The Process

Month: April, 2015

The Things That Happened

The truth lives inside a hangover, so when I woke up in my floating I thought about the little truths that I know like how normally I would save a day to cleanse but that I’m tired of trying to be <, and I would rather lay down and eat bowls of cereal instead.  Actually, I’m going to leave behind commas for now to say the true things because they box it up wrong.  And I got out of bed and bought wheat bread and bologna and the man at the counter kept not knowing what I was saying and it hurt my head to try to decide if I was being too quiet or if he just didn’t speak English and it was hard because I mumble and I still had a floating head.  And I went back upstairs and made the fried bologna sandwich in case the lady wanted to wake up and eat something greasy to make the pain stop and I took a bite and went back to bed.  And then she left and I sat on the toilet absentmindedly while her cat yelled at me and then the cat and I laid down and I couldn’t get up and I had to make myself leave to do the day and I walked toward the train but I kept not wanting to leave the air of the day so I kept walking past each R stop.  R R R and then I went into the Harley Davidson cafe for a coffee because why not…but the why not is that the coffee was watery and not cold enough and the lady was bitching about a woman paying in change and I was too tired to hear even though I understand.  And then I got on the train at Canal because it was time and I didn’t feel like buying art supplies anymore because I’m tired and maybe my bank account is low and maybe I would write instead.  On the train there were a few beggars, a dancer, and a couple of men chatting about normal things, which reminded me that all the world’s a stage.  And the concept of blissful ignorance exists on many many levels.  And I thought about how my mom said talking to me is like talking to a forty year old woman and is it weird that made me glad.  And I thought about how I always ask if we died and this is the afterlife.  Just the other day I saw a man in a burger suit advertising for a burger place on a hot day and I thought about how maybe this is actually the afterlife and that hell and heaven exist side by side on earth or everywhere and we’re just all experiencing the joys and punishment on a continuous loop but how that would be hard to support without the existence of a god or karma and that even still we might all just be random.  Because I am so convinced that when I die I will be completely done.  But then there are infinite possibilities of what could become of a person after death…like maybe you’d just be on a beach with Bjork like in the exhibit at PS1.  Or maybe all the world is just Bjork’s imagination while she’s on the beach and when you take your headset off you die.  Or I am Bjork.  Or you are or this is death or every night sleeping is dying and tomorrow is the afterlife.  The point is that every action doesn’t matter if we are going to die once and for all but if each new sleep is death and the afterlife is living in the effect of your previous action, then everything is completely relevant and direct and god is cause and effect or life and death and afterlife is cause and effect and god is still a scapegoat that lives on some people’s lips.  Or when I die I will go to hell for my debauchery and eschewing religion or I will go to heaven to prove a point and God will laugh at me and say “gotcha, bitch.”  And then I got off the train and considered buying a bagel but couldn’t believe I could think about food because of the fact that I drank two margaritas and seven glasses of wine last night and ate dinner and woke up and ate part of a greasy sandwich so I just went home.  And as I walked down the street with the flowers emerging from the branches I smelled buckwheat honey and semen on the lukewarm breeze and felt peaceful with a tinge of disgust which is what Spring is about I guess.  And the thoughts I had when walking down my street became a story like a fantasy I guess but I hate the word fantasy when it refers to anything besides some sort of great ideal occurrence so I would call it more of an imagined story where I was telling someone about how the reason that you never say “never” is because never is a tiny fairy that is summoned when you say her name and she brings you the thing of which you spoke.  Never always comes to get you, you know.  With the commas, I know, but fuck you…because I’m allowed to do anything, really.  And they fit there.  In a way that made my brain feel OK.  I thought, too, about how I had meant to be better.  “What had happened was” is a great way to put it What had happened was what had happened was dot dot dot.  Dot dot dot dot dot dot.  That makes life an ellipses.  Or considering my inability to comprehend whether life is life or afterlife or day or whatever then I am just an ellipses or an excuse or a shrug and a piece of belly fat that tried to say I’m not sure I care or this is just the way I am because inertia is real and change requires energy, focus, and tunnel vision, none of which I really possess at the moment.  I would almost say I’m wry but it’s a raw thing too and a bit of heavy jading.  Yeah I wake up worried because of myself and the expectation of catastrophic abandonment but if I’m to embrace my abundant mediocrity it’s just a doom I’ll come to terms with and come to love one day, as those things often happen.  It makes me laugh a little just because it reminds me of the part where Motley Crue sings “if you want to live life on your own terms, you gotta be willing to crash and burn,” and maybe I am that and by transitive property Bjork is crash and burn or the absence of it…and it’s not necessarily willing to crash and burn but accepting that it’s probably coming and What had happened was dot dot What had happened was hold me closer tiny rocket man dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot dot What had happened

