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 is what made me able to write and re-write 9 drafts of ’til the fat lady sings’ which has all 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 60 hours in agony wishing I would die again, hate that, but that’s how bad the pain was. And so much to do, the anxiety, the avoidance, all right there. What is wrong with me? It’s burn-out, I realize, and a good case of it, but I have been able to accomplish at least one progressive goal each day (except the last 2-3 when I was just sick, detox necessary). SO this little book added to the reading list, that never gets finished. again, I say, what is wrong with me? Perhaps the question lies not in the what and the wrong?

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

BE DELIBERATE ABOUT FORMAT. THOUGHT SO, DREADING THAT. FORMAT, FORMAT, FORMAT.
😹🙈🙉🙊💀👽🔥✨👳

STRUCTURE FORCES CREATIVITY WHEN THE THROUGHLINE ISN’T THE CONSTANT GOBBLEDYGOOK OF A MEANDERING FREE ASSOCIATIVE STORY. 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 ME WITH ALIGNMENT. I THINK I AM READY ONE MINUTE, THEN BECOME SEMI-CATATONIC ( I SAY SEMI BECAUSE IT’S ACTUALLY NO LAUGHING MATTER, AND IT’S JINX-RELATED IN THEORY, RESPECTFUL OF REAL LIFE MISERY, WHICH I WOULD NEVER WANT MORE OF, NO THANKS, ANYWAY, TA TA.) 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

Coldest Antarctic June Ever Recorded


katwalk65:

And yet melting

Originally posted on 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 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