All my body wants is to get better.

I have depression with bipolar tendencies and last year I kept lying to mental health professionals about other symptoms because I have these paranoid conspiracies that they are plotting against me. I fear that my other paranoid theory  may be far more valid within rationale: I'm actually lying because my brain doesn't want to get better from whatever is wrong with it. 

Throughout the lot of my depression, I have been often told by others (by those who are not aware of their own emotional ailments) that my suffering is a concious decision that I am making. That through my depression, I am seeking attention from those around me. This is an ableist argument that disregards the severity, and yes I dare say, the necessity of this suffering.

Even if the ableists are right and my suffering of mental illness is my choice, they must feel privileged in thinking that their choice is the natural one. If I am making the choice to be crazy, than so be it. It is my choice to make and you have no clue what fought me here. Everyday there are demons trying to eat my spirit. That is not something I can just get over. 

Capitalism is Dumb Hard

MONEY THAT MUST BE SPENT :

rent..because I need shelter.

February is coming so I will need a bus pass for work. 

I just got my first gas bill. It is January. A warm January, but still January. 

----------------

My paycheck tomorrow will probably be about 400 bucks.

These things, which must be paid for with this pay check, total $410. 

My check will be gone in less than a day and I will not be paid for two more weeks. 

I have 10 bucks in my savings and 6 bucks in my checking. 

Limited access to food and malnourished. It's not always that I don't have any food, but due to disability and lack of funds, what I can manage to eat is literally rotting my body. 

I had SNAP benefits, but because I didn't have money to fax over some paperwork (I DO still qualify), my benefits were taken away. Hopefully I can reapply and have benefits sometime in February. 

I need to eat; I need to eat produce. Every time I buy produce it goes bad and I've wasted my money. 

Right now there is nothing but pasta in my cupboard. Supply is dwindling. 

------------------

This paycheck to paycheck life is mad hard. And I just don't understand why people think I have the ability or power to save money. I can't. 

I rarely go out with friends, I can't travel outside of RI, I can't buy a car, I don't have internet on my phone, I can't buy people nice presents, or lend my mom money, or buy my own cigarettes or support local businesses and/or Black owned businesses or donate to your cause or go see a show. I can't buy books or new undies and bras. Half the time I get my period, I can barely afford to buy pads. 

And we need trash bags, and tin foil and Draino.

THERE IS LITERALLY NOTHING I CAN DO except wait until I get my "big break." I don't know/believe/think if that will ever happen. 

----------------------

I survive with help from Jake but my financial dependency is very stressful for the both of us. He allows me to use is car, gives me boges (I now smoke 1-4 cigs a day as opposed to half a pack. Having a very very difficult time quitting but deperately can't afford this habit), and buys the fast food (disability makes it very hard for me to cook regularly).

I was providing groceries and gas money but have been unable to this month after losing my SNAP benefits. Now I feel like a useless waste and we're both hungry all the time. 

Hardened Off

Guess I am just interesting to myself
In a chair
In a corner
But then Steve comes bobbing and ducking into the kitchen.

It's a false hope as he is just making his way to the bathroom
Making his way to the crackers
Like it's nothing cause it's nothing bitch
Still he shows his respect.

All I can do is listen to music
All I want is to look around and notice others watching.

But everyone is in the living room.
Watching reruns.
Watching Will Ferrell and I judge them for knowing the spelling of his name.

The only one who doesn't watch is my love, my Jake-y.
Only because he is sleeping.

Poetry sounds strange without
Helping verbs, without ifs and buts.


I almost want to leave here.
But to be considered less than capable...
I'm too young to be too old,
At least that's what I'm told.
At least that's what I'm told.

To Philly

And I'm off! The train moves fast--an express press pressing its way down through the states. I had panicked back on the track when the train approached. I now understand it was how the Acela train resembles a worm. A worm with speed.

I don't see anyone here who could be going to the Pre-service Orientation. Everyone here has six plus years on me. Maybe I have the wrong idea of what other VISTAS may look like. What should I then look like? Perhaps only myself.

