Junk Food

Thursday, June 30, 2016

Light behind paper.

That thing I put on paper. It was a secret thing. A special thing. It was a tiny, private, ignorable thing. Until I put it down onto paper.

Now there is light behind it, light that's not mine, projecting an image of the thing on the paper on the walls. Everywhere it points, it becomes real, makes itself true, shows what it is to me. To everyone.

The light that's behind it is a light that's not mine and I can't control where it goes or when it comes on.

The walls that it points to are sometimes blank, and sometimes too busy for the thing to project on, and that's when I'm thankful, when there is so much behind the thing that if someone were looking, even longer than a short time, they might still not see the thing that I put on the paper.

Somehow I'm making my thing become something more clear, more specific. I'm making it a statement, a purpose. I want a real human thing.

But I want it to be harmless. I want it to be a bicycle, or a sandwich, or a dress, or a subway story. I want it to be material attachment. I want the thing to be so unbearably unscary to say that it is easy to put on the paper. But it is not. It never is. And if it were, the light would not come, and people might not want to look.

So I put blood on the paper, and the times I fucked up, the car I hit and drove away from, the boys I used, the girls I hurt, the harm that I did to my family while harm was being done to me, and the pain I brought on people I love. The trust I lost and the trust I gave away.

I put it all down and now it's not just a thing anymore. It breathes. It bleeds. It betrays. It lies, and tells inappropriate jokes.

I put it down and I can't burn it, or throw it away, or take it back in. And I'm so scared.


Please be a ghost if you aren't I couldn't see you. What do I want to say? I don't think this makes any sense and I'm kind of in a block. Mostly what I do when I'm blocked like this is drink. Oops. Then I play guitar for a while until I get out whatever feelings I didn't want to feel are out. Check. Oops. Then, finally I sit down and am like, crack crack knuckles, lets get to clackin!

Then of course I still don't write anything good.


I'm doomed.

So speaking of doom I have wanted to jump on this post-apocalyptic wagon for a seriously long time and I've had a super secret not-so-secret story brewing for a hell of a long time that I am dying to write. But now I have this fucking witch story in my way and I am stuck on it. I love the witch story, don't get me wrong. I'm just sick of it. I'm sick of writing it, workshopping it, I'm tired of thinking about it. I think I may have over done it and basically ruined a major part of it by tinkering too much. So now. I'm stuck.

Then there is this completely alluring Mars story that I am dy-dy-dy-ying to tell everyone on Earth at once and it is so terribly disorganized that I am afraid it will become the same mess that the witch story did if I do anything to it. ART AND FEAR BABY. SHIT IS REAL.

Then I guess I need to collect myself, fuck being professional, fuck being polite, fuck fuck fuck it all and all the propriety. I want to scream, foaming, and I want to be a fucking animal. I want to jump up and down and slam my fists on the roofs of cars. I want to drink and dive off a ship into the ocean. I want to fly high the black sails of piracy and never come back.

If magic was real...

If magic was real, I would practice it every day. I would go to work, come home, write, cook, clean, do my laundry, and then sometimes when I felt the urge coming on, I would practice magic. It wouldn't be much, at least to start out with. A little levitation here and there, maybe some telekinesis. I think it would take a while to learn it, but I have always wondered about teleportation.

If magic was real, I wouldn't have to go to work, but I would anyway. I would get there on time, even if I slept in, because I'd be a bit savvy with the space-time continuum. I'd practice a little healing, a little empathy, a bit of calming of the nerves. I would offer my magic as a free service to those who need it the most. At least I think that's what I'd do.

If magic was real, I would be able to fly.

If magic was real, I would shapeshift as often as possible, and learn how to become any animal I ever dreamed of becoming. Oh and I would also talk to animals.

If magic was real, there would be no poverty, no war, no disease, no inequality, no oppression. Everyone would be given equal access to services, and the world would be a better place.

If magic was real, I would still read fantasy and sci fi books. I would try to write them too, although I would have an unfair advantage. Would everyone be able to do magic, if magic was real? Could I gift it to others? Would I gift it to all? What if I could only bestow magic on one hundred people before my power was drained completely? Would I still share it?

If magic was real, would Donald Trump be able to, like, do magic? How would we stop him?

If magic was real, I am pretty sure that there would be a lot more chaos in the world before there was order, but that's also kind of a good thing.

Would there be dragons?

Would anyone need cars?

Would we be able to save the planet then?

Would anyone care?


There are all these tiny anchors pulling downward under my skin. Each joint has one. It feels like a thousand ships sailing on my blood, my ocean, all stopping at once and becoming a great heavy weight across a planet.

I don't know what I did, but I know it was something bad. Something to make them turn away. Betrayal is familiar to me, and comes on quiet. It starts with anxiety and it's the kind that you want to wish away, or tell yourself is your imagination. But you know that it's real. I do, at least.

The way you tell someone has betrayed you is when they won't look at you. Then they start to avoid. I knew it when she blew me off without asking again for a better time, more specific. Friends who know what it's like, don't do that unless they mean to erase something they are ashamed of. Friends don't lead you down a road they can't walk on and then disappear.

For those who have felt love taken away by the people closest to them, she should know better. She should take more care, be more sensitive, give a bit of herself. Maybe it's wrong to expect this. Maybe it's wrong to ask. Maybe I'm just as fucked up as it seems like she thinks that I am. And how can I tell what is real when all I can feel is shattering?

So I go to work and pretend like it's not happening. I'm tired of pretending for other people. I'm sick of being the one who always has to say sorry. I'm sick of needing to apologize for being myself, having feelings, needing assurance.

I don't know what I did. I probably didn't do anything. I just was. I am. My being who I am sometimes isn't what people want to see in me, or want to like. My feeling my feelings always hurts people. I don't want to feel anymore.

So I let the anchors pull me again and I try to stay as still as possible. I can't do anything but wait this out, until the ocean fills back up again and the ships aren't afraid to set sail.