Despair in writing
Tales of seasonal malaise
Leads to renewed life
milktrees asked: i don’t know, best ask it.
It said it was a deer, a female deer; except there was no sun, no ray; the name I had escaped me; my ankle twisted and I could not run; the shorts I wore tore open; but, weirdly, I found some cactus tea, and so I sat down to drink it. I thought I saw jam and bread sitting on an oak table a few meters away but it couldn’t be, so I hobbled in the opposite direction.
milktrees asked: i don’t know, best ask it.
It said it was a deer, a female deer; except there was no sun, no ray; the name I had escaped me; my ankle twisted and I could not run; the shorts I wore tore open; but, weirdly, I found some cactus tea, and so I sat down to drink it. I thought I saw jam and bread sitting on an oak table a few meters away but it couldn’t be, so I hobbled in the opposite direction.
the process
The process (or lack thereof) sometimes starts with a word, or a picture, or a sentence, or a theme, or a sound, or a song, or a breath, or a win, or a shot, or a fall, or a pain, or a loss, or an entire story whose fragments are often rushed onto a page or screen before I forget the story entirely. There are hundreds of Word docs and some that are sadly no more than a few words.
“The photographer’s wife knew she would die for this, but she feared a life of ridicule more than a leap from the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Indian Moon Race”
“I found Rabia alone in the corner of the room with a cucumber in her hand and I knew then that six years of marriage meant more to our family and friends than it did to the two of us. We would separate, she heading back to Istanbul and me remaining here in the house to live the life of a born-again Bachelor.”
“This is what happens when we aim for the moon with a slingshot.”
And sometimes I sit and then these words come out and they keep going and going, and if I knew how to latch onto the particular nerves firing off during the whole thing I think there’d a hell of a lot more to show. Discipline? Yes, please.
the process
The process (or lack thereof) sometimes starts with a word, or a picture, or a sentence, or a theme, or a sound, or a song, or a breath, or a win, or a shot, or a fall, or a pain, or a loss, or an entire story whose fragments are often rushed onto a page or screen before I forget the story entirely. There are hundreds of Word docs and some that are sadly no more than a few words.
“The photographer’s wife knew she would die for this, but she feared a life of ridicule more than a leap from the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Indian Moon Race”
“I found Rabia alone in the corner of the room with a cucumber in her hand and I knew then that six years of marriage meant more to our family and friends than it did to the two of us. We would separate, she heading back to Istanbul and me remaining here in the house to live the life of a born-again Bachelor.”
“This is what happens when we aim for the moon with a slingshot.”
And sometimes I sit and then these words come out and they keep going and going, and if I knew how to latch onto the particular nerves firing off during the whole thing I think there’d a hell of a lot more to show. Discipline? Yes, please.
Hide ‘n Seek
Hide ‘n seek on a pristine lake,
A game at which you reign.
You neared the edge, we heard the break—
Deaf grin; our cries in vain.
Father’s lumbering sprint to reach
Your form beneath the ice.
Waiting, hoping that you would breach—
A glove would have sufficed.
Can you see us, brother of mine,
From mists on which you perch?
Plucked too soon from summer’s vine—
At last, you end your search.
Hide ‘n Seek
Hide ‘n seek on a pristine lake,
A game at which you reign.
You neared the edge, we heard the break—
Deaf grin; our cries in vain.
Father’s lumbering sprint to reach
Your form beneath the ice.
Waiting, hoping that you would breach—
A glove would have sufficed.
Can you see us, brother of mine,
From mists on which you perch?
Plucked too soon from summer’s vine—
At last, you end your search.
I just cut six inches off my hair
Bri asked: I just cut six inches off my hair, it’s still ridiculously long, but it gives me comfort, realizing I don’t have an unhealthy emotional attachment to my hair. It’s very possible that you could grow to have this issue with your beard.
I’ll keep my fingers crossed that you don’t.
I wish more men grew beards.
And had a nice amount of body hair.
Well I did sheer off some four inches of beard a couple months back (it’s summertime y’all) and I’m still emotionally sound as far as I can tell. Good signs, good signs.
As for the rest it’s good to want something and know it, but that want (or need, if you will) can be blinding. Don’t let it distract from the people around you.
I just cut six inches off my hair
Bri asked: I just cut six inches off my hair, it’s still ridiculously long, but it gives me comfort, realizing I don’t have an unhealthy emotional attachment to my hair. It’s very possible that you could grow to have this issue with your beard.
I’ll keep my fingers crossed that you don’t.
I wish more men grew beards.
And had a nice amount of body hair.
Well I did sheer off some four inches of beard a couple months back (it’s summertime y’all) and I’m still emotionally sound as far as I can tell. Good signs, good signs.
As for the rest it’s good to want something and know it, but that want (or need, if you will) can be blinding. Don’t let it distract from the people around you.
the foamy waters
It seems easy, sometimes. I mean a swipe here and slice there and some waiting, and soon enough it’s over. That’s easy, right? Like playing a violin, really. Playing a fiddle, a fiddler’s tune and then nothing. Except when it starts to feel like nothing you start to hear music, real honest to God beautiful melodies, and by then it’s too late to share the music with anyone.