I have very little clue as to how I fit into the working world. Maybe my issue is that I am seperating the "working world" from the world. Thud my self cannot fit into the equation. I could choose otherwise. I could choose to at everything as in within the whole world. I could stop boxing it all up. Nothing ever gets clean that way.

Walking with the dead

The internet was cool on our computers at home but when we began to carry it with us, it became a flesh eating virus. We are zombies mindlessly roaming—drifting about in a haze. Not paying attention to our friends, or family, or selves. We have become unfocused to the point of total dysfunction.

(laughter about the daylight. despite it my airy weary head is heavy

with dis—dys—something. i'm not quite altogether sure)

As zombies our only interactions with other humans is to prey upon their bodies. We pick mindless disputes—arguments through comment wars we won't win. Winning is never the destination. We pick these fights because the only way we remember to survive is by blindly ravaging upon the beating and breathing flesh of what we once were.  

I'm probably wrong...but where else would I be?

Media is a distraction.
A lot of people say it's a distraction from the "more important" news. But all of it comes in forms of media so even the more important mostly ignored stuff is a distraction??

I don't pay attention to almost any of it.
I get my news from a social media feed.
I don't care about any of it.

And even the things I should know; all the wars and wheres and whys. Because knowing how people are killing and thieving is still a distraction. And knowing what is happening within a country I can't even imagine, distracts me from the fact that there are homeless people on the streets where I live.
It distracts from all the roadkill on the streets where I live, because there are too many roads and not enough homes.
It distracts me from the fact that bees are dying and we're ripping up our plants, claiming them to be weeds. So that the only places where the mugwort and plantain grow are on the side of the streets where I live.

And to the "educated," this makes me ignorant.
There is this lie that in order to be connected to the universe we must be aware of "important worldwide current events."

But I already know there is suffering elsewhere because I am experiencing it here on the streets where I live. And I weep for the suffering everywhere. But all I can do for elsewhere is weep.  In order to make change, I must focus for here.

We are bending ourselves over this lie of uniting worldwide. But what have the Nations or the States done to end the hurt? How much suffering would end if stopped trying to fix everyone else's? Uniting as we know it requires categorizing, it requires class. A place where everyone belongs.

Does it make me less of a person, not knowing? Am I less because I choose to narrow my focus on here and now instead of there and then?

If so, does it make the Sudanese boy who does nothing but run and starve less too? He knows not of the suffering of elsewhere. He cannot afford to distract himself by it. He is too concerned with his own environment and where he belongs within it.

That is our issue. Unification is the antonym of individualization. We are so concerned with involving ourselves worldwide, that we forget to involve ourselves where it is physically possible. Within ourselves. Watching the news and reading articles have replaced tending gardens and feeding the homeless. Knowing what has replaced knowing how, leaving the "educated" forever lost, wondering who they are.

Up, Up to get Away

     I am out of my old neighborhood and that itself is a giant step. I do not think i will be leaving Rhode Island, or even Providence, any time soon. Not for a few years at least. Anybody who suggests doing so just annoys me because it is not even something i feel that i can even consider. I like to think that anywhere i happen to be is where i need to be at the moment.

     It's not as though i am opposed to going off somewhere that i am called to by opportunity-- I just don't think that time is right now. When it happens it happens. But right now, in order to survive and strive i need to focus on being successful within the environment i presently reside in. I want to be able to achieve at least that. Then maybe I will better at identifying the justifications of natural and necessary suffering when i see them.

     I will be able to withstand all i want to run from.

Questions

What the fuck am I even trying to break through?

I keep wanting and wishing

hoping to “open up”

but what does that even mean?

What am I closed off to?

What am I hiding?

What do I care?

Like what is the definition of unaffected?

Does it mean unable?

Does it mean hard

despite being squishy.

Despite having sunk my own hands into my skin and yanking out my guts letting that shit spill up and over.

