Lose yourself

Sometimes I’m writing and really get outside the text processor but not quite as far as beyond the screen. I’m dancing on a digital frontier, peeking over the edge of an editor window at the wallpaper plastered behind it.

I open my papers library and furiously start shifting backgrounds until one sticks, then furiously shift again to make sure it’s right. When I’m in the mode to write I need the right environment, and every alteration adds friction to the process. I can never get quite as lost as I want to be.

It’s essential to not have a damned clue where you are when you start writing because that’s the only way you can be sure you ended up somewhere new.

Vaporwave laxatives

Today at the pharmacy I gazed upon brilliant packaging for bowel bubblers. Intestine ticklers. Gut gravy. Inner-abdominal aerodynamics.

So many medications had boxes that would make your eyes bleed so you’d end up with an even longer receipt. Not this one. Something about it was cool. I could imagine Morpheus opening this box over the strobe-lit sink at a rave.

Something about it told me the package designer did not intend for it to be perceived the way it was, and that makes it all the more sincere.

Sincerity in the scaffolding

Some things feel better than others, and you ought to act on the intuition that guides you toward what’s good. Then grab an x-ray machine, laser-splicer, endoscope, and tweezers to take it the hell apart. Ask yourself what makes it better and treat yourself to the answer.

I’ve found it to frequently parallel with the past. How an object, idea, service, sermon, community, or pound cake came about can tell you why it’s deserving of your delegation.

History ain’t ancient and abstract—it’s eight minutes ago when you took a last swig of lukewarm coffee and weaseled your way to this wordstuff.

Motives. Karmic consequence. Momentum. Don’t follow the money, follow the molecule.

Golf Shack

there are times when
a blue awning
on a slender pole
far back between two trees
kisses drops of rain
makes hair stand atop the knees
the daisies droop oh dreary day
yet hold their gold
the gold’s to stay
boulders bould and benches weep
bring the night it is to keep

Written c. summer 2014 at a mini golf course I worked at behind the counter, doling out clubs and chipped ice with sugar syrup. I read, did push-ups, and played games on a clunky laptop to pass the time. Some days I’d work with a friendly, weathered woman named Ginger who once traded a cigarette for a boat of fries at the adjoining restaurant.

Many familiar faces came through. There was an encounter with a therapist I’d seen once or twice—I forget why but it probably had something to do with appeasing my mother. We pretended we didn’t know each other, though maybe it was just me pretending and she never even recognized me.

Besides Ginger, there was a college girl named Amy¹ who dreamt of working as a museum curator. She’d regale me with historical happenings to help pass the time. It was quite a waste to pay more than one person to work the shack. Today, many years later, I think the restaurant hands out clubs. Minus one summer job for the listless teen.

Howdy world

This is a retro-post from a newsletter once associated with a previous email address I’d been using. Uploading here for archival purposes so it’s not lost when I stop paying for the old address.

How are ya? It’s me, ███. This barebones newsletter service released today as part of my new email sanctuary—HEY.

I’m comfy on my personal blog, ███.com, but it’s not suitable for notifying my minuscule readership of new posts. I sent something out from Substack once or twice but even that is too cumbersome for someone not [actively] trying to monetize their content.

Suppose this would work better, but there’s no way to carry over my mailing list and I’d hate to bug people to resubmit their emails, especially when I’m not posting consistently and just want to give folks a friendly nudge from time to time who’d maybe like to peruse my musings.

Not much else to say here yet. I’ll give a think about whether it’s worth trying to move over from Substack—perhaps if I decide to pick up regular posting again. Been in a lull.

With love,
███