first in a series of series of declared series

I am so frustrated I could file a class action lawsuit! If, you know, I had a lawyer. And money to pay them if they did not want to do all this work for free because I have a hunch the system is rigged and besides I am the most unreliable witness alive.

Ok maybe not the most unreliable. But my credibility and my credit are both shot. Probably it is no coincidence that they would go down together but if I start drawing connections too sharply I am going to look like I am psychotic or something and that would just–

well, underscore the “with psychotic features” portion of my vast collection of diagnoses. Which diagnoses will come up again if I get that far before I die but I am not sure how far I will even get before the coffee wears off or my eyes start aching so badly that I must stop typing and stare at my feet for the rest of the evening.

Personal responsibility. I have a lot of thoughts about that. Of course in late capitalism the persons saddled with personal responsibility are not those persons the Supreme Court saw fit to fashion out of the inherently lopsided autocracies that are corporations. They can do whatever they want; the invisible hand will guide and protect them in its boundless mercy for profit seekers.

The rest of us though. No such protection.

Still I can fantasize that everyone who espouses personal responsibility would actually be happy to take some on themselves and prove to the rest of us that they do believe this responsibility applies to everyone, not just to those other people who are not able to meet the free-market definition of worthiness.

I had the idea today to go out into the world. Because lately I have not been doing a whole lot of that because when I do what often happens is quite a lot like what happened today. I took my camera; I sort of made a new Gregorian calendar year resolution to go take pictures on my block at least once a week for the rest of the year and to try to see things that I have already seen a million times at least differently enough to take interesting pictures. Part of the resolution included posting them, somewhere, for anyone out there to look at. I hope to be able to get to that in between what may be called dystonic storms if what is going on with me is what I think is going on with me.

Really I think this was just an idea I had around the first of the year and I figured well this is a punctual moment so why not start and call it (one of) my project(s) for the year.

Looking up at an old building with columns and wrought iron faux balconies on the boarded-up windows

Today I took pictures of an old building that I am quite certain will soon lose its beautiful crumbling facade when someone buys it and decides that restoring said facade would cut into profits too much and instead they replace the facade with a facile quote of said facade. Because this has already happened to the two buildings adjacent to this one that were built in similar styles some time ago when architectural flourishes were not seen as excessive or if they were seen as excessive then it was still worth the time and money to carry them out in order to simply be excessive.

The point of my field trip was not necessarily the photography although I was aware this might be the only thing I was able to accomplish if I did accomplish anything at all. My general plan was to walk somewhere where there was a place to sit and then to sit there and maybe write a little bit about one or two of the million things that have occurred to me in the last couple of years and then gotten lost in the ceaseless clatter that is my central nervous system looking for itself or America or some other nostalgia-ridden peaceful ideal and that also makes starting andor continuing to write or think on any of these things into a challenge of modestly exhausting proportions.

I got as far as the parklet outside of a cafe over on Valencia just south of 22nd Street. I had thought maybe to try for the library at 24th Street but my back did not like all the standing still I had done while using my camera so I stopped here. I even got some coffee although I could not really afford it because why not go all out?

So I took my coffee to a parklet table and got myself seated which is itself an involved affair for reasons I do not fully understand except that it might have something to do with how I hang half of the things I think I might need from my bag and so they often get tangled up in each other and me and the dozen or so wallet chains I decorate myself wtih besides. Plus today a camera on a strap around my neck and you would think that carrying a bag would make organization easier instead of harder but no. It gets even worse if I put things in or on a backpack with carabiners and velcro and paracord. Backpacks are made to keep things out of reach until you Get There but I usually need things enroute and I should probably just get a toolbelt or something similar that could hold lots of things without using up my hands and neck.

