on metabolism

the body makes decisions for us. underfueling prompts a period of hibernation. we soon see that the cave brain is primal: any sustained lack of fuel is flagged a famine. metabolism is a fire / will fade to embers without fuel / slows to preserve what the body already has. the choice isn't ours to make. it's all just evolution.

the body conserves energy, restricting function not essential for survival. the body sources fuel by breaking itself and making its own. digestion slows cognition too with the pulse and drops in temperature and hormones. vital organs do the best they can but they belong to animals. we need fuel we pathetic meat machines prone to egomania and thinking we are different. ignorance is programmed we forget our sameness the world beyond ourselves the eternal charade we march from womb to tomb. we want so much more than body and breath. our will means little to the fire. the body takes what it needs and does what it can.

infection

reading on the tram filling every crack of time of space between one place and the next. someone's grandma by my side playing infection on her tablet tapping all the cities sends her plague across the map. she coughs into her tapping hand. I lose wherever I was on whichever page. the virus spreads. she nods and smiles and coughs again.

guinea pig

when they ask me how I feel I tell them 'like a guinea pig'. I follow doctors down corridors to sterile chairs for observation. they wrap their tools around me stick another in my ear set me on the scales to praise or shame whatever's changed. I nod to the tune of their orders. they tell me what to do and lay the law of what I can't. the parasite squirms and flounders in their petri dish. we watch the data dance / the loss / the gains from one week to the next / up and down / so much for us to learn. they take their notes and keep me dancing / crawling blind from one frame to the next. I think they're happy with my progress. I make a great experiment.

andromeda

a group of students gather round a telescope on south lawn at night. the library is about to close. they look to the sky as though there's something to be seen beyond the light pollution. they know the clouds can't change the fact that stars are there. the limit of our sight means nothing: andromeda will glow regardless.

I think about the surface / how little I know from what I can see / the worlds beyond my gaze and comprehension. no doubt the most important things cannot be seen; every bible says the same. if only I could trust the stars as much I do my eyes.

golden hour cemetery

somewhere between a lost mind and found feet. intermittent thinking ripples in and out of reach, closer than before but still not quite mine yet. I shake I quiver at the edge. I am a paper boat passing under the bridge. a new body I would never choose the same brain too stubborn to change. 

the lady at the pub says her dog is medicated. SSRIs for a few months. but she's been so fine today maybe it's time to take her off. on my phone I fall from this plane swim away through many a cause for medication. bombs and babies martyrs enough to fill a shopping mall face cards enough to care a little more. my ex housemate posting golden hour selfies from the cemetery. I hope she had a happy birthday.

never let me go

sometime between coffee and night school (nearly dusk). a boy in black sitting under a tree on south lawn. soft silver somethings dangle (both ears) long dark hair a little like mine shoes I own but never wear. he's reading the book I bought for your birthday. baggy pants I'd like to buy. I want to take his picture know his thoughts see you again. the story didn't move you but it still lives on your shelf. it was my favourite for a while.

sun starts to sink again. he marks his page zips his bag stands in his baggy pants to leave. the black birds swoop down round his waist from one tree to the next.

onions

how far can I fall into myself? the static is a bandaid only here to fill the gaps. skies change I should I don't I cannot outrun truth. what good are eyes that only cry for onions?

kids again today

I catch a school of fish from puddles in the backyard, filling the wheelbarrow in minutes. you emerge without warning, clambering over the fence on a branch from next door. maybe we are kids again today. I invite you to join us for dinner (we have fish enough for thousands). you don't respond, turning away to the rope swing or some other childhood relic half remembered. on the grass I'm twisting flowers to a crown for you to wear. you're transfixed by the garden. eyes wide deep breaths moving like an astronaut. I want to hold your hand but know to leave you be for now.

only neutral

we talk about radical acceptance / embracing the absurd / the unconditional positive regard. I want to understand and ask for help. the nurse clears the fog opens windows lets the light in. she's not a therapist but should be. radical acceptance: 'it is what is it is' but a little less passive ('what can we do about it?'). whatever reality / truth we face cannot be changed without acceptance. fact does not need forgiveness but acknowledgement to flow. truths can contradict and sit at the same table without spilling each other's guts.

the nurse gives us directions for play. first I must ask what I'm accepting and how it is has changed me. only then can I consider what can be done about the reality I don't want. truth awaits approval and will not shift without it. the words make sense but practice mutates madness far beyond the bounds of ink on paper. tentacles tighten home around the frontal lobe. I am asked to meet myself where I am / leave struggle and resistance at the door. with clear direction I still can't seem to give them up.

we're reminded on the cheat sheet happiness is just another signal. beware the chase that never ends. everything of value is to be mined from some transaction. our natural state is soft is less. only neutral ever lasts.

playing house

do we come from clay or stardust? what is truth and does it matter? regardless we are left to build our own alone. some draw a lot of meaning from the thought of being: 'we are the universe witnessing itself unfolding'. others say we're accidental. with will both can be true enough.

they teach us to dance around / hide from the logical conclusion / play dumb / keep playing house a little longer for forever. we reach for the moon and let ourselves dream from our silly cells of flesh.