What does it mean to keep distant?

Does despondency truly exist

when I am and always have been

right here waiting?

I know of nothing else but myself so why is it so hard to be myself?  

Sublimity in Snowfall

There is a sound that only the snow makes.
It is quiet, almost silent
But if you listen, you can breathe it in,
Absorb the dampened air through your skinpores.
The snow is cleansing.
Not because of its blanketing whiteness but because of the cold that shakes you.
The consciousness of flakes gathered into one; you can hear them chatter,
“Come here. Come stick to me.”

A single snowflake is almost nothing,
Many simply melt on tongues.
Even these flakes have a purpose—they guide a smile, create a shine.
Just take a look at all the snow mounds, the caps of mountains, the north and southern poles—
Single snowflakes had to land there, had to gather.
Single flakes spoke to each other, “Hey there, you can come stick with me.”
Suddenly single is septillion,
a septillion become one.
Suddenly a single snowflake is most sublime.

I see the sun on your back

I was walking last week in the snow, stomping around the mounds and ice, wearing my great coat (a Civil War replica) for warmth. The wind was in pure form that evening, chilling the air by at least ten degrees. As I pulled the cape of my coat over my head and tugged the edges tight about my face, I was reminded of the fable of the north wind and the sun. In this story the wind and the sun both attempt to make a man take off his coat. The harder the wind blew, the firmer the man's grip on his coat, while the sun only had to beam in order to get his way.

The moral of course is through gentleness, one will be able to achieve what they want, especially when it comes to getting others to act. A good lesson, I suppose, on just how one should interact with people, but what about the man? During my walk I kept seeing myself in his shoes, being beaten down by the harsh north wind and I wondered, "When is my sun going to come?"

Now coming from someone like me, it sounds like a sad question. A loaded question full of wistfulness, longing and despair. But as I gazed upon the snow drifts, clutching at my hooded cape, I was not begging. I knew my time would come, like the man in the story. For the moment, I simply had to keep holding on, despite the rough hands of the gales life was blowing towards me.

Hanging out with boys

I am wary of Biscuit the Beagle because he has on a few occasions humped my leg and arm. But I allow him to rest his head on my leg and his left ear is all flopped onto Jake’s knee. He is calm and I am relaxed at the moment.

The boys are yet again discussing sports and super hero comics/movies/games. This season is football and we’re approaching Super Bowl Sunday so this shit is important! I add to the conversation when I can guarantee that I’ve been following along properly. Sometimes when I have absolutely no idea, their words just stop registering altogether.

I’ve noticed lately that after years of stumbling blind confusion, I actually am beginning to understand the concept of football. I don’t know any of the ref or announcer terms (besides “touchdown” and “flag”) but I know the basic objectives of the players—essentially I know what they got to do. I don’t really care to know more but knowing has certainly made watching games far more interesting. I consider it a phenomenon almost.  It makes me wonder anyway.

A game is on but with this notebook in front of me, I find no need to know who is playing or why/how/where blah, blah, blah.  I’m just trying not to squish Biscuit whose head is now resting under Jake’s and my knee cracks. He’s warm. I enjoy his company.  A pet is always good to have around. Their friendship and company can be far more wholesome than most human interaction. My body draws healing energies from Biscuit the Beagle. But I don’t want to squash his face in. 

Biscuit looks up and regards the room. Pushing his head back between his legs, his eyes are so concerned—his brow furrows. He is probably in wanting of pets and so I give him some. When he moves away I turn my focus to the football game. I ask who is playing and the boys think I am referring to a Chicago Bulls game playing on the computer. I ask them more specifically and it turns out the answer is everyone. It’s a pro-ball game. Oh.

Public Observance

 Oh shit a Gladys pulled up at the store across the street. Got all these pens in my bag that I don't remember putting there that barely work. The one pen I did put in there is mysteriously broken. It's brick and I wish I had my iPod for accompaniment. The police are near by, parked outside their baby substation as the 92 passes by. It is headed off to RI College. There is a jeep that passes by with red LED headlights like staring robot eyes. The kid at the bus stop with me is growing impatient. I just shiver and write.

