Tag Archives: journal

Tonight was a bust

I was going to draw tonight, but I didn’t complete anything. It’s the cat’s fault. He crawled into my lap, working his way much higher than usual, leaving no room for my clipboard and pencil. Then Molly joined him, and they squeezed their eyes shut in perfect kitty bliss, as if to say, “Drawing can wait. Enjoy your snuggles to the fullest.”

Everybody knows you can’t win against a cat. I had no choice but to submit to their mighty influence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Journal – Haggifying

I tried to draw for Inktober tonight but it was so abysmally bad, even I am giving myself a break. Mostly I’m just happy to still be able to talk, and breathe. It’s been an increasingly gross day. I’m watching this virus bloom in the warm culturing agent that is my body. My throat is closing up, a tiny series of trap doors, and with each one I lose another note to my voice. My coughs are coming more frequently now. Sometimes I have a sudden unpleasant awareness that I’m running out of air, drowning in my own fluids.

Why can’t colds leave as fast as they arrive?

 

Going for a walk with sick coworkers

K sounds like she has no nose

Uncharacteristically pepless.

H is physically weak

She nearly falls over trying to take a photo.

I cough and rasp my way through each sentence

But talk a lot more than usual.

Together we walk our fifteen minute break

Slowly

Cackling like old hags

Trying not to laugh too hard at ourselves

Lest we spur on another pulmonary problem.

“Flash forward thirty years,” I say,

“And this will be our constant reality.”

Let the healthy young men and women beware

The three plague sisters.

Flee from their slow, repulsive approach!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Not in This One

 

This is a lot of nonsense. I didn’t write anything very good, and I didn’t want to separate it into different poems because it all fit together so well into the whole “I can’t think or write today” theme. So this is my free association. Consider it a deep insight into the magical creative process, dissect it, and discover great wonders. Or consider it somebody’s brain vomit, and know that you deserve better.

 


 

 

These thumbs

These fingers

These hands

These arms

These shoulders

This torso

These thighs

Knees

Shins

Feet

Toes.

All are mine.

All work well.

All are obedient

I keep them clean.

I exercise them

But today I still feel gross.

Whatta belly.

What an ass.

What thighs.

Nobody will want to look at me

If my belly sticks out this far.

It doesn’t matter

How bright my smile

(My teeth are rotting anyway)

Or how loving my eyes

(Bad vision, asymmetry, burgeoning body tag on eyelid)

Even my glorious red hair

(Knotty, rough, frizzy, not forever)

And my white nails

(Thin, prone to tearing)

Although my hands give me the ability to write, draw, cook,

I am all thumbs today.

 

 

 

I hate myself.

No I don’t.

 

I love myself.

Eh, mostly.

I do my damnedest either way.

 

 

 

Neutral

I was only

Neutral

Today.

I lived in beige.

An open door

Through which everything passed.

Nothing but net.

I fed the cats.

I worked.

I cooked oatmeal.

I fed the cats.

I washed dishes.

I worked.

I cooked soup.

I washed dishes.

I worked.

I cooked pudding.

I fed the cats.

We ate soup.

I washed dishes.

I napped.

I watched TV.

I tried to read

But nothing got to me.

We ate pudding.

I tried to read.

I ate scraps.

I fed the cats.

I showered.

I went to bed.

I was able to do everything I was supposed to do

Because I just

Wasn’t

There.

 

 

 

Hey, it’s Harold’s herald!

Behold! Harold cometh!

Harold! We knew you were coming. Your herald was here.

Where did my herald go?

He probably went to the next place you plan to go.

I’d like to meet him myself, but that guy’s always one step ahead of me.

Wish I had a herald.

I need a house crier.

What’s that?

Like a town crier, but just for house stuff. He’ll get through to my deaf husband.

Take him to the monastery, he can be a friar crier.

If the monks decide to market homemade onion rings, he can be the friar’s fryer crier.

And if a friar dyes the fryer, the crier can tell everyone who did it, and be a friar fryer dyer crier.

 
Boy am I on point tonight.

 

 

 

The deer

Tall

Antlers like icicles

Legs like drumsticks

Eyes like bocce balls

Wings like no one else

Flies lightly

Into the sky

On his skateboard.

Don’t get hit by his eggs.

 

 

 

How much is a face hugger worth?

A partillion?

A zoodlequad perhaps? Maybe even twoodlequads?

I’ll buy a facehugger one day. I will, wait and see. I’ll keep it in a cage and feed it faces every six thousand years, and I’ll love it and squeeze it and call it George.

 

 

 

I am utterly blank inside.

