I Got No Idea What To Do With This Today. Been Feeling That A Lot Lately. I Think It Would Be A Lazy
I got no idea what to do with this today. Been feeling that a lot lately. I think it would be a lazy cop out to just write that and leave it at that. Even though it is lazy, it’s honest. This is just some dumb blog but I’m not going to write anything that isn’t true and I’m sure as fuck not going to write anything that I don’t feel or that I don’t believe in.
Of course, that does not mean every single thing I’m going to write will have weight behind it. Shit, I could write that I want pizza and that could be quite true and something I truly believe in. I’m just not going to bullshit you. Do you believe me? Why do you believe me? What reason do you have to believe me? Fuck. If you do believe me, I have to say that I’m genuinely touched. Thank you.
I’m surprised that I’ve stuck with this. In the spirit of not bullshitting you, I’m a bit of a flake. I tend to give up pretty easily. That’s why I don’t have a ton to show for 35 years of life. When things get tough, I tend to peace the fuck out. This is a long established pattern. It’s what I do. Yeah, a large part of this tendency is animated by depression. Yeah, I’m too hard on myself but I don’t want to be too easy on myself either. Don’t mistake me for a climber though. What I’m after is fulfillment, personal satisfaction. I could give a fuck about climbing. I know that I’m never getting rich writing poems about rain. Poems. I hardly ever do that anymore. Whenever I try, sometimes I end up with these aggressive, creative rhymes but I just stop when I really can’t rhyme anymore. I do have to say that I got some satisfaction from yesterday’s entry when I started off typing the word ‘fuck’ over and over and over again and then ended up on some semi-poetic meditation on the word ‘fuck’ and the contexts that it gets said among other things. I may re-visit that.
Saying mean things to Tucker Carlson on Twitter does not make the world a better place but it makes me feel a little bit better about his existence on this planet. I don’t want to debate him. He isn’t worth the effort. He doesn’t give a shit about logic or facts and if I’m being honest (which I try to be.) neither do I. They have their place but in the world we got, they got seriously limited utility. When power decides facts don’t matter, they don’t matter. Tucker may not ever read the barbs I tweet his way but I think there is power in giving a mouthpiece for the protofascist scum running the country the respect he deserves.
The DSA (Democratic Socialists of America) made me proud this week with their badass direct action in Washington, D.C. and Portland, Oregon. Good work, comrades.
We have a barbecue at work to celebrate the summer solstice. Work stuff like that tends to be lame but I enjoyed BS’ing with the people I work with. I’m a shy guy by nature but I do enjoy having animated conversations with people and making them laugh or at the very least engaging with people in a genuine sorta way.
That’s an accurate description of my project, I suppose. Being genuine. Authentic.
Authenticity however is a bitch and it can be a luxury you just cannot fucking afford sometimes. Shit, I think you can really only have so much of it in a world where your good looks, charm and kindness don’t pay your bills.
More Posts from Mistahsojourner and Others
Red Pills
Every red pill I ever swallowed
was barely a placebo
dime store salvation
dolled up like nirvana
to get me through the day
to get me through the day
to get me through the day
and some days I came out something like alive
and thought I’m free of the dread
in this dream
none of us chose
but nah
and I’m never getting a refund
for any of those pills
the twisted man
from the internet sold me
so I’ve got a live with it
Improvised trek
into the coldest
and maddest parts
of you and me
and I hope you’ll come with me
into the setting sun
Half naked.
Arms raised like some prophet preachin’ what nobody wanted to hear
but I bleed for ‘em
so they love me
Get punched.
Get kicked.
The more it hurts
The more they feel it
that stuff people think is the holy spirit.
Tightness in the chest
need bed rest
but the show must go on
the roar of the diabetic souls
that in the night
tell me not to mix those two things
gets me through another one.
Fly to victory
and then the waiting room.
Therapy
Second therapy session today.
I don’t really give a fuck what anyone says. You are only going to be so comfortable telling a stranger that you’re paying about your life.
It’s a weird thing to say, “This is the type of childhood that I had, this is what school was like for me and this is where I ended up as a result.”
I get asked the question, “You like to write yet you work in IT. How does that happen?”
Yeah man. It just kinda fucking happened and I don’t know how to get paid to do anything else.
My world is nothing but mundane. I work. I worry about screwing up at work. Sometimes I study for an exam that baffles me and interests me little. I slouch at my desk and look busy. I anticipate terror that often times never comes.
Sometimes I manage to focus enough to read. I finished Understanding Power by Noam Chomsky. I e-mailed the man. He wrote me back. He didn’t say much but I appreciate that he acknowledged an anonymous nobody like me. I learned a lot from that book. It did something to me.
I came very close to angrily declaring to my therapist that communism will win. That was really the first time that I expressed candidly the role living in such a fucked up society has on the psyche. That is a huge part of this. This. What I’m doing here. What makes me cry. What fucks me against my will. What turns me into a homely yet charming robot who is programmed to provide you with excellent customer service today. What makes me do this. Trying to express without asking you for a credit card number first.
That’s a huge part of the project.
What do you do in the world when you just can’t shake something?
One day
I can awaken from the dream
and I’ll be a YouTube star.
My idiosyncrasies will be viral
and my soul will be trademarked.
Maybe I can buy myself a seat
on The Muskrat’s space boat to Mars
and I can suffocate
with the richest
and the sexiest
while the people left behind watch
while the minds that coded all the killer apps
die well-dressed.
Maybe I’ll upload
in some time, some place
that’s warm
and that ain’t so cruel
and that’s broken in some way
that’s easier to fix.
Maybe one day
I can awaken from the dream
as a man
who sorta knows what to do
sorta knows the truth
sorta knows how to love.
Of course, I’ve got no idea what to say. Not a god damn thing. This is just another Monday survived. I knew I was coming into a shit show. I knew all weekend that a potential horror show was waiting for me. I handled it. I held on. That’s all. Tomorrow is another day and there will be another day after that and another day after that and so on until I die.
Yeah. That’s all.
Some days just are. No sugar. No flowers. They just are there to age you.
Fuck
Fuck.
When the boss on his shit again and I got a head full of commie propaganda on a Monday
When it’s one way and I need it to be another
God damn it, good looks don’t pay fuckin’ bills.
Fuck.
She whispers it in the dark
when she wants that love harder.
At the sky
when you got nothin’ but the rain, your sweat, your bones and a raw deal.
Gotta watch who hears you say that
Not sacred
but it’s something, ya know? You feel me? Am I talkin’ crazy?
Fuck.
Kinda tempted to make an NSFW blog. Yeah. Be more open about my freaky side.
This has hung in the home I grew up in for as long as I can remember.