I am on the bus now. The kid in his impatience missed the bus and was shitting around in the park behind us when it arrived. It is warm here and quiet. Mostly there are just a few women on the bus , including the driver. More passengers are on the bus and the traffic is making us slow. We arrive at the hospital and two veterans get on. The stop is at least useful.

I guess I could be writing a book at the moment but these thoughts seem just as useful right now. Noting the passing moment simply for what it is—acknowledging the life that does exist. The seats on these buses are not very comfortable—they keep warping my back. I have to be careful to sit straight and keep my shoulders aligned. We are almost in the city now and the bus, while well populated still has plenty of empty seats. I have yet to move my purse from its window seat to relinquish my comfy aisle seat to another.

There are quite a bit of cars by the mall—I hope they do not delay our trip around the corner by much. I would like to meet my mother promptly in my current tardiness. The cold from outside has permeated the bus with its chill. My legs are shivering. I am not looking forward to leaving the bus for more cold. Hopefully I am able to catch the next one soon. I missed the 40 at 5 pm (it leaves promptly on the nose of the hour). I shall call and see which one I may catch. Oh shit, it just occurred to me that I will be at the brandy new Kennedy Plaza for the first time. This changes things.

-------------------

There are a lot of passengers aboard the 78 but I am almost at my mother's job. She hasn't texted so I bet she's still working behind the counter. The front door of the bus is congested—such a contrasting mood from the 56. I should probably get off soon too.  

The Self must flourish.

           I think I am going to have to embrace some of my narcissistic tendencies in order to survive and flourish. I have to stop judging the fact that I love certain things about myself—stop hating myself because I think I'm hot shit sometimes. I truly believe that I can save the world. No I know that it will not alone be my doing, but if I don't think about just how my impact will matter, I won't bother making one.

           I think people these days are afraid to be selfish, so much so to the point of losing themselves completely. But there is a balance required, like in all things. If we do not first tend to the Self we cannot tend to others. Being selfless means killing the self and while it is healthy in most ways in other ways it kills the Self as well, and that must never die.   

On my way to church...

I fly through the city passing the litter of last night’s parade. I ignore the filth and the underwhelming presence of others. I fill myself with air and music. I fill myself with my Self. Lyrics shift through my brain creating categories. LOVE—my Love, my father, me, God. SORROW—my father, me, God. I am preparing and I am lost but not without direction. I will not let it overwhelm as my soul is mine alone to cleanse. The people I will meet there under the cross, they do not know me and God, they do not see the difference. Yet they hold a sort of wisdom I do not have thus I will listen as they judge and speak.  

A faulty deity

What if I were a goddess? The Patron Saint of something or other. I see all this beauty in innocent neglect; I could be the Goddess of Faults. It would explain why I forget to pay the proper amount of attention to detail in the tasks I set out to fulfill. It could be my destiny to share with the world that our little failures, they are what helps us learn.

             This is what I think as I tape post-it notes with the logo of an indie lit press onto the side of my desk. The logo is of a spring gun drawn in what may have been either charcoal or water color. The cellophane keeps bunching, leaving several air bubbles in the wake of my fingers. As hard as I try to be careful, I just can’t seem to stop myself from zoning out.

             I realize that my supercilious thoughts are the reason why I keep fucking up this simple task. But I reason that perhaps the messy job I’ve done gives a more natural prettiness to the decoration. Ever since, I’ve been trying to decide whether my supercilious thoughts are just excuses for my lack in diligence.

If I could simply put in the effort I could be great at something, just one thing. I am merely good at many things refusing to dedicate myself to one practice. But what if I focused all of my energy into one art? I could be amazing, a prodigy. I know this. I think about it almost every day. But I don’t have time for that. I am far too tired to focus, thus I will always lack dedication. Instead I will continue to strive on knowing the basics of everything.