Eventually though I was seated with my iDevice out and my coffee in front of me and I opened a note-taking app all ready to start. And then I realized that my eyes, neck, and head were all throbbing. At slightly different frequencies and also and this has been going on for a while but I do not notice that much here in my house because I guess I do not look down much at home if I look down that is if I bend my neck rather than, say, my waist in order to see something below my current horizon line then my head starts to ache or in this case ache worse. My neck muscles apparently do not like to be stretched that way because the ache starts in the back on one or both sides of my cervical spine and apreads from there to my temple(s) and forehead(s–oh wait. I only have one of those!).

This can be annoying when trying to use an iDevice without holding it up so that I can look directly ahead at it. Holding the iDevice up in that way makes my shoulder muscles angry if I do it for too long especially if the reason I am doing it is because the muscles in my face are angry because they will just spread the love on down to whatever part of me tries to do anything but remain still and as relaxed as possible which often is not at all possible but you have to try anyway if you want to be able to do anything at all the rest of the day.

My nose was twitching. Not so that anyone could see it but some nerve in my right-nostril-flaring muscle(s?) was unhappy or alarmed or something and so sending a repeated signal to a tiny bit of that muscle to contract and then shiver at about 70Hz or so for half a second. A half second of rest and then another signal. You might say it was on a 70Hz over 2Hz sort of signal. Or the other way around.

I don’t know which.

But most of the muscles in my face twitch for short periods at about 70Hz and in the night when it is quiet I can hear them, you know, from the inside, through whatever bone is between the muscle and my inner ear. Because my jaw is trying to shut itself with great emphasis much of the time and with varying amounts of force fueling that emphasis, I can only tell if it is relaxed if I stop hearing it strain against itself. Sometimes this means my jaw can be fully slack, but it usually finds rest somewhere between clenched tight and teeth not quite touching. A point of homeostasis between warring muscle groups, always at a slightly different length of the arc that defines the full range through which my chin can move all by itself. “Slack” jaw for me actually requires continuous muscular effort against the contractive forces almost always exercising themselves. And this generates that same hum slightly higher in pitch than the familiar sixty cycles of AC power. Or wherever those sixty cycles come from. Wall socket I am pretty sure but don’t quote me on that.

My eyes do not hum. They just ache if I try to swivel them upwards or sideways. You know, in their sockets. Not moving my head. Not all the time but if my nose or cheek or eyebrow are twitching it is usually the case that my eyes are not wanting to do any work at all other than the heavy-lidded unfocused meditation gaze at forty-five degrees of nothing. And so that is what I let them do even if I am not formally meditating right that minute. In fact this whole symphony of muscular restlessness will sometimes relent of I meditate on the spot. Or at least I can keep it toned down a little for as long as I look down with my eyes half-closed and my neck absolutely straight or even bent back slightly. If I wait long enough I can say I was meditating even if I was just waiting for the storm to pass and trying to think calm relaxing thoughts to help it on its way as well as to retain my own composure for another few minutes.

Klonopin can help a bit too, so I took a quarter of one and washed it down with my coffee so as to maybe counteract its sleepier-making effects. Oh and also water. Especially if I have eaten recently, half to a full liter of water can hurry my face along towards placidity. Of course then I will be hurrying myself along to the restroom soon enough but I know where all the good ones are in my neighborhood plus if all else fails I can just use the one in my therapist’s waiting room I mean hallway.

And so once the Klonopin and water and coffee were administered I sat somewhat Buddha like in the parklet chair with my head facing forward and my eyes down. People walked past with great commotion of noise and light. They say that the eye thing–if dystonia is the cause or rather the effect become a cause of the twitches and contractions–is a slow spasm of the eyelid muscles, but that does not explain at all why sound becomes all clanky loud and light all knife-edged bright while I cannot look at anything that requires eye muscle movement of any kind not just lid-raising.

In any case. I managed to type two paragraphs into my iDevice eventually but that was all my body would let me do, so I got up and walked home after getting my bag and my jacket and my camera all tied on in the right places. I rifled through the things I keep in my head to write for the one that would be a useful tangent for the story I keep saying that I want to write which is my own story of which there are thousands if not tens of thousands or more and it hit me: fucking class-action lawsuit! The mess I have been in the last several however manies is one that others share and not one of us chose to place outselves here.

