Planet Punctuationtron

if you stopped worrying about if you could do it, it would likely be infinitely easier to do it.

We’re natural.  You sound natural on the phone with him, she says, almost like a real boyfriend.  I don’t blanch at her comment, though I feel something even if it’s just a heavy dose of neutrality on usually acidic ground.


Bowlful of Orzo

Oh, therapy here we come.  We’re practically barreling over the hill at the idea of it.

I hardly want to post today at all. It is late.  I am so tired I’m bright-eyed and awake.

Last night what sleep I slept was very poorly wrought.  That’s not really what I mean.  What I mean to say was I couldn’t sleep because it fucking hurt to move.  To shift a hip.  To bend a knee.  Somehow, I’ve pulled a muscle and last night became well acquainted with how important your butt is to every other movement your body needs to make.

Now, sitting here, I’m quite pleased with how I am going to get to actually fall into REM sleep, actual rest is going to occur, not just the facsimile.  I am going to need it as tomorrow…I am told which thankfully, I accidentally, learned today, that the boss will be changing.

Everything changing.  Everything always changing.


The Body Is A Robot: Elsewhere

I am waiting on the stoop for a sunrise to appear.  I hardly know what to say these nights when I aim to be so occupied that the words in me dry up.  My thoughts are singular, not kaleidoscopic as the work demands.

Where does the need to write go when it goes, if it goes?

It goes in a scrap heap, with every other sort of faith and belief in intangible things.  Go to work, press the start button, buy the coffee even if no one particularly likes the coffee – it’s too bitter, type the emails, remember to check the mailbox, follow the steps, twitch and snort when out of view, taste the salted flesh preserved and simple, and constrain your metal heart.

If it goes, you go, really, with it to the scrap heap.  And the robot runs the work, while you nestle without pain into the witch jar of rusted nails and half-broken thumb tacks and sharp memories claimed to be forgotten.  You dream in the lemonade, you start floating around with the chili pepper, you burn and reformulate.

We do not say I love you afterwards, but it hardly matters when everything is kind and soft and urgent and sincere.  Sometimes I almost do, and I stop myself. We do not say the name so we do not conform with casings and shells and polymers and masks.  But we are somewhere while the body is the robot.  We are somewhere and we are there together.

I find it difficult to remember because I am trying so hard to recall everything about it.  Every breath and the way the voices sound as I make them, the one I lapse into without trying, this coquette, this flirt, this woman I never knew I knew so well.   I want to name her, this persona so casually undertaken, but already she feels like dream dust.  All of this feels like the sort of thing I would make up, with the bends in it to make it seem real even though it’s all a blue caravan trundling through the dark trees along the mountain pass.  Steady and not stopping, no matter your curiosity as to the nature of its contents.  It whirls in my head, that this is happening, and it’s heady like a drink first feels when the alcohol sets in.  It is chemicals, the scientists say, and I say, but the body is a robot. This is me and I am elsewhere.

Today has been marked down as Friday and perhaps the world will end soon.  Terrible things are happening – hate is just spilling out like so much acrid, poisonous sulfur bubbling up from caverns we had long held to be sealed.  So sealed as to be forgettable, paths forsworn, unnecessary for any travel reasonable souls would undertake.   Terrible things and as one of those things, we are given to watch from our robot eyes and these arms so new with such shoddy articulation that we have yet to finesse our grip.

Meanwhile, we are not there at all.





The Miss

New post opened.

Three words down.

Kindness when least expected is a tremendous mood-lifter.  A vote of confidence.

I skipped last night because I was…distracted by that vote of confidence.

I skipped because I could.

I skipped I wanted to.



I largely suspect that despite having the opportunity to noodle some words into the screen today – I am not going to be able complete a full post.  I am feeling just too awkward about today, too jumpy, too like my skin is weirdly sitting on my skeleton.  Things I didn’t realize had gone wrong outside of my control have not been able to be fully corrected.  I am distracted on several levels.
But it would be nice to have it taken care of so that when I arrived at home, arrived to have my dinner – whatever low-carb situation that it will be – this would be off of my plate and mind.
I know that this year, I gave myself freedom on my blog.  For those that may read this and are new (I have to be aware of how many people – which is a non-zero number – stop by and read these posts and have no idea of the seven year saga that builds with each one) I am no longer forcibly writing 500 words a day.  I am trying to just be here.
However, just breezing through and saying something that will end up being largely meaningless to even myself, often seems woefully inadequate.  How can I just snarl and then press post when this blog serves as an opportunity to free myself from a daily build-up of anxieties?  When it’s a chance for me to gauge any sort of progress.
The question comes up over and over again. Is it better to write the words regardless of whether or not they function in terms of cohesion, narrative, propelling my creative life forward so long as they continue sustaining the habit of writing the words?  Or is it better to write when somehow I have something legitimate and challenging and genuine to report to the anonymous world at large? When I have something essential or revelatory or meaningful on some level?  But one does have to reckon with the fact that so often this sense of the work is unachievable in foresight.  You have to ramble to reach a place you’ve never been.  Even aiming for a style doesn’t result in stellar, visceral, exciting writing.  It is the struggle and the words paired with words, scribbled out and re-paired, that brings you to anything.
I am grateful for the words, morning self.  I am grateful for the effort undertaken to put me at ease tonight.  I am grateful for something going well.
I need for me to take care of the business of me.
I need for me to not leave it all up to chance.  The work must be centered.
Distractions should not keep me from my solemn vows.
Circles eventually must break.
Tomorrow: straighten the hair, go to the dentist and let them tell you whatever nonsense they have to tell you, don’t do anything more than expect to suffer and listen and hold your mouth open.  Do your work.  Check your email.  And start pulling at this chain.