It’s not that I don’t want to be great or that I don’t try. It’s just hard. I cannot focus because I have these thoughts. Such wondrous thoughts that never become more than ideas yet there are so many of them that sometimes they do become words spoken aloud, with no one to listen but myself. Sometimes I consider writing these thoughts down, but I am not always the glorified world wind writer that I claim to be. Often I do not have a pen or paper, or I just don’t want to plug in my laptop. If I do, I only seem to remember half of what I meant to put down and my words contain merely a sliver of the grandiosity I had originally thought up. And so I am constantly wrapped up inside my head, burrowing myself as deep as possible. Until I forget.

But I can be a faulty Goddess if a goddess they'd allow me to be. I'll always allow myself to keep aloft.  

"Are We the Waiting" Song Lyrics by Green Day

Starry nights, city lights coming down over me

Sky scrapers and stargazers in my head

I thought adolescence would last forever—oh if only it had.

I thought friends could be forever, but maybe it's best that they weren't.

Now the days are too long and the nights blur into empty moments that used to last forever.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting unknown?

I feel that age is fast approaching.

Death blooms like a flower.

This dirty town, it's burning down in my dreams

Lost and found, city bound in my dreams

I must go. I am here no longer, though my body waivers.

Stagnant legs and sleepy gazing will be my demise...

I gaze into dreams, my sleepy mind keeps me waiting—keeps me wanting.

What is left of here? What has been lost?

And screaming

My mind is screaming.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting?

And screaming

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting?

Good will come if only I am patient.

But if I stay too long—

I have wasted, I am wasting away.

Forget-me-nots and second thoughts live in isolation

Heads or tails—fairy tales in my mind

The irony is I knew all along that I would lose. That the promises made were empty.

Promises always are.

But I never thought I would end up lonely.

That no one would replace the nostalgia that feeds my regret.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting unknown?

Lives so short waste away with the length of time.

The rage and love—story of my life

the jesus of suburbia is a lie

I could be lost in this land of demons, but I can create direction.

If only I could try—but trying harder is a liar's game.

Only fools subside in difference. Growing means knowing.

Growing means changing everything.

And screaming

My mind is reeling.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting?

And screaming

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting unknown?

I can't.

I can't do it.

I won't I won't I won't.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting?

And screaming

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting unknown?

I'll wait for no one.

Opinion within the Memoir

 One of the most obvious and discerning aspects of non-fiction is that of telling the truth. It is the truth that defines non-fiction as a genre however, in the form of memoir the truth has a tendency to become warped. This is done even without the slightest intention simply because it is fairly impossible for the brain to remember every detail exactly as it happened. There are many things that a brain does (including creating false memories) that can tamper with the idea of truth within a non-fiction piece. What is more interesting is how individual opinion can affect the truth telling within a piece of writing.

All human beings regard many of their own individual opinions as truths that are set in stone. We see this with stereotypes, many different classifications and of course in our judgments of others and their actions. Many of our opinions are based on common ideologies within the different societies and cultures that we belong to, thus a popular opinion can easily be misidentified as truth. But what is an ideology? In the simplest sense, it is not truth, but simple an idea that is strong enough to control the opinions of an entire society.

It can be assumed that opinion can easily destroy the aspect of truth within non-fiction because opinions when unchallenged can become destructive. We see this in all societies including the one we live in today. Minority groups have always been oppressed by a so called majority because there is a popular opinion that having a different skin tone, practicing a different religion, or preferring the same sex makes you less than human. But what happens to an opinion when it is challenged? Change. Writing in whatever genre gives one the potential to challenge common ideologies, opinions, and beliefs that are destructive within one’s society. Many, many writers have been known to fight destructive opinions successfully, changing the mindset of an entire culture.