But against whom? I start to make a list:

Jack Chick, most definitely, or whatever he left of his little evangelistic comic empire.

The Southern Baptist Convention?

How far back into the multiple, ramified chains of events would one want to reach?

I think the statute of limitations has passed to try to find the dude who raped me.

Not my brother. I know where he is.

The other dude.

How about a class-action lawsuit against the whole of compulsory anatomically essentialist heteronormativity? Who precisely is responsible for that?

Billy Graham Industries or LLC or Incorporated or however his offspring continue to make money by threatening the masses with the Lake of Fire. Oh, sorry. This one belongs up there with Jack Chick. I would not say the Grahams are completely to blame for the heteroassumptions into which they were all born.

I am refraining from naming what might be the most obvious entity to sue if the symptoms that started as soon as I stopped taking Zyprexa and continue to this day are actually somehow even in the most tortuous of ways connected the drug itself or its method of discontinuation. I will just leave this here though.

OK this was going to be a short intro? And I was going to write the story of why Jack Chick is the first culpable party that sprang to mind upon imagining financial compensation for chronic daily annoyance? But probably I have lost most of my audience already so I will try that a little later with some luck and Klonopin and water oh and lots of just. breathing.



so I said this is not finished so I said post it anyway so I said ok I hope you know what you are doing so I said of course I do

I do not even know where to begin.

I have begun. I have begun and I have begun.

So many starts that by now fifty thousand or so of me are deeply involved with their chosen labyrinths each one as necessary and urgent as all of the others combined which presents a logical difficulty but not a phenomenological one.

I cannot wait.

I cannot hold my tongue.
I cannot hold my water.
I cannot hold my liquor.

I cannot hold myself to any promises this I only learned in the last couple of years. Apologies if I promised you anything before approximately now. I would give you the world but I probably would not be able to complete the process of packaging it and printing out the postage and taking it to wherever it needed to be taken in order for you to receive it in this lifetime. It is not a matter of will or laziness or disregard nor have I yet been able to articulate what it is a matter of so far I can only watch myself spend hours trying to choose a direction to move in and being unable to intervene in the thought process that takes each direction up to look at its pros and cons and trace its dependencies over and over again until I run up against the hitch enough times to recognize it for what it is at which point I must deliberate how to resolve the hitch which usually requires much the same process in a slightly different direction and this can repeat indefinitely until if I find the lynchpin before five years have gone by I congratulate myself for a job well done.

Because it is a job well done even when the original job gets lost in the trash heap of what I could not do at the time some months or years prior to that.

We learn to heap praise upon ourselves for brushing our teeth.
For putting on shoes.
For washing something. Anything.
For walking down the street without panic on one side or exhaustion on another.
This is not me complaining. This is me carrying water and chopping wood.
This is life. This is what life is.
Trimming your nails without shame.
Can you do that.
Looking in the mirror without averting your eyes.
Can you do that.
Hercules himself would have collapsed in the effort.
Which does not make me a hero.

I cannot find the right words at the right time.
I cannot allow myself to speak even and especially when I have finally worked out with exquisite detail and exacting turns of phrase to evoke precisely the right scene with precisely the right amount of pathos supported by clear but not overbearing arguments to show that I mean no harm and I do not wish to win or that is I do not wish to be able to defeat or conquer even when I cannot do without what are called fighting words because the occasion calls for them and I cannot ignore that call.

There is no way as it turns out to keep everyone comforted or comfortable and so there is no way to guarantee my own safety even when the last word for me must be to stay out of harm’s way. Nothing I say (saw was the typo that snuck out before I caught it) can be without painful consequences because it is the issue of painful consequences which were the issue of painful consequences: the terror of generations terrorized into clinging to and defending to their deaths the most ruthless most bare and absurd imposters of comfort or calm or peace because comfort and calm and peace themselves fled so long ago none of us can remember when they last showed up as anything other than violation under gag orders.

