Constricted

Not so much bubbling up, but waves
Not so much waves but
Pressure exerted upward, pushing up through my chest and into my throat, down through my knees and making my shins and feet jump and contract
I want to be outside
I want to go places
Is this wanderlust?

Random

I need stress to write. I need stress to write?? That feels so cliche, so "tortured artist", so... counter intuitive. It's true though. I'm forcing myself to write this out, hoping something will get me going. One neuron will kick another, some idea will float down and land on my head (or more likely, plonk down and stare at me accusingly until I do something about it). Right now, there's just no push. The little bit of my brain that works like a typewriter, always clicking and spinning, slows down when I'm actually focused. When I'm busy, I need to daydream, leave myself for a bit, and that typewriter picks itself up and starts producing, all by itself. Sometimes I feel I'm just a vehicle for mad and strange ideas, bits of poetry, fragments of someone else's writing that filter down through the layers of the universe.

Drained

Two papers, one job, a thousand words I won't be speaking tomorrow.
Six classes, two thousand meters, too many people I encounter.
Is it bad I don't have the capacity to deal with Day of Silence right now?
Too many things pile up (even worse, beyond my control) and I can't move beneath the mental weight of decisions that change my outcomes and relationships.
Two weeks, two papers, one memorial service: the worst possible time for everything to come together.
Mental bills pile up: I'm sure they'll be collecting at some point.
Fuck.

Catch-22

When the world gives us
Heartbreaking belly laughing happy/sad crying mind bending circular timelines with syndicates and corrupt colonels and the stark blood and guts of human existence spilling through the pages
Why is it necessary for me to do anything but sit and wonder at
The state of a universe that holds such an existence but still
ceases to give up its own secrets?

Random Bits (My Day)

Last night: a random Target shopping cart, probably stolen and dumped, standing forlornly on the corner of a dark and rainy street. My dog sniffed it suspiciously.

Today: the unexpected surprise of early dismissal from practice, and then the complete letdown caused by a huge traffic jam of unknown origins. The firetrucks didn't seem in any hurry.

The Wasteland: phenomenal. Layers upon layers of words and meanings, waiting to be picked apart: the ultimate cake. Delicious.

Unexpected depth: velvet sky turned liquid, the moon suddenly giving light to thousands of unseen miles between Here and There.

Morning tea: arrived on the doorstep sometime during the night, heaven in a cardboard box. Perfect.

Lovely: a meeting of the minds, beyond class, of books and the power of wishlists. These things should happen more often.

Overall: fueled by caffeine, in the best way possible. Amen.

Things On My Desk

My phone
My glasses that I never wear, complete with glasses case they are never in
Mini scissors shaped like a cat
Size 1.5 Addi Lace circs, still in their package
A just finished library book
One jar of bottle caps, 3/4ths full
One jar of pennies and soda tabs, also 3/4ths full
A hole punch
A container of Sharpies, mostly used
Miscellaneous papers, including some that are probably important
A single stitch marker, retrieved from the floor
An opened letter, still in the envelope
Two thumb drives, hardly used
Two tax information forms, left to die
One headphone case, unused
Multiple blocks of sticky notes, always scribbled
Welcome to the detritus of my life.

Sunday Morning

This morning, I drank three cups of tea. "It's Sunday," I thought to myself. "Why not?" So instead of my usual one cup, Prince of Wales tea (I'm out of Scottish Breakfast), I went to my afternoon default. I found my bag of Lestrade tea by Adiago, and made a whole freaking pot. Bad idea. I'm shaking and can't sit still and I'm accidentally typing double letters because my fingers are jerky. Why do I always forget that tea is caffeinated? One cup in the morning gets me up, but I can go without it if I must. Two a day keeps me going through the afternoon, picking me up in the darker bits of early evening. But three? Three cups in about an hour period was a really, really poor decision. This has been a post.

I Have To Stop Spending Money

I have to stop spending money. I get paid every two weeks. I know when I'm getting paid. I know how much I'm getting paid. I know that I have an automatic withdrawal of $50 to my savings account every two weeks when I get paid. Yet I still spend money that I really shouldn't be spending. I just went to the yarn store, which I shouldn't have done because I cannot walk out of there without spending at least fifty dollars. Sure enough, it happened. I was only going to buy two sets of circular needles that I need for two at a time socks. But then... They had restocked all their yarn. ALL OF IT. It was so beautiful and colorful and soft and... two skeins of Manos del Uruguay later, I'm down $58 including needles. I have to stop doing this. It's the curse of having an income... now that I know it's coming, I feel better about spending it because I know there will be more in another two weeks. Thank the lord I set up my withdrawals to savings... otherwise I'd be dead broke, always.

More Numbers

And suddenly there are

Two days.

That's two times

Twenty-four hours

Four times

Twelve

Six times

Eight

Sixty times twenty four times

Two.

Thirty six hundred seconds a minute

Sixty minutes an hour

Twenty-four hours a day equals

Two days time.

That's

(you do the math)

One hundred seventy two thousand eight hundred seconds

All slowly trickling down

To nothing. 

Nonsense Poems

Three line stanza
Three word line
Three letter ending: Not.

One word sentence:
Yes.
No.
Maybe.

Three word line:
I love you.
Don't leave me.
I can't stay.

Six word story:
No time, no sleep, no worries.
Done.

Three word legends:
Go away now.
I hated you.
Take me back

Eleven second thoughts:
I don't know why I
Start and stop and start.
Palindrome?

Numbers:
One: heart.
Two: Legs.
Four: Eyes.
Ten: Fingernails.
Thirty-three: Vertebrae.
Million: Songs.

Artwork

I just sent an email submitting some of my artwork to a local show next week. It's a local show, really open and interesting, with performance art, photography, painting, etc. I saw the signs up earlier and thought about submitting, but my parents finally told me I should, so I sent the email. I'm so nervous! It's in a collective house that's pretty free-for-all, hipster, etc. I don't know if I will fit in, or if my artwork will be "unconventional" enough. Probably not, as I'm basically taking a classical art class, and that's what all my stuff is from.

Blabberment. That last paragraph was horrible. This is what happens when I've been studying. My brain falls out of my ears and oozes across the floor where it falls in between the cracks and disappears.

As the great author Terry Pratchett said, "Insanity is catching."

Thank you and goodnight.