Uncategorized

adieu

I feel like I’m losing it (and these are not comforting thoughts but maybe to someone else out there they might be), I feel like I’m losing it and have lost it. I keep joking externally that I’m needing a second wind to life but it is becoming slowly troublingly true. I know it’s stress, I know it’s the end of school, I know its the end of a lot of things and everything, and this whole top-down paranoia on the world stage is eating away at me too. I shouldn’t blame it on that, I should look at the positive, I should look at the immediate, I should look at who’s texting me right here and now and not worry about the consequences. But my life is all consequences, and it’s a terrible way to live.

;;

I’m working on my last drawing project and it’s stressing me the fuck out. I’ve got nothing, but a deadline fast approaching and absolute zero-zapped! confidence left in my skills. I have no voice through my lines, and my pen has become slowly suffocated;; again, I feel I am losing it.

 

School is over and there are no more assignments to life. There’s no one over me telling me how to think and where to go, what to do nor how. I’m completely rudderless and alone in a way I keep telling myself I’m preparing for: but I prepared myself entirely on the merits of big thinking and being a good person, and again, I feel I am losing it.

What good am I?
And this is a sentiment no one wants to hear from a friend but I am struggling and this is bad and spinning out of my own control and that is fearful but I know
I know this is temporary.
I know I’ll get through this & I know this is a passing madness
and I know in ten years I’ll look back and smile at the poor kid wrestling about in me;

I know I should let go of a lot of things and I know what toxicity tastes like.

But we all go through this and I know It’s me now but could be you next;
And if there’s anything I could say to you at times like these when the whole world is slow crashing in
I just hope to say it’s not your fault.
No one of us can hold this world alone;
and you oughta quit trying.

♪♫

I don’t feel right on here anymore, not for now at least.

I’ve lost everything. My window got smashed into (again.) and it’s all gone.
I was the family archivist, and now that’s all gone.

I lost all my writings.
I lost all my designs.

I lost every sweet and awful thing I’d thought and said for the past five years.

I feel wiped out.

And I have a very busy work schedule I keep avoiding.

I have responsibilities I keep avoiding.

I have bills and debts to pay,
I’ve got a company that needs my efforts.

& this place just feels so haunted now.

I’ve got nothing left to say for a while but didn’t feel right to say nothing at all.

“season 2” will unlock half of what of I’ve hidden.
The other half you’d have to earn.

.

.

.

hmm.

Standard
Uncategorized

NF 2.

I have this small machine and I call it fondly the Buddha Box. It is a weighty handful.

When I begin to feel the mask of myself slipping and the world slowly coming to tear what soul I have piece to piece, when the dry-heaving feels ready to take over the motor functioning of the body// when the nausea makes the head spin and gut churn, I half press the plastic dial and wait for the music to settle into it’s looping groove, stabilizing the tin can carrying my head.

 

This is noise to you, as well it should be: it’s klaxons
bah nah nah noouh noouh nuh nuhn-ooomph fa
a small tuba in the corner
oompah pah oompah pah -pah pah
small little tenor shards top right
i iii ii i ii ii- ii ii

It’s noise; it’s chaos.
It’s my little peacefulness.

— Realistically though how can I ever expect anyone to enjoy that? Try listening to 17 minutes and 19 seconds of that and try to judge yourself sane,, or make it to the five minute mark and feel yourself suddenly uncaged from the first half’s clatter din of prison.

I feel at those moments, when the song relents it’s attack on your, when the spirit and the tempo lessen and step back, evoke a physical space around you now; when the saxophone guides like siren call to rise with it’s intonations //& the choir exhales the human spirit from the depths of the lungs, our own personal aeolian temples; When the walls of my mind can recede enough to let me reclaim my space;;

This is a fraction of the feeling I get from this album alone.
I’ve got so much goddamn headspace I’ve cluttered with false memories and pains,  I’ve got so many regrets and insecurities in boxes stacked to the got-dang rafters up in here. I’ve got spiderwebs where the lights went out long ago, and I’m too scared and sad sacking to go and get replaced, old memories I fear the repercussions of illuminating.
I’ve got all kinds of fantasies and fetishes strung about the place: it’s a mess of a goddamn mess that I should be ashamed to invite one into.

Philip Glass is spacey in a way the Chapel is so void.
That emptiness, the ineffable depths of those canvasses yearning to be filled, begging for the life of you to seep out and paint itself; nature abhors a vacuum;; Big Black Monoliths waiting to be remade in your image

An absolute empty signifier of a thing.

.

.

This is the great beauty of the Rothko Chapel.
This is how you heal yourself when all your answers stop seeming to fit.
.

That is why I feared for it.

…..·؎

Standard
Uncategorized

Non Fiction.

