guess there was something real in those thoughts on awareness in creativity.

awareness to be unaware without agonising might be possible after all. its real. and ray bradbury did it. guess i better stay asleep.

writing is my only unconscious creative act. therefore my reference in understanding all creative processes. if you can even translate working with words into working with colours and shapes is where im headed next.

part neglect, part function. today, there was a result. and it was very amusing.

observation: my art journal is starting to resemble dan eldon's, but subconsciously, and in my own individual way. ive integrated the inspiration without distortion. that makes me happy. for once i dont wince flipping through the pages.

spontaneity, im tellin ya.

side note: how do these revelations always find me at the perfect time?!

tasted something i almost forgot today. and if i didnt it was certainly one i thought i was never going to taste again. until today.

leave your milk uncovered in the fridge for a few hours, and have some bacon strips beforehand.

it was only insinuated (i can taste things from different angles). and its unpleasant, but its established itself in me long before my tastes could. and now i find myself craving it.

from that metal bowl. barefoot on the concrete shared with ants, trigonal thorns in my heel, the gate slamming. hell, how do i remember that that sound? and that it was slanted inwards along with the fence. the diamond pattern of the chain. how thin the metal was. the way its rust feels on your fingers. because i grabbed it instead of using the handle.

her bedframe scraping the ground. everything on the concrete sounded resonant and fresh. the canes, our feet, the bowls.

we used to toss bones to the cats.

and i bet theyre dead now.

everything there is probably dead. its life inside me only.

she should have never left that place.

at her funeral me and my cousin wore the same shoes. i spot a few other mary janes. didnt expect them to be so in for funeral attire.

im barely holding it together as i go down the line, resolve weakening with every uttered condolence. but it was my loss. i wasnt going to cry for faces ive never seen and will never see again.

i dont know if i have a right to mourn, for how avoidant ive been near the end. i couldnt bear to see her maltreated, thats what i tell myself. but god knows im guilty. childish, childish anger. misplaced. why?

two kid sisters, god bless their souls, diffusers of gloom. theyre going to mythologise her the way i mythologise dead relatives i barely met.

and there went a part of me.

there went my history.

i drift further away.

today i went down a slide, babysat a stranger's daughter, and held the door for a man carrying a wedding cake. and i ate many things i dont know the name of. amen

today i decided to visit the house with the colossal hollyhocks. they must be 20 years old. id like some of that resilience in my yard.

rem's losing my religion reminds me of nineteen eighty four (1984), but less gloomy to me than painfully earnest. its cramped room, ritualised gestures and nervous pulses feel strangely warm. so much that i look back fondly on the movie now.

confrontation, then indulgence, then confrontation again. trying to direct the unbearable but uncontrollable out of himself, sometimes standing through its tremors. spectating his own yielding. and feeling terribly small. that's me in the spotlight.

second round of the unstructured. time flies are everywhere. family isnt coming because someone isnt letting go. i want to learn ballet. travis is an excellent band. excellent is an excellent word.

many thoughts have been allowed to fleet freely. how dangerous. spontaniety is a recurring theme in my life. maybe i should invent a philosophy and get rich. cant get rich philosophising anymore. fast world. people have more important things to solve like doomscrolling. i know nothing can be solved so maybe i should evaporate to live out my limbo better. but im too unsure about what i know its almost like i dont know. i dont. that is why i cant have kids.

marianne has long covid. im not too sure what that is but it was nice seeing her face. and a scene ill never belong to.

im really contemplating leaving a discord server im in. not because al did, but really yeah. i think he and i might have reached the same conclusion: online socialising is superficial and draining. i enjoyed my time there though. till i didnt. thanks al.

spontaniety. honesty. as long as i am honest with myself ill be alright. lying is a reflec. hiding is a reflex. dismantle it. its time to show the world how much you changed. :)

also, the flowers ive given up on are still alive. spontaniety.

on tight days i look at my cat and wish i was him. his impossibly shaped stretches against my inflamed facial artery.

