It’s winter which means it’s time for me to ruminate. It’s time for me to get obnoxious and bad and fast.
I get off my horse and my boot does not get stuck in the stirrup. The day old snow crunches against my soles. I tie a knot around the post and start up the hill, trudging along: the cabin shack gets smaller and smaller I still see her ears flick and tail swish in the dead wind. Will I ever have a second back to myself. Will the rain fall softly on my face, am I just to be fucking shit up and fighting against the mud. I turn to look down the hill and see all of my boot prints in the brown ice sludge. The dry air hits my face and
It feels like I’m sitting at a desk still typing away at nothing, peeking out around the corner of my cubicle and pushing my glasses up. Ugh I have a headache. It’s just a lot of pretending I like any of this. A lot of material compensation. I don’t really find satisfaction in a purchase. I have no goal of accumulation, the numbers in my accounts come and go with no impact on my real, whole, existence. Sure, I can drink something that costs an hour of labor and feel good. I can shop local and pretend to be fulfilled by my access to butter radishes and endives. I can wear one of those costumes and run down the street passing by everyone else.
Who knows anymore what it is to be still. How it feels to be quiet. How good it feels to really move your body with no intention towards perception.
I only want to sit in a circle. And listen. And talk. Shared experience, transfer of consciousness. Feel your telepathic eyes. Tired telepathic eyes that can do no more searching.
The empty open unwelcome hole in my head is where I spent the last quarter of 2025. Where things stop spinning and words are only shapes.
I’ve struggled lately with giving myself enough credit. I miss the hours and hours and days then weeks I’d just spend on this floor typing nonsense just for the love of the game.
I have such an emotional relationship with my creative ability. I deprive myself of it. No matter if it is real or only perceived, the failure to function is a rock rolling down a hill that picks up mud and sand and branches and trees and houses.
I don’t know how to describe this to you. Unending feeling. When it is not real but I can’t help but feel it. When, to sit in silence, it is real silence. It is unmoving, paused. There is “the choice being made” like watching from the loft down onto the floor. Choice being made on the floor, watching from the loft: “letting it happen”. Is it okay if I come get a coffee?
Like when Arden would be in the gas station on the 41 corner. Probably late night (morning, early).
IT COMES DOWN TO THIS that I have let myself stop trying. I have forgotten what it is to hold a pencil in my hand. I have forgotten what it is to speak. I-have-forgotten-what-it-is: to live outside that sinking feeling of defeat.
I have only two options (two previously good-working, tested, tried and true options). I have lived such a strict, structured life where: it all goes into the maintenance of mentality. I have to sit on a cold rock outside, I have to feel the trees and the dirt and that stone in the palm of my hand and I have to feel the weight of it. I have to feel the heaviness. I have to move my body to the point of physical exhaustion so I can sleep go to sleep. I have to have a broken-in-half iPhone that can hardly make a call sure-as-hell can’t text. I have to read and I have to make shapes. God and I have to feel the wind hit my face fast as I’m falling.
I have to pour out all of this slop that digs and digs this empty hole in my head.
I need to feel good. I need to get over myself and feel good. Feel good Feel Good. I need to break my fingers apart at all their little joints and I need to feel my-two-shoulder-blades against wet stone and I need to be torn apart right down the middle. Then everything can come spilling out and then my hands (feel like shit) can start to hold earth again.
I need to scrape the sides of my head with the same two hands. I need to start hitting the ground hard again. I need to make up for all that lost sensation.
PRETTY MUCH, I need to start speaking again.
The easiest way to do that: pack it all up and start ranching again. So: it’s going to be the sort of thing: walking into the cafe on Foothill. Having a conversation. It’s going to be: hard on me. “She’s just going to have to cry.” Or it’s: stepping out of the car (that car) and closing the (that) door and breathing all the big air in. With my hands holding on and the flat tire and the overheat and the middle of nowhere San Bernardino County.
SORT OF: swimming just a few inches under the surface. Or, pressing your hand gently, just to the surface not so it breaks.
Normally, this is round-about the time I would move back to []. (This is normally just about the time I would throw my whole life away and “start over”). Instead, here I am. Thursday: here I am.
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