I have a small device at home I use to “keep sane.”
That is a grandly negative portrayal of this item I am honoring, but hopefully by the end of this, I’ll have made it feel politely apt.

I have a small device at home that’s called a Buddha Machine.
It is a small plastic box of a soft matte finish, more navy than bird’s egg and I guess to describe as a more matured #136699. It contains 8 tracks of Philip Glass, reduced into small perfectly timed loops within the realms of 15 seconds to 3 minutes and repeated ad infinitum or until you hold the little power wheel in half a click for 2 and a half seconds.

It is a box I listen to when I feel my world slow collapsing in, and those are usually only during times where I take this little trip to self destruction. (It is not as dearth as it seems, but come sweetheart let me write.)

It’s a box as minimal in design as grand is it’s efficiency and effect;
it is my personal, private, Rothko Chapel.

…..·؎

Before the election, while sitting outside a computer lab in the Bauer Business center (dorms?), while having a small plastic table width booth, the plastic table ubiquitous in all neighborhood garage sales and family backyard outings, that plastic table; while sitting outside a smash venue slinging shirts, i wanted to talk to my friend about this story angle about the then Candidate’s awful branding scheme to sell the world.

-It’s like this, Trump Chapel. It’s blown up, to thrice it’s size. Those little awnings where they keep the chairs is getting converted for deep fryers and funnel cakes; this side’s going to have the gift shop: get rid of those hideous black things and put some Real Art up on those walls; give me some legs, give me some broads with skirts up their necks and more girls down their skirts; Let’s put some Real patriotism in here, Washington skinning the king and seal team six with their goddamn boots on his balls; give me some goddamn SIZE in here, I want this thing to to PEN-ET-TRATE’ the fucking clouds; I’m going to light this little bitch of mine so they see her screamin’ and hollerin’ from the next moon over;
I’m going to capitalize that little t for him.”

—- —–

.

.

 

This was a logistical fear for me.

…..·؎

 

— – —- – – —- – – —– —- —— –

-Dad just told me to say hi to “—–” for me.
Ha. Problematic.

Standard
Uncategorized

One Plus Snow

I have a very chinese phone; it is so chinese that when I reboot it three times the first two language options are in Chinese, I’m now assuming to be in Mandarin and secondarily in Cantonese before finally succumbing to a regretfully admissionary Englsih.

The secondary OS software option is then one that runs on a “not-exactly-Google” based Android OS. My American Microsoft Windows version of Spotify tells me it is “listening on Wallace” directions on what music is queued next.

This sounds like nothingness but assuredly I have grand opinions and fears based on that small bit of information.

;;

I am listening to Kendrick Lamar and can tell you that he is a very “Black” artist in the sense of that which you (Milly, -And I” am not.)

Very black  like we are not. Because “Black” is the sort of thing that it sucks to be, in the vernacular of our peers.

42 dB DNA.

Milly I’m going to go out on a limb here and call you out as white and middle-aged–
therefore the music I am linking is going to be violently against your power-structure, (And I am going to ask a large favor here of you//believe you to give me the benefit of the doubt), to catch me here},

to truly, really, push the limits of your grammatical functioning and see if I can still make sense;,

-to say thank you for really staying–.

To say, “I’m not this smart.”

 

—It is 1:23 AM and So I have stopped editing;
She’s gone; I’ve got to admit that.
This next piece is about fathers: something we all deal with;
I am trying to find the shop a new “me,” a new Oh Zee,
A new kid that has seven years to kill to find himself;
to get his bachelor’s.

-My DNA Not for Imitation;

My biological father wondering when I’ll find myself, stabilize myself, spread the family name.

YAH,

I’ll show up late to work tomorrow; right on time tomorrow. And I’ll care for my niece and nephew tomorrow; not spend my night in an airb&b.
-My latest muse is my niece
she worth living
see me on the tv and scream
that’s uncle kendrick.”

;

goodnight love.

 

Standard
Uncategorized

Click it.

Rothko 3.0 | Lucas

It’s been rejected but that’s the name of the game aint it?
I think I thought I’d be more upset but no one could concede moreso than I that it (for all it’s gleaming points) needs work, polishing, whetting.

But it’s not gonna get seen anywhere else, so I am under no obligations now to withhold it.

;

Let it sit with you a while, or not at all
take some time to really settle in to where I’d been.

It’s been months now since I wrote it.
Since I was assigned it,
this is april the twentieth in the second year of spif,
in the last year of my bachelors’
in The Year of the Jest.

This was the last good goddamn thing I wrote and forgive me if that sounds harsh,
but I sho ain’t felt the way I’ve felt since then.

;;

|III
– —— –

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Season-3

Standard