on days like these i look at the drunk eyes obscured by fat cheeks and feel profound sorrow.

a pitiful creature. prediabetic, lazing by doors, his bowels at my mercy. unaware of all the love i hold for him.

but thats man for you. thinking his love is the greatest gift, projecting his emotions onto a beast.

when i want to know how i feel, i look at my cat.

im no celebrity culture freak. but dont you feel deep sorrow at the prospect of eternal nothingness meaning hermann hesse is forever gone. we passed right by. relatively speaking, we were very close. so close to meeting. i dont know why im thinking of hesse specifically, and if i actually want to meet him. perhaps to thank him. but looking at his picture with lowe. i thought. "that cat is dead today". and i imagined its decayed remains. then i imagined hesse's. the instinct before that was to imagine their revival. but now a prospect of no reunion has wedged itself between the occupations of my mind. and im left with this vertigo turned gloom. hesse was alive just many yesterdays ago.

yet i hold his words in my hand, read them, and my mind occupies the same (i can hope) space his did only a few decades ago. transcending time, how sublime. time travel- i mean reading is an excellent hobby. sucks that its one way.

anyways, i will ask fleur to teach me german.

i give up on the flowers. weed takeover.

i think to put my earphones on and listen to ziad ranhbani. maybe carlos is on the other side listening too, transmitting many thoughts and feeling, encoded in the music, that i havent stopped to receive

let there be light.

been contemplating total honesty. both possibilities display themselves in a day, necessity and futility, encouragements and discouragements, working the heart in tandem. forgetting what the general consensus was on the decision doesnt help.

and i thought my head was exhausted.

theres deep sorrow in thinking of how little my core knows me. yet while struggling to embody certainty i know theres a palpable shift. reeking of apathy. i know we all see the mask i parade in. the quiet resignation i sense brings me deep sorrow. but tearing away was painful, and its not all or nothing. im still here. i swear you wouldnt worry if you understood. dont look at the actions.

but transmittance cant be guaranteed.

posted so the monkey mind thinks its resolved. good night.

latest developments in my little corner of dirt. the three kidnapped flowers have completely withered. lets just hope the forest is underground. taproots do your thing. my surprise potatoes are dying, as expected. dont care. as for the wildflower seeds, it was right seeds wrong person. thats alright. cuban oregano enjoys the neglect.

switching to a stream layout for my wesbite allows for frequent updates. and an addiction. in the spirit of christopher alexander.

being in the presence of somoene whose greatness you dont yet realise. makes me feel the value of it will only hit me later. one day when i am better acquainted with the terrain ive wandered into.

mindlessly engaging with demonstrations of what i will only grasp later then i will wish i had my then mind now. you cant really brute force learning, even while it dances around in its most distilled form. its retroactive, learned that from siddhartha. retroactively. for now i can only measure my incremental understanding against his.

today he told me i dont lack confidence. he might be backhandedly referring to a bold stunt pulled that wouldnt have been pulled if the stakes were made clear. how confidently i sell garbage.

but ive been recognised by greatness i dont recognise. made me feel happy. and a little stupid. oh well.

reverse ozymandias.

writing less. means thinking less. dont know if bliss helps or stalls growth but its nice to be able to breathe once in a while till the replacement parts arrive that is. its funny how the entries reflect my journey in an arc. or at least a half arc. waiting for my next inevitable low, as i continue to write about nature and tangible shit. loading... its concrete. but real problems are easier; you can shit them out.

and fucking hell! kissing in the wind has dethroned degausser!

when you have no drill use a hammer.

and when you invite guests over, dont.

collecting stickers is a bad habit from my youth carried into my adulthood. but for the feeling that its just been channeled into sticker collecting, ive beaten a broader stationery addiction though. i remember my first sticker folder. marie from aristocats suspended against a purple background, saying some shit about sapphire eyes. didnt know what sapphire meant back then.

