Always aware as my ego, transforming from one vague ink spot thought to another, blocking out the sun or making me invisible enough. Always somehow an obstruct. My personal investigation for now as I feel the ego sometimes surge right out, a sudden contracting correction with a mumble down in speech. "Quiet down...easy does it." The same old voice. The same old questioning of my indescribable, prude heritage roots. The inability to adjust the volume, twist the knob, just so. Which antennae is receiving right: a pinky, my left ear, the piece of hair always afloat, something different.
While trying to clap a fruit fly between my hands, the air pressure forced it out in some unknown direction, sparing it's life with chaotic air change. A small reminder, direct zen, without the ever quizzical paradox when trying to think: 'Out not in'.
Friday, March 21, 2003
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
Rockwell
Cashed out for now. Trying to learn something without forcing, without interrupting flow, without viewing normal day discombobulations from being disruptions. Writing somehow bends my thought back on itself in a way I'm uncomfortable with for now, but I've been feeling strangely anyways. An odd yearning for Joni Mitchell, Joni making more sense ever since the after-hours of home departation.
Still trying to gain my footing. Something human was soiled in me some time ago, at the same time that numbers were becoming more omnipotent in my life. Something I'm relearning since this year of my life is all of starting over, sometimes to those who haggle, demand, and sometimes beg.
It's hard. I never quite know what kind of situation I'm going to be in tomorrow. So much death and dying with so much adrenaline attached to it. Anxious. Over small stuff, mostly because slowed old time allows it. Hand wringers. Message leavers. Absent eyes and talkety talks.
Things aren't being marked by words, only feelings blotted among days, dog-earred with fatigue. But some things are so good. Putting together a large puzzle, meeting up with an alabama friend, and playing a game of chess with a 4th grader.
Practical. The practical application after so much time spent living in theory. Learning without the extensive note taking.
Set the brakes and still not stopped. just squealing. But something.
Still trying to gain my footing. Something human was soiled in me some time ago, at the same time that numbers were becoming more omnipotent in my life. Something I'm relearning since this year of my life is all of starting over, sometimes to those who haggle, demand, and sometimes beg.
It's hard. I never quite know what kind of situation I'm going to be in tomorrow. So much death and dying with so much adrenaline attached to it. Anxious. Over small stuff, mostly because slowed old time allows it. Hand wringers. Message leavers. Absent eyes and talkety talks.
Things aren't being marked by words, only feelings blotted among days, dog-earred with fatigue. But some things are so good. Putting together a large puzzle, meeting up with an alabama friend, and playing a game of chess with a 4th grader.
Practical. The practical application after so much time spent living in theory. Learning without the extensive note taking.
Set the brakes and still not stopped. just squealing. But something.
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
Unreal
Many a day I can't find a face. There's nothing to look for in the mirror and nothing that I really wholeheartedly offer to anyone else. Just an odd half-dissonant glance while walking fast. I know I must seem so queer some days but the disappointment is on my heels.
I had a test in math followed by a lecture on discrete random variables and then a sharing of opinions next in english, language of the languages, about the lovely little war. I felt gut-expellingly ill half-way through it because I think I hold my breath while writing out essay answers and become dizzy and aphyxiated. Anxiety corrodes my stomach when prolonged. Too much testing. And now orange sherbet and the smell of chlorine fume me up.
I had a test in math followed by a lecture on discrete random variables and then a sharing of opinions next in english, language of the languages, about the lovely little war. I felt gut-expellingly ill half-way through it because I think I hold my breath while writing out essay answers and become dizzy and aphyxiated. Anxiety corrodes my stomach when prolonged. Too much testing. And now orange sherbet and the smell of chlorine fume me up.
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