FitFalls

A spider conducts operations that resemble those of a weaver, and a bee puts to shame many an architect in the construction of her cells. But what distinguishes the worst architect from the best of bees is this, that the architect raises his structure in imagination before he erects it in reality. At the end of every labour-process, we get a result that already existed in the imagination of the labourer at its commencement. He not only effects a change of form in the material on which he works, but he also realises a purpose of his own that gives the law to his  modus operandi , and to which he must subordinate his will. And this subordination is no mere momentary act

When you find yourself google image searching your much older brothers to see how much grey hair they have so you can compare it to yours now and it occurs to you that no brother, in the opposite position, would ever think of doing this you realize two things: 1. You don't really have strong family ties, and; 2. The Patriarchy. Yet... even though I can't not wonder how much grey hair I might have under this dye job, or worry about how thin my hair seems to be, or whether my younger-than-me husband will find me unattractive if I let my grey grow out and/or lose more hair, that doesn't paint an accurate picture of my mental state. My mood can't be located in those obsessions, or worries or thoughts. Failure, shame, anxiety are not really my moods. One's mood, one's emotional state can drift into and across and behind all events. My hair, my thoughts. Experiments. I'm not in either. Family bonds are unbreakable because they don't exist anywhere. I found mys

Outside, the door shuts. I'm blocked by the freezing air. If I can tunnel through this I can make it to the next best place. The warmest spot is my hands between your thighs. My feet rubbing. Cricketing, you call it. Outside it's large and bright. Seriously too white. The wind chime's going nuts. When it starts going at night, the chimes sound frantic with worry. They twirl and ring faster and faster. Careening, almost. Is that the word? Do sounds careen ? Like a circle would sound if a circle was made of a sound. If a circle made sound. Geometric, moving sound. Geometrical? I'm not sure. Anyway, I'm always worried about how to handle the cold, especially when it's windy. My body tenses just thinking about it. I think we admire warm-blooded people more than we should. Being cold is a sign of weakness. That guy - what's his name? - who swims in freezing water? Why is he superior to the guy standing on the edge, not willing to submit to the icy unknown? Fuck t

Seriously! I've been saying this for months! I am flabbergasted by this garbage. I mean, pick your "winner" and get on with it. Also, lol. He seems exhausted and annoyed, running on fumes of pure frustrated entitlement. How do you measure competency from the outside?  How do you measure it from the inside?  Duuuuuude I did not feel like ugly crying today.  They're not dangerous if you raise them right.

Today, this afternoon, blanketed by sound-dampening white. It's late February and I'm quite sure we saw this coming. My dogs make small, black paw prints, long traces of movement down the back stairs, across the patio to the edges of the back garden where the fences mark the limits of our property. As I let them out the back door I caution: "Careful! Careful!" Lest they slip and hurt their tight little leg or back muscles. The cold makes them frolic and run and bark. This year February is a leap year. I confess I don't get it. One more day of February. It didn't snow much in January or December. Early December, my friend Katie and Gogo had a baby girl. She's over a month old now! So there was the imminent baby arrival story from Annunciation to Epiphany and now we're in Lent. It's Ash Wednesday. And this might be baby Nika's first snow.

How hard can it be, generating ex nihilo? Not sure how to generate ideas for poems. Not sure how to be generative. To motivate against ignorance, laziness, malfeasance. The steady state of satisfaction, all needs met, like a warm pool of soft seawater holding me up in its palms like a baby in amnio. Pure satiety. How far do I have to travel to find my way to satisfying that primal goal.

Given opportunity, nothing suits. I'm uncertain how to deploy my time to the highest benefit. This albatross of efficiency. The nightmare from which all of humanity groans and purges and stalks. Dying off to become a blob of nothingness revolving the sun. A burning planet rotating a molten center. A centerless expanse beckons. Apparently, anti-matter and matter just don't get along. They fight it out for dominance. Anti-matter wins every time. I can't help it, sometimes I root for anti-matter. While the old softie in me thinks matter's got a shot. There's something to be said for picking sides in this moments battle for the infinite. If I can flirt with big things, while, in the end, I'm down here, in the mud, thinking about how to move one small body inside the looping grasp of infinite space and time, maybe... Ah, forget it.

Requiem for a Party You could plan a party. You could buy the cake and candles. You'll need a nice set of glasses for the beverages and some savory and sweet snacks. I like Cinco de Mayo decorations. The colors are so bright and happy. You could plan the party in detail. Have it all ready in your imagination and then in reality. The house looks nice. The candles add a warm glow-y ambiance. The ice in the bucket is beginning to slowly melt; the outside drips with condensation. Excitement and dread, like a small, wet bubble is reaching up your esophagus into your throat. Killing off any desire to speak. Now the guests have arrived. The party isn't yours anymore. The party takes on a life of its own. The guests are gonna sing a different tune. It can be really disappointing.

If I enter into a dream state. If it comes to me in a dream. The feelings are all there waiting. They wash over me. Woosh! The soundtrack of my dreams. The last time I dreamt of her. The ones that tell you something you don't want to know. The lies that dreams cook up. I don't trust them, honestly. I've found the emotional states dreams engender tend to be in essence false. I'm pretty sure the truth of all dreaming is just the flushing of mental debris. The brain cleaned up, the synapses tested and sent back to work. The whole apparatus is given a thorough going over, like a basic car tune-up every few thousand miles or months, depending. Dreaming isn't a narrative, ur-stories, or a language. No "Royal Road." It's the car wash, an oil change. An enema. Shit just flushes out. The predictive dream tho? Maybe there's a time valve that gets turned on? Dreams do come true, after all. Is dreaming related to willing? If I dream, do I conceive of a thing

Working on my spontaneity. Working on my mental flow. Catching thoughts as they come and go. This is not stream of consciousness writing. I'm just opening a valve. Listening to German band, Oval 1995 album. I steady state might help me get past extreme self-consciousness. Remove the blocks of judgments in my head that hold me down. why not try? Why not let something flow out previously unbidden? I can try to connect to the dialogic thoughts I'm able to produce but only when I'm talking to another. The difference is coherent, correct sentences. I don't think on my own, I guess. I don't think in a writer-friendly fashion. My thinking doesn't translate well into writing. The ideas don't compute as well, as quickly, as coherently. This is just practice. I bet when (if) I show this to Chris he'll start writing a blog. Or at least want to. I don't want to compete or feel competitive with anyone. That's what I'm trying to get past right here and now

I'm falling. The ground is wet and muddy. I can't stop the fall, only experience it as it happens. This is a slow motion catastrophe of my own making. I most fear the dirt. No, the hard ground. I know it will hurt. Then I will feel shame. I don't want to fall. But I want it to end so falling might be ok. That will be the end. No, the fall will be the beginning. The beginning of a series of events predicated on a single mistake. No, not events. There will be one event with endless consequences, some foreseen, some completely unknowable no matter how hard I try to dig them up and extract them. I know I will work really hard to forget, make it all go away. Good news! I haven't even fallen yet. This is the time in which I'm marking the fall. I'm working this fall out right now. In fact, it's always happening. In fact, it already happened. If only I could get ahead of it. Not the falling. Not the fact of the fall. The feeling of dirtiness. The ground, so hard an