall asleep on but I wake up a few hours later with stiff back, neck and legs. there are times that I must reach for my knee and pull it up with my hands because using the muscles in my legs is incredibly painful. other times that I cannot sit upright nor roll over to tip myself upright until I am awake enough to breathe through the pain.
I knew it would be this way eventually because as I said I am not well-composed. but other people have it much worse. I can generally get the pain down to a livable level for most of the day with mild narcotics and muscle relaxers.
so I do all this for coffee because anything else waiting for me is either unpleasant, intolerable or completely useless. not that those are necessarily judgments as to worth or goodness. the intolerable can certainly be the most necessary and good and the completely useless can move mountains. which would be useless but it could be done.
really it is not that bad. I mean ok I do mostly want to die most days at some point in the day but I also am glad not to be dead most days so it evens out.
I should warn you from the outset that everything I write is autobiographical and therefore necessarily navel-gazing because I do not understand other people and I have no imagination for fictional characters. sometimes if I write verse it seems not to be autobiographical but it is just in a way that the graph that results is not quickly recognized as that upon which one could hang something like a continuous rationale for a life. which is what autobiography does at least in part or some of the time.
I could not tell you what it is I am trying to accomplish with my own autobiography other than to tell other freaks that one can live to a ripe old age even if one is prone to psychosis at intervals. also one can live through a million insults to the body and mind and still find other people who will love you, if you let them, and whom, if you allow yourself to, you can love back. the weird thing is that you can never predict just who it is going to be. people will walk into your life completely at random and stay there for thirty, forty years. life is like that. others you vaguely remember as that one guy at that one night at the bar who seemed like a very pleasant fellow but we never ever again ran into each other. life is also like that.
so, um. don’t pull the trigger. not just yet.