It is not only that one side of my family is abusive without realizing it except when it looks into the windows of a sister or brother to see someone misbehaving and then all is consternation and confusion. That I recall the hushed conversations and puzzlement over why this kid was being bad or why this one here was showing signs of being unable to maintain even through grit teeth the brittle naivete that had brought us along so far to wherever it i was we had got which was itself widely known to be completely unknown. Nor is this the whole story because I am only here where I am and was only there where I was and only saw and heard what I saw and heard and only remember what I remember if that much.

It is not only that. But it is that. Just not only that.

It is not only that another side of my family has successfully ridden its own stoicism all the way to the underworld enough times that at this point there is practically nobody left to answer to. All of us amiable ciphers to all of us or maybe that was just me. In any case we the survivors are of a loose knit to put it in amiable terms. There would be other stories to be told but the storytellers are dying out.

It is not only that. But it is that. Just not only that.

It is not only that I live in a culture that enshrines violent domination exploitation and competition over its naturalized delusions of unending lack as not just necessary because hey life is hard toughen up but because we actually believe these things to be divine givens, moral imperatives, and the most perfect and just ideals ever conceived by human beings. To judge our own lives as miserable and in need of salvation immediately upon leaving the womb: the fetus is innocent and even sacred until it crowns into original sin and a personal responsibility so abject as to suggest that all of history is reset at every moment of birth in turn starting over and over and over and over until we are not only each our own island but each our own universe with time and space immaculate for that instant before the mark of Cain sets us against all the others vying for the reassurance that ours and only ours is the righteous and sanctioned path. Even the irreligious believe this religiously.

It is not only that. But it is that. Just not only that.

sort of like you know I’m not sure but definitely I will think about it yes

I found this at How to Make Money Writing Poetry (Part One):

  1. Always use keyword research when you are writing material that you will use to draw traffic or to make money online.
  2. Use Keyword Research to select your blog niche, blog title and blog URL. Preferably you want to select popular AND profitable keyword terms.
  3. Use keyword research to select blog topic posts and write blog posts or poems based on profitable and popular keywords.
  4. If you already have a collection of poems for your blog posts package them such that they fall into a profitable keyword niche.
  5. Make sure you include the main keyword at the beginning of the title of your blog post (so that it will show in the URL of the blog post) e.g. A Sad Love Poem by Your Name: Love Lost. Keep in mind that for branding purposes, keyword research and search engine optimization, the poem niche and your name are more important than the title of the poem.
  6. Make sure that you include your main keyword in the body of your blog post and in the tags. You should also try to include related popular keywords.

Some backstory:

I am doing a research project. It is really the same one it has always been and it is not particularly distinct from any of the other concrete things that I work on but it may have been for instance my primary topic of academic writing if I had kept to a course in which academic writing was the sort of writing I was doing but since I am not so much writing of academic pieces even though everything I do write would have been impossible to write without having for a long time been an academic and without still being more or less in study more or less all of the time this research project is not precisely an academic research project but it is not precisely not one either.

The topic, broadly, could be put this way:

What the fuck.
I mean.
What. The. Fuck.

I could spend some time detailing the many contexts in which I so often say or read or hear about this approximate topic but I do not know that I could do this adequately in fewer than 5000 words and I am not up to 5000 words today and besides it would take at least 10,000 to really explore all the genres of what the fuck. So this is but a bare outline of where my own overburdened incredulity has led me up to this point:

I am looking at the colonization of Europe by specific human species and groups starting around 45,000 years or so ago through the fall of the Roman Empire and the Christian conquest of what is often called paganism. I am looking at the development of the idea of individuality in Europe and the Americas. I am looking at the geneaology of dualistic structures in mainly European and USian traditions of thought and inquiry. I am looking at USian psychiatry’s approach to diagnosis and treatment of “mental disorders” and I am looking at whatever relationships might suggest themselves between cultural trauma and abusive child-rearing philosophies.