one fish, two fish

learning to learn

how not to be wrong

bad kids

carry on

the line of beauty

where angels fear to tread

observatory mansions

hidden in the cave we forge of one another

cats cradle

a children's bible

where the mountain meets the moon

white noise

us

genesis

the nature of things

more happy than not

one fish, two fish

love and virtue

on the origins of species

sapiens

apocalypse of the alien god

under the dome

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

shadows to know

sleepless or lost in the fog. I hear the news but cannot see beyond myself. one step two steps somewhere drawn from dreams and my disgust. too many shadows to know. I reach for the moon like a child for the handle on the front door. in a few years maybe I'll be tall enough. for now we flounder in the thicket / where we are / coughing through the ashes of any map that might have lead us home.

worksheets 4, 4a

we all have a pattern we must understand before we break it. emotions shape our beliefs. they may not lie but can obscure the shapes we draw to form reality. other factors shaped by context predetermine vulnerability. note their weight and work on regulation.

there are secondary emotions underscored by effects after the fact. anger is vocal. anger is the most primal secondary emotion. anger will always surface at some point wanting to get things done. anger drives us to do things and asks to be left alone. if anger is not getting what it wants it will tell you.

notice biological changes neural firing rising heart rate temperature any other body sensations. make allowance for expression face and body language words and actions.

every urge is a child needing somewhere to go. can you break down these feelings to keep them from completing themselves?

bluelit

reaching again

from one bar to the next

none low enough from where I sit

bluelit in the backseat

the head on my neck between one mask and the next

another treat to chase

running from the work of tears to come

I make room for strangers in brittle boned arms

too weak to keep the score

fine enough for hanging fantasies

to scroll into decay

I am happy without thinking

with the masses

on my phone

I smile through every gap

the headlines bleed into my dreams

distraction

or some other kind of drug

diluting the subconscious just enough to keep the rain

something else to witness

cause enough to ghost the mirror

til I’m running out of laundry

and I find myself again 

about our bones

they teach us about our bones. when enduring extended periods of strain, the body does what it must to refuel and keep moving. without knowing we do anything we can to make the energy we need and won't otherwise find. without enough fuel we make our own from ourselves. the body milks the bones if it must. the marrow makes a bandaid til the body needs more fuel but the bones are getting too weak to do what they've been growing for.

I think about statues in the sand and in museums. mud or marble every one returns to dust with time. we're just the same just lacking stillness / acceptance / nerve to stop and wait for what's to come. we fool ourselves forever moving just to hide from what we know. with brittle bones how much more can we be than sticks or stone?

if only we remembered dreams like we remember shibboleth

this is just medicine.

it is the way it is and that way is okay.

I am only ever where I need to be.

adults

adults in suits. adults on trains. adults waiting for something to change.

adults not wanting to grow up and give in to convention. crawling screaming clawing at the carpet for a trapdoor out of the performance / expectations / death and taxes back to the merry-go-round. don't they know they're bound to dust no matter where / how far they run? from a distance it's clearer; we all are. sitting in seat C9 wondering just how much I've lost doing the same / not knowing how / wanting to let go. I've chopped the trees I used to climb myself. the nights are getting colder and it's well past time to use the timber. the pyre would dwarf the theatre but I can't quite find the exit.

he is risen

I run myself empty

out of breath

to stop on doctor's orders

he is risen

have I lost him?

not wanting to grow up

through the city to the cemetery

coughing possibility

a fairtyale psychosis

or maybe just regret

reaching for absurdity

disowning fact like innocence

I wash my hands

not wanting tomorrow / the headlines / thoughts I author

waking to face them anyway

'we miss you' waits for rain on marble

like the end of summer when it comes

unwanted with the rest

betrayed

she is weeping on the floor in the dust

cradling another doll

can you hear her pleading change away

a little longer?

how much difference can a little make?

the door is still ajar

raw data

they ask me to collect the raw data: what hides behind these urges? how am I actually feeling? what do I actually need? I hide from myself a little too well and can't cough back the answers they want. all I'm being asked is to witness the experience. all I can do is let it be.

off ward

my time off ward outlives my time inside. I fill every moment I can with something other than being where I am / listening to myself / feeling what I say. cleaning reading groceries etc. whatever I need / can keep me and my mind from the mirror. being outside in this body stirs forgotten childhood feelings I could do without; of embarrassment, not wanting to be seen. everywhere I go I am passed by people exercising - running and cycling and just out from the gym. I wonder what they're thinking / why they're doing what they're doing / how much is for them or others / how much are they like me?

I miss the quiet walk down the hall from my bedroom to breakfast. I miss the nurses / trivia at the table / beige walls and nothing out of place / the lack of expectation beyond eating enough. I miss the table under the awning in the courtyard / the meals that weren't so scary / the once or twice a day the others managed to laugh. I miss the paper on my mirrors and the dreams that gave me secret leave between the hourly checks at night.

there's a limitless out here / a lack of boundaries beyond the ward. rules and time fly fluid I can sway a little more / a lot depending on the forecast / time of day. surveillance is a memory / can only do so much to keep me spinning / captive to the rules that kept me there.