too close to the zombies to laugh, or scream - i see nothing funny or scary about it - i see inner-workings, or what used to work, what used to get out of bed, for something, what was it? what used to be reliable, then fashionably unreliable, then just un - non-commital, out of commission
whatever this is, this problem i have that seems to underlie everything else, that i never talk about, what i don't think anyone would understand - it's getting worse, every day - there are days of reprieve, where i'm tricked into believing there's a way out - but on the whole, it's a spiral downward to deadness - it's being tired all the time - having energy for brief periods - a couple hours, three tops, then wanting to sleep - not that i can sleep all that time - it's sleeping a lot, and the rest of the time, slumping, wishing i could at least sleep instead of staying conscious to remain aware of this failing, weakening - but really wishing i didn't have this weakness sickness whatever it is in the first place
sometimes i think about chronic fatigue syndrome, wonder, conveniently, if i have that - i've run into two or more people who say, matter of factly, that they have it, and matter-of-factly collect disability money to supplement artistic income (yes, these two people make actual artistic income, pretty good for chronic fatigue), and they seem tired too, and a light flicks on in my head, and i wonder if i could be in the club, at least have a syndrome to justify this slothly manner, and at the same time, thinking, haha, what pussies, i may WANT to be in the CFS club, but at least i don't pretend to be, buffoonishly labelling myself with the confidence of a consumer of medical fashion, thinking i'm justifying whatever, although that leaves me with, uh, limited options for my limited mental faculties, that being laziness, or some nebulous dietary deficiency that will be pinpointed with this study, debunked by the next, ad infinitum - so i scorn the CFSers, in jealously, footnoting the hypocrisy i recognize in myself, as if i don't live off of charity by the name of family, stuffed fois-gras style, still hanging round the sweet scraps, not that it's not filling, it just comes down to the boring old hangup, the tired dichotomy, not willing to tough-love myself out of this situation, or love-tough into a hate-love relationship with the universe, so i'll just write on the impass, since i can't sleep, and having written, maybe sleep, but probably not - and probably not tip the fractal scales, probably not turn a bad day into good - but at least i don't live in haiti, hey, let's all do the good luck shuffle! no actually let's not - let's do the terrier dance, it's more distracting
all these things people want to diagnose me with - all i want for christmas is a label, i want to be chronically fatigued so it's not my fault - i've settled for settling for less, i guess, i hesitate to ask for a cure - coffee don't do shit for me - i miss the manic/depressive cycle when i used to do drugs, it felt so emotionally wrong, the guilt all the time, but - but what? when i was feeling guilty, i thought, i'd give ANYTHING, ANYTHING, just to feel a bit of tired mediocrity, the baseline, even if it's a lame line, but it was so much better, what i took for granted, than this profound nausea of nihilism i was feeling at the time - but, but now, i dunno - or do i know? maybe that's the hard swallow, i dunno
i shouldn't have listened to those old recordings, of state-bounded ecstasy, of insufflation every half hour, of the good drug, the keta - what we loved about the keta, on creek street, was the come-down: there wasn't one - i bargain with a hypothetical, i say, if i'd just stuck with the k, i'd never have had to pantomime my way through this absurd monastic charade, with all the consequent out-of-character flaws and failings and disingenuously positive reviews - but i had to go and run the gamut, get as debauched as possible - i shouldn't have listened to those old recordings, because now i'm picturing myself with a crowbar, wondering how i can pry my way into the drawers of a veterinary clinic at night - the disasters of recent girl-chasing have left a determination to get high, although it's about as tepid a determination as any i've got today, it's apt to take me nowhere, yay, ye can all rest easy, weary ladies and gentlemen
the feeling is progressive digression, future retro, it weighs me down, not in a bluesy tom-waitsy way, not in any way that pays, not with poetic allegories for change, and day of the dead jollity on the bright side of the moon, no, it weighs me down on a computer chair, typing words to a void, between long moments of staring, before going back to lie in bed between the hours of four and five AM, with the lights burning, and the heat dish radiating, clinical appraisal of ankle rash, taking my 3 vitamin d, and my multivitamin b, and my zoloft, and my champax, it's gotta help, right? but i do admit, i miss the feeling of wanting to fuck a mailbox
Ignored at the meeting by the monstrous chad because of the easily missed frequency of my voice, when I tried to be friendly and join the co...
I'm working out new ways to perform and record. They take the form of melodic fragments, half-assed renditions of half-remembered songs,...