I would let you…

The verb is always the question.

It is nobody’s business what a chore it is to get the thought down onto the page, sometimes. Because it is motivated by too much pressure, not enough for the love of, which I guess I should be able to do since I once did know how to love enough to re-write 9 drafts of the script that became the film’til the fat lady sings.

Inspired by jazz music specifically three songs which I forget now but one of which became the imprinted “Since I fell for you…”

A Truman Capote short story I remembered about a car crash in the boonies that lands some extraordinary city couple elite in some old dowager cat lady’s lap and that story was the point when I realized someone else kept dead animals in their chest freezer. Ours fed the rescue hawks we were given since my father had a zoology degree and 22 acres of bird (prey and predators but in separate housing) friendly habitat. Taxidermy was just there. The whole approach was anatomical decay feathers and fur have a tendency to rot in humid summer climates.

the elements of classic Green melancholic tragedy, layered in black comedy oozing forth, derivative of a far-off Truman Capote story from long ago. There is too much to take in and so many distractions abide, from the anxiety-laden escapism (say of the twitterspere which is infitinte in its decrepitude and ability to keep afloat by sheer empathetic energy, how does that become the only constant–chaos?)

I spend hours in agony wishing I would just not have to endure, it all seems particularly pointless now and its not just some melodramatic upheaval of hyperbolic complaint. It’s endemic now. Because it never lets up. The chance for hope continually blown away by the depressive winds from the west & the stagnant cold front burying any unrecognized progress in bitter defeat – the kind that only a person who expected you to fail would be waiting to unveil.

As if I didn’t know. Your praise has always been tempered with an underlying doubt in my ability to be worth anything other than the wife you thought would go away, taken off your list of worries because she’s finally “taken care of.”

You forget what the son did to the daughter made her forever damaged goods. You have no idea what any of that lifelong coping mechanism entails coz you never have asked. The wife of the situation cannot bear to hear it either but she blames herself so the daughter once again has no one to talk to – at a time when there are already forces hard at work trying to perennially destroy her.

She does not know why. She knows that people think it’s that simple. They have a need to tell you what to do to write you off. It’s amazing how people are experts on other people’s mistakes but tend to offer very little of that expertise in any pre-emptive manner.

Hindsight is a waste of time, to me. Everything’s potential turning or breaking point. If I methodically do all the right things, it still doesn’t seem to matter in the end. Somehow I get judged so harshly that the abuse that was infused into my being at such a young age comes over me quickly like a fog in which nothing is every going to get Clear

anxiety, the avoidance, all right there. What is wrong with me? It was burn-out, I realize, and the never-ending list, that never gets finis her. I say, what is wrong with me? Perhaps the question lies not in the what and the wrong but in the why. If I told you the how, you might be more understanding of my foibles and realize how much I’ve had to overcome just to simply survive. Not even thrive. Just keep alive.

The constant accusing I have grown so accustomed to, but the question shouldn’t be a disappointment (I will never catch up or measure up so time falls into anxiety-provoking increments for me).

You ask
You may or may
Not
Receive

BE DELIBERATE ABOUT FORMAT

    STRUCTURE FORCES CREATIVITY WHEN THE THROUGHLINE ISN'T THE CONSTANT GOBBLEDYGOOK OF A MEANDERING FREE ASSOCIATIVE STORY.</span></em> THE REAL FEAR COMES WITH THE IDEA THAT PERHAPS THIS FEELING THAT IT HAS ALL BEEN AN AWFULLY CRUEL JOKE AND THAT IT'S MEANINGLESS, AS SUSPECTED, WELL THAT NEVER SEEMS TO FULLY EVER GO AWAY DESPITE THE IMAGINARY ACCOLADES AND REAL TIME ACHIEVEMENTS. SO, THIS BOOK, I AM NOT SURE WHERE I FOUND IT BUT I CRAVE A CERTAIN FOCUS AND A CREATIVE ROUTINE THAT BINDS SUCCESS TO ALIGNMENT. I THINK I AM READY ONE MINUTE, THEN BECOME SEMI-CATATONIC with existential angst so bleak and definitive thanks to your standard critique of me without hearing one word I say that is truth.

(AND IT’S NO THANKS, ANYWAY, TATA.) Choose a format that can support what you’re building, or your story will collapse “People on the outside think there’s something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story. But it isn’t like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, AND THAT’S ALL THERE IS TO IT.” –HARLAN ELLISON http://ow.ly/yjc0u “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: Read a lot and write a lot. ” – Stephen King

insomnia ironic🕑🕝🕒

Reading newspaper headlines gives you uncanny ideas about the future. You could also experience some intense and vivid dreams. Make a careful record of the symbols in your dreams.

For they may hold the clues you need to survive the zombie apocalypse 20140715-173827-63507097.jpg

20140715-173827-63507054.jpg

20140715-173827-63507130.jpg

20140715-173827-63507189.jpg

20140715-174435-63875610.jpg

Venue genius species

When did Pablo Picasso sleep? When did Kurt Vonnegut write? Play around with the features on this graphic to see the habits and schedules of some of the great masters.

You don’t need to sleep when you’re driven by the creative machine

http://www.entrepreneur.com/article/235487

Coldest Antarctic June Ever Recorded

And yet melting

Watts Up With That?

Story submitted by Eric Worrall

Antarctica continues to defy the global warming script, with a report from Meteo France, that June this year was the coldest Antarctic June ever recorded, at the French Antarctic Dumont d’Urville Station.

View original post 135 more words

Entitled

To what exactly?
She wondered
Never feeling
As though
She deserved
anything
Any thing
At all.

Was that low
Self-esteem
reviling?
Chattering away on
Woes like
Ice chips in
The ER.
No, it was not THAT,
Per se,

More hubris
Than
Family pride
A belief that
If she wanted it,
It should be hers
As she
Wanted
So
Rarely

But always
A bountiful
Desire
A need
If you
Will
Or
You
Won’t

I know we
Should
(extinguish this)
together
As
your precious
taunts do
Nothing
To satiate
The Need

That has been
aroused
Inexplicably
Unpredictably
With no
Rhyme or reason
Flaunting it
In fact

How can
This be
The wanting
Which
If gotten
Would cease
To disappoint
Momentarily
Until
We came
Back
To our
Rational
Senses

These things
I consider
From
Your off-hand
Manner
Calling your bluff
Could be
enjoyable
But
Then
Your chaos
Would ensue

And I hate
Knowing
How it will end
Oh to live
In other entire
Worlds
With different
Manner of time
Where there is
No guilt
No regret
Only pleasurable
Sinking in
Of
All that
Off-hand
Meaning

So charged
So open-ended
That closed door
You touched
the
nerve
first
And now
Again
I must
Suffer

Your
Hidden away
Scheherazade
Cloistered and
Closeted in
Your fantasy
Attic
Where we
Meet

In the summer
It’s so hot
We can’t help
But
Drip sweet
Sweat.
You moan she
Would never do
This
And we go on
Until
You must
Make more
Fatherly
Arrangements

Neither one of
Us
Likes this
This way
But what are we to
do?
We met
too late
For
Those
Perfect lives
To take hold

Ancient future

My world 20140705-002648-1608447.jpg

20140713-033404-12844641.jpg