My brain is a vacuum

My eyes are marbles.

My skin is pale, insipid, dull

I smell like strawberry shampoo

I look like a wad.

I feel like…

Like an emptiness.

Nothing matters.

I don’t mind.

Maybe if I go to WordPress

I’ll read something beautiful

Have a feeling

Get a sense of human connection.

It won’t load.

The page too

Is blank.

Well fuck me.

 

 

 

 

Come along darling.

We’ll be late for the nothing.

Don’t dawdle.

When we get there we’ll have ice chips

And mothballs.

We can dance the tarantella

The quiet unmoving one.

And then we’ll hold hands

And wait to see

Who breathes first.

 

 

 

It’s not here.

It’s not anywhere.

It’s not in the soup.

It’s not in the couch.

The blankets are too hot.

The cats are too obedient.

It might be in the licorice pudding

I’ll look…. no, nope, not there

The pudding was flavorful

But too thick.

It’s not in the malted milk

It’s not in the boyfriend for sure

I got him sick and he’s down for the count.

It’s not in the shower

It’s not in the bed

And it’s sure as hell not

In this poem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Bur Oak

 

Sorry I haven’t been too responsive lately. Things have gotten busy!

 


 

Today two friends and I cycled out to the Bur Oak

Locally celebrated as the oldest tree around.

We rested in its shade

Picnicked

Painted.

A frail old man with a cane arrived

Guided by a woman and a little boy.

It was evident his family adored him.

They spoke eagerly about what to show him next.

The old man saw my friend painting and was pleased.

He had gone to art school.

He was very honorable, soft spoken, knowledgeable and kind.

After they left,

Three carfuls of Chinese students showed up.

Amidst the clamor one of them said, without irony,

“It’s so peaceful!”

We got to talking.

Before we knew it

A beautiful slight thirty something woman

Was leading us all in a Tai Chi exercise.

She taught us Chinese words as we followed her movements.

Four motorcyclists arrived

In matching Harley Davidson jackets.

They found a spot amongst the roots

And made brash, cheerful gossip.

 

Of these very different people

Every one was here to see the tree.

Some casually leaned against it.

Some circled it.

Some squealed for a picture with it.

Some hugged it.

Some climbed among its roots.

Some solemnly sat and revered it.

 

How many people

Has this tree seen come and go?

What does time even mean

To something so ancient?

For most of its life

It had little significance

Growing up among peers.

Time passed

And all the trees around it fell.

Why did it remain standing?

A farmer’s passing fancy?

A fluke?

Or did it have value even then to someone

Beyond all other trees?

 

Now it takes our human adoration

Our traffic

Our abuse

All our attentions, for better or worse

And still it stands

Breathes

Drinks

Takes sun

Makes acorns

Towers.

 

Trees know something we don’t know.

We play at their ankles like children

Drawn to what they have

But never understanding why.

 

IMG_20180919_091029709

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Reverse Midas Touch

 

Never good enough

Never good enough

Try a little harder

Punish

Self castigate

Mortify the flesh

Is this good yet?

Is this?

Am I still

A disappointment?

 

I wrote all evening

And nothing good happened.

The reverse Midas touch, I wrote.

Everything I do turns to shit.

But it wasn’t good enough either.

When will I be good enough.

When will I be satisfied.

What am I looking for?

 

When I write, I write what I felt that day.

So I didn’t feel anything today?

No. I felt inadequacy. That was sharp.

I need to write what is wrong

I need to write for me

I need to write for therapy

I need less judge.

I read a really bad story today by another writer.

Relatively, I’m an incredible talent.

I read a really good story today by another writer.

Relatively, I’m a half-wit.

What can I do

Why do I try so hard

Why do I try

Why do I care

Why can’t I just be happy

Writing stories and poems should be fun.

When I was a kid

Even then

I was a harsh critic.

I must have been eight

I remember judging my little kid poetry

For rhyming wife with wife. What a cop out, I thought.

I remember being displeased by my corny poem conclusion:

 

“What is the way to be happy?

There is only one thing

And that is, to sing!

Oh, what a good way to be happy!”

 

It felt wrong. Of course that wasn’t the best way to be happy.

My parents thought it was adorable

But I knew better.

I always know better.

I never trust praise.

I know my flaws.

They burn my eyes

They scald my soul

They cannot be extricated

They cannot be exorcised

They can only be

Embraced

Every day.

Practice will patch the holes

Acceptance will allow for flexibility

Some days are hard

Some days are easy.

I will never meet my own expectations

So I must not allow expectations.

Oh, what a good way to be happy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

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