Cereal Post

I feel like I need more Lucky Charms in my life, but really Grape Nuts is what I probably need.

It's odd....
To go from feeling gregarious and then to wanting isolation and silence.

To want to share laughs and play with friends old and new, and then moments later wanting to laugh at Play All of season six of The Simpsons, alone in the loft.
 
To go from thinking I have something figured out, to knowing I have nothing figured out.

To smile at the sun coming out, to remembering why I wasn't smiling in the first place.

It's odd to feel like words are my only way out, and no words come out except these ones, reflecting on what's odd.

Post Serial

Two types of wine. One before nap, one after. Also, coffee after dark. Lots of cheese, both the Tillamook persuasion and the cream kind. Records. The Black Keys, Banner Pilot, even Arcade Fire. Working on a new story that is close to home, not about home, not about me, not exactly, but it is the taco bell of stories, or rather my stories are taco bell-ish. Each item on the menu is very similar to other items on the menu. This story has a mash-up mix-up of them all, I suppose. I suppose a lot lately. Also sigh a lot.

I get sad when I grocery shop. I avoid it. I get sad at cereals like Koala Crisp, and Cafe Yum sauce, and I cannot even utter the phrase "taco night" without a pang and a stab and a clench. As a result, I either don't eat or I eat out. I have lost fifteen pounds this year and I'm out of money.  I avoid songs by Kurt Vile, Seapony, Gaslight Anthem, and determined that even thinking about Sunny In Philadelphia makes me sad. And hurt. That's stupid. That's me. Stupid.

The Etc. Era, Eon, Age, etc.

Loft living day...27? Doesn't seem like that's a lot of days when I really think about it. And I really do think about it. Yet, as I've stated elsewhere on the internets, my world has once again returned to boxes. Life in boxes is a common theme if one moves around a lot, and it some ways it feels as though I've always been moving. Might sound romantic, but I don't see it that way. It's sad, actually. What does sound romantic, and a bit idealistic, and not sad, is the ol blank page now staring at me. The metaphorical blank page, that is. It can be a scary thing, especially if you thought you were working on something that had many filled pages, pages of adventure, love, building a life with someone, promising futures. To extend this semi cliche metaphor, because I love to extend things, especially metaphors about metaphors, a new chapter of my life begins--or rather, a whole new book. I hope it's a new book. One without the repeats of the last books, with new themes, and new successes, and overcoming, and etc. etc. etc. Loads of "etc."

Re: Used

Another fine couple of years nicely flushed down the ol' crapper.

Climbing Stairs, Or Climbing a Ladder, I'll Take The Latter and Stare at My Climbing

Loft living day number...two? The ceilings are high, which is good because I'm now living in the ceiling. I have some books spread out, clothes spread out, bedspread spread out. Still feel lost and a bit dreamy, as in, I'm in a dream of some sort. Not a bad one, not a good one, but a strange one. And in the dreamscape world, "strange" means things are normal. There are no donkeys eating pineapple, or floating clouds of gummy bears, or burping spiders that quote Chaucer. It's the normal that make this dream weird. How my life has changed at the roots, the routines, the routes, facing a different direction. Then I realize, am realizing, will have realized, had realized, that this is not a dream, not the future, not the past, but is happening now. And then I feel lost again. Unable to see beyond those routines. It's the feeling that I expect to wake up soon, so I need not worry about the end of the day, or the end of the week, or this huge gaping hole in the center of me, or this emptiness, or these arms and legs and eyes and ears I'm missing. I need not worry about the thing that was lost, because when I awake it won't be lost, but then I will have had realized that "I" was the thing that was lost, lost in all the tenses, all the repeats. I should worry, though, because through worry comes dreaming. The type of dreaming where I'm at the finish line and I've won. The type of dreaming where everyone is clapping and I slow motion smile and nod and pump my fist at my victory. Without worry, I can't dream. The right kind of worry. I do worry, though. I'm weary from it, actually. I'm worried about the heaps of anger, heaped up in a corner, so heaping it's about to tumble and take me with it, until I'm swimming in mixed metaphors. I need that lofty dreaming to feel focused, because when I'm focused, I am living.

Moving Day Part Twenty Seven

Words and their reality weigh me down. I'm down town. I'm down. Extra down. I don't want to be down with the down. These are just words of reflection on an otherwise strange day. My whole world is something different now, and I feel half empty-- full of half empty. But the sun is out on a fantastic looking Oregon day. The sky is a different blue here than the blue everywhere else. The sun is a different sort of bright as well. Especially the early February sun. It's a different sun coming through different windows.

Blah Aug

I would dive into the details. But, what difference would that make? I could go into the ins and outs. But that would only confuse those on the outs and upset those on the ins. I could detail all the diving. But that would require a set of definitions and parameters to begin. I could start at the beginning. But the end is what's at the beginning.