Thanks for the Brews:



Sip your beer you piece of shit, sip it again and again until it’s all gone. Yeah, fucking smooth I know, I don’t care if I’m not smooth, I’m fucking driftwood.

You think that’s important right, that thought you have that makes you a person. A three dimensional person. The things that make up your thoughts and feelings that you could only ever articulate the smallest slither of. Maybe you think you’ll do something, or find someone. It doesn’t matter ultimately, because they’re yours alone and not anyone else’s.

I don’t like bullies, people who decide to use their articulated thoughts to get what they want at the expense of other people. Often though I find myself asking why they’re doing that? Because it normally comes from a place of pain. I want you here right now, all the time because I’m lonely and I’m afraid of being alone and I have this bubbling anxiety that you’ll find something better without me. Yet instead of saying that, instead of being honest and attempting to articulate that dimension of you, others find it easier at times to use the surface of it to satisfy that wound.

I had some interesting responses from people that felt that way. One made a comic strip explaining what was wrong with me. How I failed to understand things and why I was a broken piece of shit. It was a little baffling and slightly insulting. The assumption I couldn’t comprehend their view, when in reality I think I just didn’t want to understand it. So desperate measures I suppose. I had another who got a little too emotionally close too soon. While I just pretended it wasn’t happening. We had ceased seeing each other for a while, a number of months passed and I thought we could still be friends. Though as we sat opposite the quays they said they wanted to kiss me, but not before pointing to to their partner’s apartment across the water. I didn’t know what to make of that. I’m not a prude and I’ve messed around in affairs before but I felt very ill in that moment. Because it’s easy to kiss someone, in fact it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. To promise someone validation by offering them affection, time, acknowledgement.

That’s not adult though is it. To be co-dependent. Because it only takes one thing to break the system. I suppose I’m quite independent when I’m independent, and not so independent when I’m feeling not so independent. Those tides in me change often and rapidly and it’s easy to fall into a relationship where the other assumes your one or the other all the time, and that when you change they react like it’s something unusual, new and not a real ”part of you”, just a blip. Maybe it is, but it’s a reoccurring blip. Because you’re a person too, a three dimensional person, where you’re deciding how to articulate the full force of your every thought and feeling. Choosing what to say and how to say it, and sometimes you don’t even really get to choose, you’re just at the whims of the cuts inside your mouth bleeding out into words and whines.

The implication that you depend on me can leave me with an uncomfortable feeling. Not because I don’t care, or I’m angry at you for it, but because I’m scared I’ll fuck it up. What is anger but fear, wounded from a place so deep it reflects more in the person that’s angry then the one you’re angry at? Not that I could ever be angry at you. Cause as much as I hate to admit it I depend on you too. What should I do? What do you want to know? I’ll tell you. I hate it when my friends sit across the table and dissect my life, like they understand where I come from or what I mean. Writing jokes on whiteboards like I act seriously. When I joke, when it’s always a joke.

It is though, because you’ve never loved yourself. The universe man, it’s split in three. In our heads too, the way we separate things. Past, present, future. How do you even know if you’re experiencing the present? How do you even know what you’re doing now isn’t just a memory? Maybe it all is, and you’re just reliving it at the end. Or you’ll wake up after you die and it’s all a dream.

Yeah maybe they’re right and they should up your dose of antipsychotics. That would be easier for them right. Neglect you again. Maybe the piece of shit CBT officer can give you some comfort in that cold empty room you visit once a week. Oh you dread the bus ride you take alone. Waiting forty minutes in the cold just so you can be told you’re crazy, and when you break down in tears there’s no comfort from them, or anyone. You’re crazy right? So fuck you. That’s what they make you feel like. Everyone and everything. It’s just a fucking write off. You hate yourself because you’re overwhelmed by the idea that you’re different. You’re not different though, you just fell into the system that turns people into products. Pushed around by privileged career shits that gave up caring twenty years ago. Just waiting for their pension to mature so they can retire with their double garage. They’re not there to enable you, they’re there to not be accountable for when something goes wrong. ‘’It’s not our fault it’s cause they went off their meds’’. ‘’It’s not our fault they never showed up’’. Showed up for what? Showed up to be burned again, to be reminded that world sees you as an anomaly, a problem. Fuck that. I want to be happy. Is that hard to ask?
Sometimes you feel like a red hot chilli peppers song, sometimes you feel like you don’t have a partner, sometimes you feel like a fucking a loser baby so why don’t you kill me, sometimes you feel like you’re taking ten steps back just to take a few more.




