Writing down three things I’m grateful for.

I’m writing down three things I’m grateful for.

This big, wet hole.

This monster. 

This me. Wait,

No, not that. 

I gotta think. 

C’mon! C’mon think! (Think, Stupid. Think, Stupid. Think, Stupid!). C’mon think. C’mon think. C’mon think. (maybe Daddy was right). C’mon THINK!!! 

… You know how when you have an aggressive dog biting the shit out of your leg slash arm and not letting  go and how you’re supposed to shove your finger up its ass? Well, that’s me. I am that finger. 

(Woof!) (Taking notes) The structural foundation is the basket (frame), which holds the motor assembly. The motor consists of a magnet, a voice coil suspended in the magnetic gap, and a spider.

Gotcha gotcha gotcha …

3 things 3 things 3 things …

 If my soul’s a rat, my mind’s a rat trap — Lie down and go SPLAT! Stand up: SPLAT! Or: I summon thee! I say, I summon thee, and a little me appears in the distance on a green hill, running full force but coming no closer. I miss you, I’ll say. I say that sometimes. (Can you still hear me?) And let’s pretend my mind’s a little clearer now, a little clearer because the bottom really sneaks up on you (ha!), and the booze wears off, and all the other shit, and I’m landing on a big slimy rock. KA-BLAM!! Beginning again. (Or whatever). I SUMMON THEE RIGHT NOW!! (Here comes little Hurricane!) (WHOOSH!) (Splat!!!) … (Whatever). But that’s not how it works; that’s not really how it happened, was it? When I fell so low just then? When you saw me fall so low just back then and how you went oof … Yikes. … ? 

How to cope with depression. 

Just don’t go near the knife drawer.

(Sliding my new Apple Watch on).

How to move forward, (Googling) how to move forward, (22 tabs open), (600 thousand windows open), (crabcake eyebrows), (ankles raw), (mouth open), how do I move?! Well, I take back what I said about your face that night I threw that vodka bottle at you, the way it disappeared in the snow. BYE BITCH! The way I went back the next morning to look for the bottle. … The way I fucking found it, thinking, this MUST be a sign that everything will be fucking fine, right? Remember, Baby? It has to be. It has to. Say it has to! SAY IT!!! Well … It has to be me, butt naked on the living room floor, scooping up a chunky cat vomit hairball with a wad of napkins, wondering, is it the darkroom demon or the dust storm for today? Will I be summoning myself in a way that makes any sense? Why are my eyes so fuzzy? 

Or was it me,

Wailing on the livingroom floor –

I want to die I want to die 

Iwaaaaannaaaadiieeeee

…

It’s so weird; it was like you were just here. 

But you were here. 

No you weren’t. 

So where were you? 

I’m starting to remember. …

On nights like this, the castle I built turns into a darkroom, with many men on their hands and knees, smothered in almond oil, eating steamed white rice out of itty-bitty terracotta bowls, one grain at a time. And their asses are swaying side to side. But that’s barely scratching the— . There’s a REAL itch that needs to be itched, ya know, but who knows where it’s at and who’s even looking anyways? (I am). 

Well, here's the chocolate fountain nobody asked for: My castle becomes a darkroom, my darkroom becomes a circus, my circus becomes a mask, my mask becomes a cage, my cage becomes a shadow, my shadow, my own shadow, becomes a hiding spot. It’s the perfect place to disappear and still be known. (I learned you’re supposed to hug yourself when you’re having a panic attack). Well, I hugged myself until my palms turned sour, until my knuckles bled blue, and I still couldn’t find the right words. I didn’t make the right face. (But what about the birds?) (Now what are they hiding?) I’m wondering. … Hands coming out of the dark to grab me, and little ol’ me wondering if I should grab back. Grab what? Grab where?  I’m learning. I guess. I’m turning down the same street that once brought me to the brink of total obliteration, deep into the dark forest, out in the wild, where I first felt me, the old me, and left me, the “me” as a gesture, a facade, to rot. (So much time and energy wasted barking up the wrong trees). (That’s not a quaking aspen, that’s a BIRCH, BITCH!) (Woof woof.) 

After almost a decade of grieving, remembering, and forced forgetting, here: a dead end, or a never-ending roundabout. It could be both, honestly, the way my shadow follows me and how I scurry to stay behind it. And honestly, it doesn’t matter so much. 

My previous shadows: DEAD BIRDS. Dead dead dead. Dead birds and the question that is the reflection before me (still me before me) — How much is left? (Am I the only bitch left)? Left for dead or left on read: (it’s so weird, it was like you were just here …) When I tell it like this, does it make a difference? 

Here, as I stare deeper, perhaps a hole emerges. Perhaps; no matter how fluid of a storm I’ve metamorphosized into, there are certain hard truths hiding. (OUCH!) (Go dig your own hole, Bitch). Stare there. I stare there. Stare there or stare anywhere long enough, and I’ll find myself staring at myself, like looking down a brown-gray well, or more precisely, find those unspeakable selves, the many sleeves of self that have been battered and beaten into a singular sludge (think hollandaise) so that I am capable of washing the dishes and walking the dog, for instance. (egg yolk, melted butter, and lemon juice.) Am I capable of making it to work on time? Am I capable? Am I fuckable? Bet you weren’t expecting the Hurricane to Hurricane right here right now, but I can’t control it. Can you handle it?  (Thinking, I alone can fix it). Fix what? Really, WHAT?! 

Try me. 

Bitch.

When power hits the voice coil, it vibrates and moves the attached cone (diaphragm), while the surround (the flexible outer ring) allows movement and pushes air to create sound. 

So, in a way, none of this is protocol-based.

(I’m writing down three things.)

…

All of my wisdom has come from alone time … Being alone in the face of a big, big bird, (Dead? Unclear.) (I mean it looks pretty dead ….) … And in the beak of it, on the gape of the hole, his hole, (seeing upside-down faces on the edge of the hole). I feel fear. I fear there is a monster inside, surely there must be. And who am I to say don’t feed that fire. Why not? Why not say LET THAT MOTHERFUCKER BURN!! ?? (eyes turning blood red), (mouth open real wide). Where can I drop off this massive mound of old boards and broken furniture and wooden scraps. Do I exist in there? (Stare there. I stare there). Maybe. … Do I exist out there? (Stare). (Grab a match). (Stare). And if so, where? (Do I exist just in my penis?) Huh? And if I situate myself correctly, is it possible to exist everywhere at once? Should I even want that? (Can you cum in this position?) So many people want this, should I want this? So many people want that, should I want that? (fuck!) So many people want everything, I could want that too. But then there’s also nothing … which … sounds … intriguing. Like, oh yea there’s nothing, that’s perfect, makes sense, let’s fuck. … 

What was I saying? 

Oh. 

A dustcap protects the coil from debris, and the gasket creates a seal to mount the unit securely.

So many little moments and so many layers, and an almost infinite amount of angles. I said SNAP A PIC BITCH IT’LL LAST LONGER. (Howling like a witch) (bending like a flower). All the way over like– (...)The flavor does dull out real quick though, that’s the problem. Feed the fire, turn your head, and once you look back, it’s dead. OUT COLD. Already??? You gotta be fucking kidding.

So sick of it, so I situate myself precisely. Sick of it, so I stick to what’s directly in front of me: me. My own me. (Yes, I’m still here).

Hello?