07/31/2025
There comes a point where I have to stop writing. I have to stop emptying myself out onto full notebook pages and scraps of paper and notes app notes and on the backs of newspapers and on old wood blocks. Surely there must be an end to the things I have to say. Post-Grad-Freak-Out for me, personally, has been a lot of writing. And not a lot of it makes sense at first glance. I don’t know if you can tell but everything I publish is under at least 3-5 veils of code, of riddles I am just praying someone will crack the code on. I think I have said this sentiment several times before -- that’s how you know I mean it. I am trying so hard to be earnest and vulnerable, but still trying to just show you fluff and non-substance.
Yesterday (I think?) I walked this really long trail loop, twice. It was because my really exciting plans got cancelled, and I knew I needed to leave the house before I just laid in bed all day. So I quickly got my ass down to this trail, downloaded three long albums to explore, and prepared to take the loop forwards then backwards. The whole time I kept a running note on my phone of every thought I was having. A few highlights: that I should keep making blog posts even though I’m scared they are dumb, but that’s the whole point of writing them; “okay yeah jam bands are pretty awesome,”; I think I need to have a better understanding of how long an hour is; I wish I could ask him the best way to keep my kitchen knives clean and sharp -- a thing for me to learn by myself; and people are ALWAYS jealous of my umbrella swag. But it was really nice. I was writing unencumbered by judgement of an audience, for at least a little while. It became harder when I decided I wanted to publish some of these thoughts.
I am trying to find more ways to write unencumbered. It is an extremely difficult task. I just finished Lou Sullivan’s We Both Laughed In Pleasure (a universal recommendation, find the time to read this book as soon as humanly possible, please), and it was thrilling to be directly inside someone’s mind. I was just stunned at the possibility of honesty, at the thought that he knew while writing, he wanted these journals to be published posthumously. But he doesn’t write posthumously, he writes as thoughts come down directly from his brain, unafraid of judgement of the crazy things he thinks and feels. It felt like a lifeline, reading from someone else’s consciousness like that. And also yeah he was into some sexy shit so I guess I was a little biased, as I learned throughout the book our similarities in our… proclivities.
I think when I say that my writing doesn’t make sense, I’m being a little overdramatic. Which, to those who know me closest, yes, I am sorry for being quite overdramatic these last few months, but, man, shit has been going down and I have never been non-chalant. I don’t feel chalantly about things, and maybe that has always been the problem. I have been working on several writing projects lately, and I think only one may never see the light of day. One is a 3 episode podcast about aliens and peppers, one is an abstract series of experimental writing taking a look at flying cars, and the third is a rework of a project from 2017 I stumbled upon while clearing some of my digital footprint. Upon compiling them in one sentence like this, I’m realizing they are all about independence vs. loneliness. I don’t want to think about that so I’m going to hard transition into the next paragraph.
Uhhh yeah I have been walking around a lot more and going to the library again. The library is a magical place. You can sit in sunlight and watch the shadows of seagulls playing on the roof. You can scan the shelf at 15mph and still land your finger on the exact book you are looking for. Last time I was there I went before work, but purposefully too early, so I couldn’t go back home, but it wouldn’t make sense to leave when I felt ready to go. So I got to read like 100 pages of my book cause I left the house 25 minutes earlier than I intended too. The sad part is that it's closed on Sundays and that’s the day I want to go to the library the most. I try to find other ways to fill my time when I’m not writing, though. I started working on these paintings that I enjoy IMMENSELY, so I understand that no one is going to like them, because that’s how it goes. It’s always that thing you are so excited to share -- it’s materially interesting, the method is unique, the subject matter is funny yet thought-provoking -- that the majority of your audience gets bored with. GET BACK TO COAL MINING, BOY! They’ll yell at me, from rooftops, or from hanging out of car windows. Do you remember earlier when I mentioned being overdramatic?
There comes a point where I have to start writing. I have to practice what I preach and build a healthy habit or two, or a deck in my backyard. Hello? Can anyone hear me out there? Is there someone writing alone too? Can we exchange correspondence? Can we get our assistants to forward each other our mail? Will you forgive me if I’m impatient with the speed of the U.S. Postal Service? Will you come visit us on Sundays?