Not In The Past

Looking forward from 30

Archive for the category “Writing”

7/365: Consequence of Choice

Every single decision we made
killed a possible version of ourselves,
each aborted by paths chosen or rejected,
and through a whole lifetime,
cities of hypothetical identities were razed
through compromise or force of will.

#365poems at


6/365: Robbery

My mind and spirits are sustained
While my body starves and withers.

To give you what I have
Means giving you
A mere painting or photograph
Standing in for the object.

Sometimes, that will do,
and sometimes, that’s robbery.

#365poems at

5/365: Pedestal

My memories distort over time
and make you impossible.

Exaggerated ideals
flatten out the essence
That draws me.

#365poems at

4/365: Meta

In it for the purpose of breaking through
the mental strain, cramming every last thought
out onto the keyboard.

Typing hesitantly.
Straining thoughts and images out
as if they were constipation stools.

eroding all sense of flow.
Starts and stops like a jammed cassette.

#365poems at

3/365: Pathology

You don’t want respect, only pity
The empty gesture that asks
that you change nothing in return

Respect is such an alien thing to you
that you accept the malnourishing substitute
slowly letting your insides fester

My desire for the opposite
makes this seem especially toxic

#365poems at

2/365: Mindscrew

The thoughts
that pollute my head
When I want to rest
Obscure my perception
and insulate me
From experience

The vivid life comes
Before the day begins
Stops making sense
Long before it dissolves
Leaving strands to translate

#365poems at

1/365: Sappy 08

I did not plan to see this small-town spectacle
That drew bohemians and musicians.

The magic secret had been suddenly publicized
and was no longer a rare memory for a select few.

The quirks and legends are now
an annual destination.

I stepped outside my life,
and paid for conversation, music, comfort and company
with a thorough drenching and a sleepless night.

Yet I felt more part of it all that night
before I found myself
conspicuously attempting to revive the past.

#365poems at

Scraps from yesterday

I decided to go downtown to get a little writing done yesterday.  When I go to a coffee-shop to write, though, things come out in spurts: not really a coherent narrative but just whatever farts out of my head.  Thoughts, character sketches, playing around with words and phrases that pop into mind.

Some of the better ones (with minor tweaking for clarity):

Bloody blades of a story.  I can see the nakedness of your thought before I moved into your sphere. Young collegiate women with their schoolwork, giggles barely rising through the music; an electric throwback.  With what should I keep myself entertained?

The fog of my own thoughts and insecurities.  It takes a special person to able to cut through this.  If you can manage this, and make me a little more human when I interact with you, you’re in.  (The sky turned grey).  I’ve grown to realize these aren’t flukes, but not something to take for granted.

The cars pass by, red tail lights streaking past the stationary glow of each sign across the street.  Several stories above, a crane teeters limp – at rest.

Grace was always looking at people with a lack of patience and an interrogative stare – as if she demanded that your returning her gaze clarified what the fuck it was you wanted.

Cha cha Charlie –  Waiting for the groove to end.

I decided that I’m actually going to participate in NaNoWriMo this year; I really want to get my writing discipline back, even if it is just to vomit words onto a page for me to pick coherent nuggets out of later.

Streams of consciousness

Am I dwelling too much in the dark parts of my mind that give lease to my anxieties and bad habits these days?  I feel self-indulgent at times, just wanting to find the validation of parts of me that I’m not sure are there.  I want to sit on the beach; a nice, warm beach with sand and not too many rocks.  I stare out at the ocean until the water calls me inside and doesn’t play games with me with sudden brutal cold.  The world seems so small when I’m online, but faced with reality, a drive across the province might as well be a drive to the other edge of the country.

I had a taste of myself that I missed when I was in Ontario; maybe it was just having people in the flesh that do it, where I don’t feel like I need to pretend to be interesting through careful manipulations of letters and spaces.   I need to write people letters again; I still owe too many people some legitimate snail mail.  I feel like I have to keep my activities behind the big door here lest the prying eyes of people who don’t recognize personal space start questioning me on information they’re not party to.


What’s holding me back?  I find my boldness is inconsistent and not even tied to whenever I’m slightly inebriated.  What does it take to have me lose my reservations and fear of failure?  Sometimes truth plays too much like a greeting card for my liking.


I’m thinking of going camping again; the last time I went was somewhat of a disaster.  First rule for me is don’t go with someone who you’ll but heads with at every stage of the venture.  I feel the road drawing me away from my fixed position.  It’s hard for me to imagine things that aren’t influenced by past experiences, especially if I’m trying to think about something that’s a complete break from my present reality.  I had a dream last night where for some reason I was in a dorm again, and some guy pissed on my floor.  I wonder where that comes from.  Is this really what I’m thinking about these days?  Piss?

How do you harness this desire to write?  I’m remembering the days when my friend and I built a journey for two errant former college athletes going from Duluth to New York to try to beat the mediocrity of their best-case scenario.  I want to get back into that productivity again, but I find that when I’m working, I’m too drained to write, and when I’m not working, I feel too guilty to do it.

Stream of consciousness for tonight

I’m just going to sit here and write for a half and hour.  Time to plow through the various emotional states and feelings I still haven’t sorted out, they just pile like laundry.  Plow through bitterness and resentment, more frustration than anything else.  It’s not the fault of the sugar industry that I feel like I’m typing stylized gibberish.  Right now I’m going through Google maps, looking at neighborhoods I’ve never been to and realizing how well-put-together it all looks: and here I sit, stuck in the crumbling ruins of a land that goes within a snail’s pace.  The snails have left us in the dust.

We’re all cliches and limited mental states: I don’t feel the full range of being alive when I’m tethered here, tied with emotional connections and reinforce fears that I can’t make it outside of my bubble.  Better to have me in a stifling structure than to have me roam free into something that might not be pleasant.  I feel ill-equipped and ill-trained to run for the real world.  Talking about myself just make me self-conscious about slipping into solipsism (I seem to be fond of that word these days).  I live vicariously through the people who have cut themselves loose from their moorings and found new lives, unbound by their previously held expectations and finding what they hadn’t expected to even desire.

My possessions are clutter.  I don’t know what I believe in these days, just am fully aware that the path laid out before me is leading into a loop, and if I really want to get somewhere, I have to cut a few trees and climb a few walls.  Which walls are my own construction and which were imposed on my path by other people?  My holding pattern lets these walls go up, and fortify themselves so that it’s harder and harder for me to break through, get to the place that I might be happy.  The search may not yield anything for a while, but I’m sick of the known, and I’m sick of the facade I keep up just for a little stability.

Stability, that’s a concept.  I used to crave it when I was younger, resisting change.  That’s what loyalty springs from.  But I’m getting bored, and I’m realizing that things are starting to decompose, and the stench is overpowering.  I can’t breathe anymore.  I don’t want to break out of my mold in front of everyone right away, just in case they push back.  The fleeting nature of life makes me realize that it’s something that can be wasted, and there is only so much time and so many experiences I’ll get.

Life was meant to be full of pain and ecstasy.  Order is not natural; chaos is not something to be feared, just acclimatized to.  All this time spent trying to impose order is time I should have spent getting used to the way it really is.  All these missed opportunities.  I’m not dead yet.  I’m also not as young as I was, and worry about how much harder it is to dig out from the ruts I land myself into.  This time spent worrying is time I’m wasting.  We don’t have enough time to waste, but I wonder if some of use just can’t get the momentum that others can.

Seeking color.  Washed out beiges and yellows are pissing away my eyesight to the point where any variation is getting too hard on my eyes to recognize.

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