What is so unique about challenging opinion when writing in non-fiction, specifically through memoir and personal narratives, is that the desire to tell the truth can challenge one’s own destructive opinions. When writing about the self, one is forced to thoroughly explore the self, in order to be truly successful. One must study their emotions, the meanings of those emotions and why they feel as such. One must study their personal history and as best as possible come to an understanding of why their opinions exist. When writing about the self, one challenges the self thus we challenge ourselves every time we write down a bit of our lives.

Of course not every writer of non-fiction does as such. But I believe that anyone who wishes to take this genre seriously must do so. I believe all writers of any genre should do so, and quite possibly the entire earth population. When we successfully challenge ourselves, there is growth and the world cannot change for the better unless everyone in the world takes the time to change within our individual selves. As a writer I hold so much power in my fingertips to set forth such change within my society, but first, I must confront my own opinions, beliefs and desires. As a writer of memoirs, I have the very power to do so.  

He Will be Blinking Forever.

Robin Williams killed himself yesterday. I'm not sure how to react. I'm not sure I understand why he would kill himself--I do not know what at all his life was like nor what he suffered from.  But I do know what it's like to want to die. I have not killed myself but I have felt the need to. Acted on the need to. Or apparent need. 

I wonder if he realized that so many people would be upset. But how could he not? He was Robin Williams. Our feelings had nothing to do with his actions. 

People sometimes angrily declare that suicide is a selfish act. They are right. Suicide has nothing to do with the world. It is about choosing the self over suffering. But to do so is to choose the self before life. People are not right however to be angry about such things, as suicide is the last selfish act anyone can take. Therefore it is almost noble. Many times it is the first of selfish acts taken by those who have committed. 

Maybe there is nothing else we can do but allow them to rest in peace. 

Ideally vs Really

I am strong. In both body and mind.

What people say as I leave a room does not matter, for I am my own worst critic, not them. Not any of them. Yet people remember me. They appreciate that I am strange because I have the ability to convey. I feed them little morsels of truth, of feel good feelings, of light. I see all the hungry people around me.
I have taken the time to discover and the river has taught me to laugh (Hesse 107). I am at peace within and without words. I am learnèd. Meditation has taught me to focus. Cut out the crap--there is not any crap, everything is beauty. One is all. We are all. We are full. I am full.
       I hear in the alliteration of emotion, larger than simplistic syllabic slurs. I listen to the assonance of love. To the onomatopoeic rage. No matter how many ums fill my ears, my voice is breathing the holy om. My voice--louder than that of Mother Culture’s (Quinn 26-29). Thus I sing everywhere I walk and romp and strut. Humans listen. Humans dance and sing. The birds echo. And the fish. I have a message and need to share it with you. I have something to say. You will listen.
I will, because I can and if I don’t, so be it.
This is me ideally.

*

Despite my dysthymia1 I am optimistic. I think. Believing that anything--past or future (especially the future)--is better than this moment right now is much easier than accepting. I don’t want to be anything. I want to be anything other than this. I don’t want to do anything. I want to do anything other than… I sleep too much. Complain too much. Ache too much. Look right now, I’m ranting too much. My greatest fear is myself. I will tell the world I am looking. I want to discover my Self, my Me. But I spend all of my time destroying my mind, my body. Am I a temple or a wasteland?
       I look around and see nothing.
       So what am I really?
       Who I want to be and who I am (or who I think I am, maybe all three) are constantly clashing. People do not help. I am much like Siddhartha; though I genuinely love people, I do not generally trust what they have to offer in terms of knowing. It is why Govinda’s character in Hesse’s novel is so important. His is the voice of reason, the voice of the people. When I admit my truest thoughts often what I hear is, “do not distress your friend with such talk. Truly, your words trouble me” (Hesse 15). Reason encourages silence and repression and people are continually trying to reason with me. I am often interpreted as a negative ninny.

