Daily writing practice
2021/11/5 There was a trick I used to really like. I learned it in elementary school. Not from the school, of course. You stand so that you can barely touch a wall, or other vertical surface, with the tip of your longest finger. Then you let your arm drop to your side and rub it with your other hand. When you put your arm back up “It's shorter!”, you can't reach the wall. Works even when you know the trick and how it operates. The thing I liked, I think, was the almost absolute replicability while not understanding how it could happen. I was looking for something that was off about the world. I wanted proof that things weren't as they seemed, or were as they seemed in opposition to what I'd been told. Any hook on something solid that I could know for real. This trick wasn't it of course, but it had something. It showed that tricks can work, even on people who should be able to avoid being tricked. The replicability of illusions and tricks shows that tricks are fundamental to how we experience the world. That our sensory and interpretation apparata are flawed in predictable ways. That's on the road to an understanding of something real.
2021/11/3 #poetry This one is for you. You screamed and yelled. Flung what you, in your ignorance, assumed would be insults. You felt your convictions strongly. You terrorized those who you felt were besmirching your environment. Alas, they are people too. They live here too. You think that since you have property that you deserve more than them? Somehow you get to have power since you have better protection. You might abuse that power and lose your protection. If you tried I'm sure you could see why you are in pain and fix the true cause. You seem to think that violence and vitriol is a nicer addition to the neighborhood than a tent. You are deeply confused. I heard you underwent some trauma of your own. You told me too, but your rendition was not too coherent. I don't know if I'd have sympathy for you were I to hear your story a different way, but the raving fit of anger didn't do much for you. Stillbirth trauma or not, you might try being nice.
2021/11/2 #poetry That cycle, sun up sun down, so much of everything we know. One part of a day and another are so different. Both mean so much. Our big queue to action is the position of the Sun. Watch it go, watch it pass. Things change. You act. Then you stop. And again another day. Some more time to while away, but while you may be scarce of plan your habits will bear out again.
2021/11/1 #poetry “Want to play the forgetting game?” “I don't know. I don't remember how to play.” “Oh man, you're so good at this game!” “Which game?” “Ah! Round two to you!” …”Were we just talking about something?” “That's it! You win. I give in.”
The forgetting game is what we play. Coming into being in this way. Remembering not ourselves in whole. Agreeing now to fill a role.
2021/10/31 #poetry Standing on the solid ground. After soaring or rolling or floating or surfing through cyberspace. Planted, still, controlled. Reconnected. No longer being tumbled or washed along. Activity spins around you. Trees and buildings tower over you. But you have weight, the weight of the planet below you, touching you, supporting you.
2021/10/30 #poetry The other day I saw a man camping on the street. Not that that's uncommon here, it's quite often what you'll meet. This man had a seat next to his tent and makeshift table too. It's what was on the table though, that I must relate to you. He made his lunch, it was that time, two sandwiches, white bread. Top pieces, empty, on the left. The right side spun my head. Two donuts sat, each on a slice. The meat of this day's meal. In my days of eating sugar this sight would have had appeal. My widened eyes, my shock, aghast, lasting only a second not more. I rode right past not stopping to see what else might be in store.
2021/10/29 #poetry Awesome, construction noise from a connected apartment. I do enjoy the experience of reading something interesting and being able to actually ignore it. Not great to be only able to enjoy only one activity though. The grinding or sawing, not sure what it is, is the best. Shakes the dust off the ceiling. It gets everywhere. Smells weird too. All this and mostly I find myself appreciating my relative luxury. There are many unfortunate habitations that humans make home in. With noise forever, not just for a few days. There are places that will slowly poison you too. Infested places. Places with mold. Some have only partial shelter. I've got what anyone would want. If it were perfect perhaps I'd ignore it, take it more for granted. 'Ahh, quiet, how lovely' is something that only comes after the noise. I consider the noise and I give thanks.
2021/10/28 #poetry Those lost poems that I hope I find, the ones I wrote on old computers, for school assignments, for sending to someone randomly one day, or even, dare I say, on a piece of paper, maybe I don't need them. Maybe if I did read them, I'd just scowl and thank the stars that I've come so far and stash them away where they would decay as I went forward to make more.
Or, perhaps I'd adore, cherish, and roar with delight at all I did right. Even try to publish if I might. Tonight, though, tonight I'll decide that if they reside in someplace where they've died, never to again come to light that that is perfectly alright.