It’s Starting To Become Not Enough To Just Write. I’ve Written Semi-diligently Almost Every Single

Okay.

I’ve dabbled in Buddhism. The Buddha talked about subduing your own mind. You need to subdue it because it’s powerful. I guess maybe you can let it play a little but sometimes you’ve got to subdue it and make it do something. 

What I’ve just described would be seen as problematic as fuck by actual Buddhists. Can you imagine how insufferable a Buddhist fundamentalist would probably be? Imagine a self-styled western Buddhist fundamentalist. God. Think about how annoying Calvinists are. When I was in my late 20s, I saw a fair amount of the people I came up with go all Neo-Calvinist. They start wearing black. They grew beards. They listened to this funeral folk music shit that I felt guilty for not liking cuz maybe that meant I was going to Hell. It was all such a drag. It was really fatalistic and mournful and had this twisted conception of God as this holy serial killer who gonna fuck some people up with tornadoes and STIs. 

Part of me still fears going to Hell. 

Part of me wonders if they’re right. 

If they were right, that would be one hell of a plot twist, right? 

Imagine you go through a year of Hell. Imagine losing everything you love. Imagine losing your mind. You stumble upon the truth and it’s the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints or it’s The Church of Scientology. Sometimes I imagine what it’s like to actually believe the truth is in one of those places and to fear that you’re turning away from it if you forsake it. Forget the Job shit. Maybe it’s not that dramatic. Imagine that hole inside you is filled up by what you get in those places. It’s hard for me to conceive but I think about it. 

I’ll tell you what though. I don’t really want to fake it till I make it just because I’m deathly afraid of Hell. No. That does not seem like a very good idea at this juncture. 

Imagination of a boy

I am the imagination of a boy 

too old to be a boy 

I'm cool as fuck 

mysterious

my soul tastes like sugar, baby

mainline me maybe 

break me 

like a third world insurgency 

and i'll write shitty punk songs about you 

that i'll stick in the mouth of some dude 

I play on Twitter 

cuz normie Twitter is lame 

and so is this life thing

c'mon, let's be real 

in the only way possible 

at the hour of late night radio in the 90s 

about psychedelics and demons 

in the only way possible 

when you're so lonely 

that you do this shit 

life and it's lameness 

tell me what the fuck that means to you 

and maybe i'll fall in love with you 

and we can be scared together 

and righteous 

and kinky 

we'll text each other and play cooler versions of ourselves to each other 

and it'll be hot as fuck 

and that'll be a thing that happened 

be one of those things you worship 

and don't remember quite right 

because 

sometimes that's all you got keeping you alive. 

Been kind of a brutal weekend for me. 

Didn’t know that I was going to be dealing with a sick dog. All of that wrecked me. Think I got my cry quota done for the next week. 

I’m exhausted. I feel beat up. 

I’d take a hug or two.

That dog is hanging in though. She is this adorable thing but god damn, she’s tough. 

I think I’m way too up in my feelings right now. 

I’ll get back to you. 

White fear weaponized runs the machine. 

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. 

I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in. 

I wish that line was mine. 

Thing is though. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t. 

Sometimes I wanna scream 

cuz I’m wise to the game. 

I know the game is rigged

but I ain’t wise to all the ways the game got put in me 

without my consent. 

I catch myself playin’. 

Hate myself for the size of my wages 

and the fact that my words ain’t commercial 

won’t pay my bills 

won’t free me from dreadin’ the first day of the week 

and from feelin’ all Shawshank on the last day of it. 

A Conclusion

I’ve come to a conclusion. A lot of the conclusions I come to are tentative but this one is definitive. 

Two days off are not enough to recover from five days on. 

It just doesn’t happen, man. 

It doesn’t matter if you hate your job or not. 

It just ain’t enough time to breathe and remember that you’re a human being. It’s not enough time to be still know and know that He is God if that’s what you’re into. 

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. 

Be me. Get notification about a like. Think, damn. I touched somebody’s soul with my words. 

Nah. Just a porn bot. 

The Internet was a bad idea but without it, cults would have to start the old fashioned way. 

The Internet was a bad idea but without it, her love never would have found me and traumatized me and murdered me and made me cry like a bitch. 

The Internet was a bad idea but without it, how the fuck would the Illuminati make us all sane? 

Yo. I’m broken like you but not in quite the same way but I bet you wanna piss in your boss’s Diet Coke too. No? You don’t? You can fuck off. 

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.