.....which is probably fine with me, actually. I cannot imagine enjoying nor would I want to be famous. My internet fame probably measures in the hundreds rather than thousands and half the people who know me don't even know I have a blog. I rarely mention it on Facebook and most of my friends there don't know about it. I am not sure why I operate that way, but I do know that my conflicting tendency to put myself out there, and step into the lime-light and then immediately step back from it, my desire to be good at something and recognised for it and the equal desire to be unnoticed is just a party of who I am and always has been.
That's the end of the prose navel gazing. Here is some first draft poetry navel gazing.
I hallucinated on these drugs...
hallucinated that I could not breathe.
You know how I dealt with the bears? I tried that again.
I tried the violence.
Violence doesn’t work with concepts.
What is the battle strategy for
There were other hallucinations[
Snakes, falling-all as much a problem as not breathing.
Things I am afraid of.
I sang on the street corner
busking away the danger-singing is breathing.
“The time does not matter.” I say, when asked.
I’m a narcotic and I will heal you and you WILL become addicted
to the way I make you feel good and lick your wounds, stroke, you,
croon you to sleep and
You will be dependent on me and call it love.
How can I know the difference. Do you love me?
I had never learned, somehow, and
he may want you and say he needs you but does he love you?
She wrote the word on her hand because
She forgot things and needed to be reminded how to function -
just to function at all. Breathe. Step. Rest.
She forgot whether or not the book she was reading was fact or fiction
And whether or not it mattered.
You have a function to attend, the invitation issued on
the date of your birth no RSVP required;
you are obligated.
She wished she had also written down the other words
the letters for them rolled around in her mouth like marbles
and she would need them because there is a function to attend.
She must function, so she bites down on the marbles and
cracks the glass, tasting the blood on her tongue, and the glass
dissolved into sand.
A bitter pill on her tongue dissolves and she is left with what remains -
the words are written on her hand and her heart and her soul
and she knows them, she can function
she can sing the song because she knows the words.
He is there when I vomit emotions on the floor, overwhelmed by what I feel and not sure how to interpret it.
never belittles what I feel; he listens and sympathises and guides me
back with a thread of logic, to a place where I can rest again.
understood, knowing I am not alone-as strange as I may be-as poorly as I
may fit with the rest of the world as I know it, I am not alone.
He says I am not strange, only wonderful and I believe him because I want to.
And I know that we are all strange really, and true love is a matter of finding the other who is your kind of strange.
He is teaching me that if I don’t fit with the world as I perceive,
It’s time to change my perception.