Let’s Talk About Block:

tumblr_lv7204GdSj1qhyqpto16_r1_1280 No, I’m not talking about constipation, but the nature of writer’s block, specifically mine… So if you also suffer from this please sit down and let’s share, because one of the few things that can make the process cathartic is talking about it. My traditional preamble complete let’s move on.   After a really ugly tour of some of my own depravities, I wrapped up some major personal projects which left me feeling rather empty. By that time I had been using antidepressants daily for nearly a year, and unable to renew my shoddy prescription of Diazepam I seriously considered starting a heroin habit. Although a quick review of my finances threw that jovial and irrational trip into dismay. So I regressed back to my primary aspiration, which was always a confused sort of wet humming mess that I could never really work out.

I’ve been fascinated by literature, writing and anthropology, but most importantly people. For the last few years of my life I’ve found some amazing stories in others. Some I thought I never would have wanted to know, but there’s a gentleness to storytelling that brings others together. It’s one of our most primitive pastimes, and that means it’s also one of our most important traits.

So in an attempt to recapture a sort of keen motivation I started weaning from others. Cannibalizing ideas, practices, even topics, and it served well enough although I couldn’t help but think I was cheating someone. Perhaps it was myself, although I suspect it was more founded from the idea of ‘cheating’. Despite the fact that term, ‘cheating‘ with its many connotations and contexts was perhaps ill-fitting to how I was really feeling. Nevertheless it still remained the one word I could use to closely articulate how I was reacting. It was in many ways a sort of imposter syndrome that had wreaked my illusions of self-worth and talent.

The consequences of this are quite dire to any writer, as the soul of self is so often wrapped up in ones capacity to create something that encapsulates their state. I felt detached from my ruminations drifting between different personas, some snarky, some academic and others just muddled.

As I looked around the web for insight into this block and my subsequent imposter syndrome, it seemed that almost anyone could have a respected argument as long as they wrote a lot. No matter how many fallacies they used as a foundation it seemed that to the internet eyes, sheer volume must account for insight. This accounts for why so people perpetuate broken ideas and memes, simply because their own understanding on what constitutes a well thought out statement is based on a word count.

Searching through these made me feel rather dire and isolated and knowing that the prospects for someone of my talented ilk has few if any opportunity to amply stretch this skill made me feel genuinely depressed. There is no better disenfranchisement than knowing what you want to do and what your strengths our yet still remain a victim of circumstance and be trapped forever to wallow in unsatisfactory mediocrity. My muddled identity as a writer, my misnomers in poorly phrased arguments, these all fretted me beyond measure. Writing felt like an unachievable head-space only reserved for those elite few who have the free time to leisurely measure every tangential idea that puzzles them.

Yet, sometime in the middle of the night, while I lay silently in darkness wishing for the sweet embrace of sleeps unconscious breath. I pined, pined to write and expand and state and make and create and never stop and keep writing and what’s this know I’m up and I’m typing it’s three AM and I don’t care the lights are on here I am typing and it’s coming It’s all coming there it is here I am and… Wow. I can do it, I can actually do it, sometimes at least, and perhaps my talents will never measure up to those few. Perhaps my conflicting personas will always muddled and diminish my reader base.

Yet upon much deliberation I realized my writing was my release, release from so much that it would be but a boring list to most. So I wonder, genuinely, as I ask you few who follow me, and those who stumble upon this blog by whatever means.

 How do you feel about it?