God dammit if you are a writer in seattle, please hang out with me

THIS IS FROM MY SECOND BOOK, MOTHER

reflections

Leaving seattle, the suns, the clouds

I dream of leaving Seattle, seeing the world, connecting to souls far out and away across the expanse and realizing and no one is different, that we are all a part of the same struggle and praise of whatnot, I dream of leaving and I already miss it. I close my eyes and nostalgia sets in. The clouds cover me and I retreat with every watered-on melancholic citizen here. I am afraid of the sun as much as I love it. It spurs me into states I cannot forever excel in. Am so prone to burn out, fragile flower. Being from California and Hawaii, my soul has been attuned to the light. I took it for granted growing up and walked around the town rotting and melting in milky ways of boredom, heavy monotonous glue oozing on the sidewalk thinking of nothing but spreading myself dead-like through the cracks, gaping at the sky, heavy lethargia. So I fled to drearier places to provoke myself, stew discomfort where the sun would peek a glance much less, a pillow of light soft and nearly forgotten until the day of first spring (that's really almost summertime), where the winds are fierce as greek gods changing the tides upturning the world hues, no more! they say, and there the stroke of light announces the blue bed above. And the moment is glorious, only so because of how long it's been, and because of how long before I have been sitting and wanting it anticipating it's arrival. Oh but then it is gone and I close my eyes again to chase it's wonder, attempt to mimic the energy it gave me--I awoke and felt stupid euphoria and thought everything of its simplicity, told my fellow man, I am doing so well! when he earnestly asked me how are you today! And yes he said, I really like that answer!

And the other thing. To attempt to bring about that feeling of standing in the sun after a stormy year of damp gray is for me to live in the glory of imagination. It is much the same, but perhaps longer lasting, bringing about an independency and power of a lesser god, a man of my own wills rather than an ant tossed about by lightly dripping weather, comparably not violent at all. I awake and, not caring to be out in the miserable air, but so wanting to connect, to be social, to leave the house, make my way to the coffee shop. It makes sense that all the cloudy cities have created these places. Without it we would go stir-crazy, sleep in hazy depression, unaware of anything outside the mire of drowsy retreat. I transport my wills to the book I will write, to an author I've had on my to-read list for ages, I grant myself time to work on my individual. Clouds bring the necessary retreat, in a fashion, mirror the mess inside of us, make us ponder wonder get lost to a point where you must find out where you are in order to get back up and out into reality, stronger this time, you found freedom and light within yourself! You are the sun to this city! You defy the deft heavens! Bask and release, set free and fly!

I miss Seattle. The summer came last summer for three long weeks and when it rained I just stood outside with arms raised outward, strong-armed and battered by the wet wind. I did not move. My cheeks crept up and I dove into my dreams. The sun was just as oppressive as the clouds! It drove me to only action, I stumbled about blinded and merry, too drunk to dream and giving out everything in me till I was an empty shell of slurred nonsense. Action without thought, action, action, thoughtless, thought. Everything is too much, everything is too little. 

YOU MAKE ME SAD, SHOOTING STAR

dear whoever the fuck,

I have been waiting, for AGES, to tell you something. I can't do it in an upfront way, like in a conversation, we can't just sit down and chat and be done with what I want to tell you. It's not that simple…

I have written a book, and have sent it out to ONE publishing house. ONE. Just one. It's due to naivety, optimism, laziness, and fear. Naivety, meaning that my book will be published immediately, and my young genius will be revered. Optimism, meaning that it will be published in the City that the book is somewhat dedicated to (Seattle). Laziness. Fear, meaning that I am afraid of being rejected numerous times.

It is like asking a woman for her hand in marriage, and waiting 3 months for a response because she has to weigh out all of her options. Fuck this system. Let me go or accept me. Unchain my heart, etc. mother of GOD, how long it's been! Did you forget that I asked? Did you forget my proposal shining in the sunrise of a long walk down to central park? I'm fucking rotting here, combusting with anticipation! Let me GO, let me LIVE!

Oh son of a shit. I want to see the sun. Seattle is without remorse. I can't handle sitting under the muddled gray. I need to know if my love was thrown away. dammit. Cussing is my main relief these days. Psychologists say it is good.

LET ME INTO THE TRUTHHHHHH YOU SONS OF BITCHESSSSSS.

My GOD—Diminished it never was, though I had sat myself down for a year, or over a year, for three years that felt like my lifetime twice over. I sat for myself soaked in smoke booze, campfire around the base of my back houses along young drunks row, 13th Capitol Hill, people's swarm of feet and words, meeting and meeting for a subconscious diversion in movement, in gawking for cream cheese hot dogs, bars and pizza and punk shows (and some guitar plucking) only so golden to my ears and feet after some more liquor. Yeah, I was sitting in the scheme of the almighty, of the milky way where we become hilarious insects, stumbling on a crack on the sidewalk searching for a pissing locale, struggling and wailing to exist while SHE flew to Europe, my crazy drunken spaced-out love I never had, Maura, dredged in the brilliance of unknowing, young and alive in the sun with past midnight lazy eyes, ripped straight from the legends of troubled rock and roll wallflower child, sent away like the Velvet Underground, Jesus & Mary Chain, she then flew to the popular backwards American dream of history and a classier man (or anything of which I knew nothing about except for what the media had streamed into my imagination—Modernist color strokes and Peter's church of the Lord, mustache intrigue, hostels surrounding Shakespeare's tourist lair, Paris, Paris, Paree, and all the no-accent accent girls ready to be up and off their feet, leaning like towers, always falling for that Irish chump, Oh yeah baby, take me away!).

dammit post

Dear girl who says she likes me but is now in ireland,

Is it okay to say that I wish you were next to me right now? I don't think so--I feel vulnerable and unsure saying these things, but, you know, fuck it!
come back!
god dammit!