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Dinosaur Plaything 

If I could I would jet pack out the window and fly over the Hudson at the moment you know it’s nice out which makes me laugh when all I can do is lay here with a dog and my stomach that’s tired of eating and doubling as a pillow for the dog and my hair is wet on their couch but it’s just water not like the time my dad reminded me remember when you face planted onto our white silk couch with Carmex on when you were a kid and that makes me think about singing the song about milk or something to a room full of adults at my brother’s bris and they gave me The Goofy Movie even though it wasn’t my suffering which was nice and probably my first experience with blood money and that reminds me of how I need to go to work and then this song came on with heavy bass and the dog is scared now and that made me think of when my late dog used to bark at the Lion King theme song which made me think it must be the real call to the wild and that makes me laugh and think of how I like to say one day this will all be yours…everything the light touches but I only say it when it doesn’t apply and people think will it be mine everything the light touches and the funny part is that it could really be but we discount it for the sake of likelihood and functionality and that’s ok and humble because it would be too much to look back out this window and think it would all be mine or the dog’s because the light is touching everything at the moment and then also feeling like the only place I would really want to go would be the elephant graveyard because we aren’t supposed to and that might require the jet pack but that’s to be determined as we know.

I Have a White Duvet. Do you Have a White Duvet? I Have a White Duvet.

I got a white duvet cover.  And I buttoned it over my old down comforter.  The comforter itself is stained with old beer spills and nose bleeds, and my idea was to put a cover on it to hide my transgressions and evidence of being a human, as we do.  And I remembered the part of this book, “The Happy Hockey Family,” a picture book I grew up with.  In one part, the youngest kid in the family, Baby Hockey, has a white coat and hat, and she says ‘I have a white coat.  I have a white hat…They are new and awesome, etc., etc.,” and then a car comes and splashes mud on her and she says “I have a white hat.  Do you have a white hat?  I have a white hat.”  And I’m not sure about the layers of the lessons in the story–is it just a cautionary tale about the dangers of buying white things…or is the moral more about how life is bound to fuck up your shit?  It wants to be a story about optimism, about how the baby no longer has a white coat but still talks about her white hat, but then I think another car comes (and the page implies that it messes up her hat too or something)…so is it, in fact, a cautionary tale about having expectations?  Is it a story designed to teach us that we have to just roll with it when life keeps throwing mud at us?  I could have bought a colored duvet cover…but I wanted white because…well, it looks clean…or is it because deep down I like disappointing myself?  Or am I mocking myself?  Humanity?  I put the new, white duvet cover on while drinking a glass of Emergen-C.  That shit is orange.  But it’s funny, because the difference between my duvet cover and Baby Hockey’s experience is that I am the dangerous force posing hazard and wreckage to the white, while Baby Hockey probably had every intention of taking care of her jacket and hat…but that reminds me of the time my friend fell asleep in my bed and spilled a whole beer all over my white sheets, and therefore, it seems that both internal and external forces are possible origins for wreckage in the realm of white things.  So I think that it’s just about chance.  I think Jon Scieszka endeavored to warn me that life is likely to throw mud on my jacket.  But that it’s my choice how I cope with the tarnishing of white.  So the questions are these: does chance, then, determine how jaded a person becomes after too many mud moments?  Or is it the person’s moral fiber?  Is one stupid or resilient if one never switches to a dark colored coat or sheets?  Am I secretly obsessed with a clear picture of my and the world’s transgressions and flaws?  And, of course, is this a topic worth exploring at all?