today i crouch in front of dusty stationery bins in a sketchy asian store. marie from aristocrats saunters around a landfill in china, saying some shit about sapphire eyes. and my stickers stay in their original packaging. the store was suspiciously stripped of its usual branding. there are nail clippers wishing me well in french? i dont know but i liked them. twice. once for the tackiness and once for the clippings collector feature ive been searching for. i consider the fun in owning something so ugly. but i postpone it. after completing the rest of the store i realise i can allow my nails fly in the air for a little longer.

on the way out i was cheered on by two earless garden buddies. i wanted to take them home. they do not accuse me but will they forgive me for not? tough it is practicing restraint. i pat myself on the back for it, my other hand carrying $30 worth of stickers.

across the globe friends sharing otherworldly flowers spawned in their lawn labelled not too wow. haha. yeah. not too wow.

visited a within the globe friend today though. been a year. she has transformed completely. least in my eyes. and for the better. all i will say on her world: the indomitable human spirit.

i rarely get out of uniform occassions. when you have the freedom you almost forget how to dress. on how representative it was of me, id rate it 4/10. in terms of elegance, 10. weather compatibility, ZERO. it is safe to say i like an unelegant look. but i am learning to be comfortable on all spectrums. theres a disconnect between my spirit and my self image. why do i always project the image of a delicate, beautiful girl onto myself? when in reality i should be a gorilla. well, spdider monkey to be more physiologically accurate.

but then i remember that there is no standard physical body for abstraction. quite fascinating. i will keep thinking.

feeling the effect of mentally abandoning certain inhibitions. i would go down a slide in a kids playground. i would zipline. i would dance. previously wouldnt. no more hiding. its a strange kind of freedom, to not stand in your own way anymore. let others, but not yourself. never yourself. thats all i have to say. joy.

grass was indeed greener on the other side. compendium updated, four new flowers. i should have looked at the flowerless ones too. i think theyre equally important. now i feel bad.

maybe next year. for now i go home rich. what you dig yourself is somehow more valuable than what you buy with your own money to me. new currency, hand dug.

like a victorian cottage gardener i cramp the oregano together and relocate the accidental potatoes somehwere bad to put the flowers somewhere good. nothing i dug out with my hands turned out to be a cat turd but one was a larvae (?) colony. thought about my gloves but one look at the shed pile made me turn back. i spotted the other half of my yoga mat in there though, was wondering why it was cut in half the other day. theres my answer wedged between old broomsticks and barbecue tools. and crispy.

my garden gloves are crispy too. i remember when i first bought them. they aged 100 years in a day. wish my garden would do that sometimes. but the laws of gardening are revealing themselves to me and my old mistakes look stupid to me now. progress.

as of writing this i have:
4 cuban oreganos,
5 visible potatoes,
many hidden ones,
2 ginger roots,
three new flowers,
2 tired legs.

its quite the circus.

its so fascinating to me how much of a morning person im not. and im not sleepy. just not a fan of shared early hour existence. nothing could make me speak. not even something horrible. not even a kitty in a blender. yeah id win in that darren brown video. if any winning was involved, cant remember.

is this the time one graciously accepts coffee from above? i still refuse that rite. "haha i havent had my coffee yet." you bamboozling hoodwinker. nobody can joke during morning misery. if it were real you wouldnt try to be funny about it. admit your good spirits. the boost of coffee is so comically exaggerated by millennials i dont think they even believe in its effects. millennial folklore.

sometimes i think its just the way i am. but perhaps its the people. oh yes, yes, yes it is. its in selfish moments like these i understand the americans and their individualist ways. only partially though. the part where you can have your own universe if you like. nobody gets it all right.

the effect of a rainy april is visible on the landscape of my ride this morning. the grass is greener on the other lane (or is it? lol), i hope to make a stop on my way back. seeing reeds. wishing for wildflowers. and a moist may

photoshopped some pictures of aye ayes yesterday in my boredom. i put my favourites here.

Home - June - May - April - March - Archive
A Note For Jo.
“How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.” ― Henry David Thoreau