I am also trying to track my own family’s history in the US and in Europe at so many times and places I have no hope of putting anything in narrative order. I am looking at USian imagery and discourse on disability, responsibility, and productivity. I am looking at the broad spectrum of outcomes of treating the designated symptoms of PTSD with neuroleptics, mood stabilizers, SSRIs, SNRIs, novel antidepressants, anticonvulsants, stimulants, and whatever else might be deemed possibly beneficial.

I am also looking at what I think I see as a tendency in disciplines practicing the scientific method toward reductive haste and over-confident explanation and investigating ensuing patterns of having repeatedly to recognize greater complexity in observing and theorizing empirical reality.

So. You know.

Over the weekend I decided to try to read one of the many texts I have been accumulating on these and related subjects only to find that once again I had to stop after less than ten pages and go write.

I say once again because this has been happening with greater and greater frequency over I would reckon the last two or three years. Maybe longer but I think in 2010 I could still finish a book-length academic text and in fact did so although I am not sure which one because I have completely lost track of what I have started to read and what I have read all the way through and what I am in the middle of and what I have put down because I was sleepy or exasperated or disgusted or curious about cited sources or excited about curious sources or so energized that I had to go take a five-mile walk.

And so I went to write. And I can even say that I was successful at least to the degree that I did indeed write even to the point of finishing a section of unDiaGnosed or that is writing enough on it that I was reasonably willing to post it for public consumption and so did just that.

I do not know what I am going to try to do next but it will probably be a response to this growing hunch that it is time to write and that if I try to do other than write I am probably going to be frustrated and depressed and cranky and unbearable even and especially to myself.

And although I do write because I cannot not write or that is when I write it often is the case that not writing was not so much an option I also do write in hopes that someone will read what has been written and find it appealing or useful or amusing or not a complete waste of time and because this has happened before I do actively search for readers although “actively” is sometimes of necessity not particularly active-looking to anyone not familiar with the way I am put together and sometimes that anyone includes myself.

But so the SEO Poetry tips were the result of a Google search looking for suggestions on how to broaden one’s online audience and of nearly everything they say one should do there is almost no chance that I will do any of it except maybe ponder some basic web user interface problems which I have historically tossed to the winds because I was not really trying to make things easy to find and certainly not trying to create descriptive links and in fact usually wanted you to have no idea what a given link would produce when clicked. I think though that I might have to make a concession or two at least for the purposes of providing clear paths to anyone who might actually be trying to find a thing because they want to read it. On the other other hand this thing that I write that might be a blog but is sporadic and without direction although I am not all that interested in furnishing it with any particular sense of direction I would like it to be somewhat less sporadic in some way that might actually render me able to pull off something like a change in direction for the collection of writing sites that are nominally mine and that I consider active even if I have not posted in two years on at least one of them.

Something might happen here is what I almost mean to say. I do not know what. I do not know if anything at all will happen but if say I were to find energy enough and to enjoy any period of what they call productivity at all I would like to try a couple of things. None of them are SEO poetry.

Unless they are. Because I did stop in my rush to make fun of the How to Make Money Writing Poetry (Part One) tips and wondered what it might be like actually to follow these tips without following them. Or to take them as occasions for making something they probably were not trying to help me put together. Because when it comes to cultural subversion I am pretty much about straight-on perversity or certainly what usually results is abruptly orthogonal even to what I think I am trying to do.

What I mean is that I do not think I will be writing ironic SEO poetry not just because irony has been chewing on its own tail for so long now that it has practically devoured the distance from itself that it requires of itself but more because I still do best at associational perversity. I may forget about SEO poetry altogether and make no response at all but I am still going to think about it. Or something else.