oh gosh. where to begin. seasonal affective disorder clutches me with it's grim claws, so I'm back here again to wring some dopamine from my life.

made a dating profile. picked up a new belief system. finally read my immortal in its entirety (so fucking funny... it's going in my mental emergency box for laughs). had a few major traumatic realizations. made lace. knitted mittens.

cynicism is the easy route and i refuse to see the moral superiority others ascribe to it. that being said, i am having an exceedingly rough go of it.

last night I dreamt quite literally about having to reinvent the wheel while some sort of proctor looked on, judging my work for originality. any time it started looking too much like an actual wheel, they'd take the thing from my hands and split it very carefully apart and insist i do better. i honestly wonder if reading so many books has ruined my dreams a bit -- there used to be cryptic symbolism, and now it's all very cut-and-dry, easily interpreted stuff. speaking of. finished his black tongue by m. luthi in a day or two; i had seen the cover everywhere and had it recommended. very short book, and while it was good, i expected it to be better (partially i held on because i thought it was a longer book and maybe the writer would find their style). tl;dr easily predictable, fight scene dragged. the writing sung where it described the truly grotesque, though.

some poems, to leave off. they are not very good and I'm not even going to edit them like I did last time.

How can I express?
I went to heavenhell in a dream, and everyone I ever knew
was there; the floor was smoking ink, and the space between
Was glowing, coloring, interlocking and interrupting,
And we tiptoed over and through, avoiding, while we took in the strumming fingers and beginning, in one way or another to walk and
We stepped into knots, and with gleeful malicespinning, a hurricane forming around us that tumbled the nearby down with peals of laughter and tears.
In another dream I was the spider that made heavenhell, I was trying to give away a shirt -- the shirt, without seam or needlemade. it wasn't possible; it wasn't right, they said. So I spun a bubble of air and dove into the water, flightful and angering, all eight eyes fishlike unblinking.
How do I express?
I wish I could come back to life --

gods in the earth, the warming dirt, the
hum of your heart and other locales;
some use the phone book to talk (there
is some charm there) others speak
without speaking, a translucent mimery
full of worship. others still take to
painting their insides a deep maroon
with laughter and song.
here is how i do it. i read to you, let
the pockets of voice spill out
stumbling consonants and shaking
syllables
of ecstasy and worry, like pustules. i
want to see you shudder, exclaim
you were unaware that the holy lies with the drudgery that
there is no word of god without human letters and human lips.

what do I look like to you? block of marble, carved
off the hillside like flank off a steer. trophy
in essence, all show and no innards.
well, some innards. only the ones you want, the ones that will give your more porcelain dolls.
you grimace and haggle the price of my flesh again.
I am half tempted to replace my skin with mirror
fragments and blood paste, spikes of bone. to strip
all this skin from its glue, to become
all innards. all mess. no show. no seems, no looks. no could be only is
and to do the same for you.