ARE MY FEELINGS REAL????????????????????????????????????????????????
HOW LOST AM I???????????? (A: PRETTY FUCKIN LOSTTTTTTTTTTTTT)
IT'LL BE CLEAR IF YOU JUST SIT NEXT TO ME. I'M NOT ASKING,,,,,,,,,,,,
I'M YEL(L/P)ING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

sincerely,

SONUVABITCH




(if I still feel these things in a month, I will transfer these words to paper, and address it to hell! Woohoo!)
I DONT KNOW WHAT IS REAL
be wary of feelings. they are intense and they are surreal.

Words from a friend

Sometimes (or most of the time), expression is much clearer when helped along through by a friend, through correspondence.


1. Progress has been little to none. I don't understand the word "progress" anymore as I don't see anything worth progressing in. I reread my previous words below, and that man that I was sounds very optimistic. In reading all of pessoa's reflections and in doing my own, it's so interesting to see the ups and downs of attitudes and perspectives. Flippant state of mind. but is there a constant joy that will raise me from the floor every morning?

2. You know, the idea of progress is tricky.

I really think that progress is this weird thing that happens and
doesn't happen. Like you have to "show up" and work at it happening.
And even then, I wonder how much progress is always forward-thinking.
I was out for a walk last night, it was nice and cool up here in St.
Louis Heights, and I thought how we are always revisiting our past,
how in this ultra-connected world, we're supposed to be every part of
ourselves all of the time. It's like if a molting snake had someone
following behind it, always collecting the skin that it had lost,
asking the snake to put back on the skin it had already moved on from,
grown out of. "Love me for the man that I am, not the man that I
was," the Avett Brothers sing.

This morning on the way to school I was reading some of one of
Frederick Buechner's biographical books and I felt more myself than I
had in a long time, like that moment a couple of weeks ago where, for
thirty minutes, I felt genuinely happy again for no real reason. But
something about what I read this morning reminded me that something
about life is very, very good. That books are important and people
are more important and that "everything's lost and everything's found"
all at once, again and again.

Or something like that. There's something about the day to day that
we have to master, that we have to shape and form and guard. You'd
think I'd have that down by now, but I don't. And you'd think more
people would talk about that kind of thing, but they don't. Maybe
that's the curse of being a single guy. But I'm holding out hope for
the summer days where I have less to worry about and more time to
maybe get a little closer to the person I want to be.


3. I feel your words have helped me today more than it would have earlier. I find myself in a hole of invisible terror.

I believe that you are right about having to "show up and work at progress". I've not been doing that, but rather, I've been waiting to have a desire to work at progressing. again, it is the tiredness. and also, perhaps, a fear that if I try, I will fail. an insecurity.

The past. I realize that I am everything of my past, even as I am not thinking of any of it. While at the same time, I am an entirely new person. I hope I am becoming a better version of myself with each step, but I fear the hard times that I will need to pass through in order to reach that bettered self.


I've been dealing with my anxieties with alcohol and the such. It doesn't help. It distracts from progress, it puts off confronting the future for momentary pleasures and sometimes no pleasure at all, it just gives me simple ignorance. But sometimes I see myself clearer, and I see that the inner self is exposed in the drunkenness. Inhibitions drop, and you perhaps turn into an exaggeration of your inner emotion. You laugh longer, cry louder, hug harder. But the mornings are much lower, and I end up wasting hours lying on the floor, feeling sick, wishing and sleeping. I wonder if this depression is purely me, or if it is simply a voice of doubt that the real me must conquer.

I am looking through my journal, I know that I have experienced that happiness you spoke of. and it's strange because I find it amidst these depressing entries. life is good. and though I feel down right now, I look outside, and the sun has just broken through the clouds. I feel a warmth that can't be explained.

Letters from a drugged up homeboi

Sent: Wednesday, June 30, 2010 2:41 AM
To: Kyle
Subject: slj KING KAHN

hey buddy.
it's 11:07?
i think my computer is covered in ash from the morning bbq?
did we bbq this morning?

seems like ash is everywhere

not morbid
though
like clammy
on my hands
grime as an objective source of income

look at this picture dammit:
http://beyondasiaphilia.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/srk-snap.jpg

sincerely,
Jesus


kyle you are awesome from ashley


she's tripping
adam is showing tim the kryptonite napalm
i

Relatability

hello random person on the web:

can you relate to this?

wahbahwaaahbaha wbabh wah babahahahaha!! WAHHHAHAH BAAAAAAAAa

(the tone is not laughter, though it can be rightly mistaken as such)

if so, make me famous with whatever powers you command.

goodbye with some love,

Me

Snail Mail, what friendly snails!

I want honest correspondence with you.

you think i want to have sex with you.

I think I probably don't want to correspond with you.

you probably won't call me very much anymore.