*

         Ideally I would have Siddhartha’s motivation. Or even Julie’s more achievable motivation in Daniel Quinn’s novel, My Ishmael. The simple motivation of completing her homework, of seeking out a teacher, of speaking up for herself. But homework seems so boring in comparison to discovery and travel. Even prayer and meditation are more appetizing actions. Yet, how can I expect myself to meditate if I cannot even start (never mind finish) my homework? So I read books with motivated characters and think oh if only, how amazing would I be? I know I have potential. It feels good to have potential. It feels like death not using it.
I see potential everywhere. I think it is one of the most beautiful flowers; all I do is yearn for its blossoming. Too often, I watch it shrivel. Whether in the name of progress or that of ignorance, I am saddened.
        I too am dwindling, though in my dreams, I am only beginning to bloom.

*

        I do not know what people say when I leave the room. I can hardly even imagine, what goes on in the minds/lives/hearts of others. Though my interactions with others have indicated to me that if I am ever brought up in conversation, it would not be very interesting. Not to say that I am a dull person. Others just tend to dull me until my edges have rounded.
        But I am sure that I am not so strange, that conversation about me in my absence would sound a lot like conversations I conduct about others in their absence. A judgment, either negative or positive. But I’ve noticed that people remember the negative much more than the positive. I seem to receive much more advice than I do acceptance. Still, I am not remarkable enough to have ever caught anyone talking behind my back. No one bothers to spread rumors. Their greatest complaint of me, is that I complain too much.
        I will admit, I do complain. But I do not see how I complain more than others, or louder than others. I often refrain from speaking out loud for fear of sounding whiney. Most of my complaints are trapped up there in my brain, stuck in the airtight tupperware of my skull. There are so many trapped in there, I can’t figure them all out. I only know what is said to me, I cannot fathom what is said of me.

*

        What the gorilla, Ishmael, has taught me is that reason teaches us that our ideal selves would have had to live ideal lives in order to exist. But nothing is ideal, and so we have every excuse not to be our Selves. But what I define as reason is whispered into my ears by Mother Culture. (Quinn 42). Leaver culture must have another word for reason altogether. Maybe it is simply life and thus it can go on.   Through Ishmael, Quinn has put many of my fears of self at rest. I know now that my nature is not wrong. There never was a drop of poison (Quinn 35). In Buddhism, Damien Keown describes an Indian creation myth that unlike the Christians and the Greeks does not blame women for the fall of mankind (32). My nature is not derived from a mistake at all. It is instead a hunger that needs to feed. We must consume something, but what? How important is the answer to this question?
        I want to consume passion. To feed off of the dance and raging pits. I want to get high from belting C notes, blasted on rhymes. In reality I focus on consuming sleep and oatmeal pies. I consume anger. I try to brush away hate but am consumed by grudges.

*

         Buddha teaches anatman; the self is not real (Zornado 1). At first this scared me. If I am not real than why am I doing anything? There is no point. So much of my time is spent in madness for what?  Earlier this year I was confronted with the term derealization, a condition in which one believes that either they are not real, or that they are the only real being in an unreal world. I could not decide which one I believed.
Maybe in Buddha’s language the words were defined more clearly. English tends to lack in many areas, despite its rawness in beauty. After contemplating my self, I realized how selfish I was being, because I thought I was only seeing me. Now I know that the world is not a projection of me. I am simply a small projection of the world. Everyone is a small projection. Everything. We make up a whole vision of entirety. I am not real by myself but we are all real together.

*

        Sometimes I know I’m special. Not any more special than anybody else, but there is something I need to tell people. It sits on the tip of my tongue. It squirms deep down in my cerebellum. I am not quite sure of the words exactly, but I know my self to possess the idea.

Works Cited

Hesse, Hermann. Siddhartha. New York: MJF Books, 1951. Print
Keown, Damien. BUDDHISM: A Very Short Introduction. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996. Print.
Quinn, Daniel. My Ishmael: A Sequel. New York: Bantam Books, 1997. Print
Zornado, Joseph. Buddhist and Hindu Terms, Sutras and Assorted Background Information. Rhode Island: English 263, 2014. Print.

Rock Lobstah

Original artwork by Charmaine Gray. 

Crayon on loose leaf.