Finding My Self

This whole game of “finding myself” has been a quest toward the impossible. Like a quest given to the ever-seeking pupils of religious sects.

“Go find your self!” the teacher says.

And so goeth he.

But the pupil is brought to such a state of exhaustion out wandering on his quest that he stops to catch his breath, observes the road before him, notices the road behind him, looks up at the stars, and laughs.

The completion of the quest to “find your self” is the corner of a circle: it is either nonexistent or it has been there the whole time!

Me, I have no self.

Drew is a chalk-outline on the pavement, made of the same pavement as everyone else, just thought of differently. I killed myself in search for my self; I left home in search of home. This is like digging for the moon because you saw its light on the ground.

And now, I stand where I once thought was a road, wondering where the hell to go next.

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The Dog’s Journal

Friday,

June 19 2015

I almost had it. At the tip of my tongue, the thing was.

What a projectile! What a speed! What a ball.

As He-who-tends-the-house-when-mom-and-dad-are-gone, his throw is accurate and devilish. He is a master ballman, I can tell. No one preceding him has ever tested my catching to such depth before him. Never has anyone thrown a ball like this man.

He is an interesting man. Shy, I think, because he comes to the house unsure of himself, his eyes taking in the room I eat, sleep, and live in. The cage between me and his uncertain posture. I am paranoid of his entering my house at first, because we have only met a few times. But, I remember his smell and my tail is soon thumping against the inside of my carrier.

When he goes outside-where-the-ball is, I offer him the sacred ball, for him to toss the ball and test my catch of the ball. He is reluctant, but I’m patient. He looks at the ball, studies the ball, scrutinizes the ball. His too-clean hands flex in silent anxiety. I’m used to this. Most act upon the sacredness of the ball as such. It is too much beauty for them to contain within their grasp, perhaps. I ponder sometimes if the ball burns their hands so that they must kick at it with their shoes.

But this one, he picks up the ball after the hesitance. And behold! the ball is across the yard! The game is begun! Over and over, we dance: the ball and I. The man is the moon under which I howl in harmony with the ball. It is our world, our game.

The man-who-throws-the-ball is a sly one, and quickly learns my strategy. Soon, he is testing my cunning catch, stretching the very material of my speed. He was a reserved human, uncertain, and very self-conscious, but I brought out the game in him. However, I cannot think upon such things when the game is afoot. The ball is All. There is nothing else. Catch, receive, admire, let go: that is the art of the game. All that you give away shall be tossed! into your direction: the secret, is for the ball to find you patiently ready.

The Wanderer

He was homeless, but he had a backpack. He was moneyless, but he had wealth. He was a wanderer, but he had stability.

This man lived off the kindness of the world like the flower lives off the thoughtfulness of a bee. We share connections, my friends. We thrive off each other. You know that, I know that. He knew that; alas, he lived that. He was a man of the get and go, always keeping an eye for the next sunrise or sunset.

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My Cat’s Journal

          March 4, 2015

One learns everything when one sits in indefinite listening. I am invisible in the room where my human is usually singing to himself, talking to himself regarding the most personal of things.

            But today, the man is sitting with his head in his hands. Occasionally, he gets up in a flustered whirl of a habitual spreading-wings, gets something to stimulate his always-going mind, and loses his self in that stimulation. But he returns again to this head in his hands. I worry about him with my careful and lackadaisical glare.

            He catches my eye, causing me to startle with the sudden attention.

            “I don’t know, Kitty,” he tells me, using the highest ranking word for Feline that I have in my knowledge of human words. “I just don’t know,” he repeats. Always he seems to be repeating himself.

            He doesn’t know, but that doesn’t matter to me. None of us know. What does it matter that he knows and I do not? Or that I know and he does not? And why does he want me to know that he doesn’t know? Does he not even know how to not know that he must let everybody know he is without knowing?

            I don’t know.

            And apparently, neither does he.

Something

There’s always something.

Something on the edge of your mind, looking in, saying, “Hey, fucker, you look good.” Something that sits beside you on a trip into the wilderness that you seem to ignore, but it turns to you and winks. A something that others might see, but you are blind to because, perhaps, it rides atop your head. It’s a something that you catch a glimpse of when you are looking in the mirror, asking yourself over and over, “Who are you?”

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It’s about a Mister E

As a child, Isis o’Cyrus was never alone. With her father not yet smoked out of his study, the house was hers. With the neighborhood loud in a chattering, whistling, quiet sort of way, the forest was hers. She hadn’t met another being that stood on two legs since the almost absent memory of her first years alive. Yet, she was never alone.

Mister E was not always human. He was born wrapped in mud and moss, sang to of the sweetest lullabies by a Poet’s daughter. Raised through the hardships of a misunderstood loneliness, he never really grew into a skin crutched with bones. He remained where the lightest of thoughts remain, on the wind. He smiled and the sun shone through the forest’s window, or the house’s canopy. He laughed and the wind tickled the sides of her bedroom wall. He cried and the world was watered. He hiccupped in sobbing sadness and the sky cracked and rumbled.

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Some Nonsensical Thing I found

February 3rd, 2015

I feel less like an author tonight.

Should one write even when one has nothing to say? Isn’t that like thinking about nonthought? Or singing about silence?

Even the chasm on the page…

Is it real?

Nothing is real.

Little like nothing at all is it true enough to believe in everything. To understand is to confuse oneself and then remember. Whenever you fall, you are really getting up in another space. Waking and sleeping is but to leave one’s self and inevitably are the same. A crow who flies to protect its place on the wire is no less humorous than a dog barking to defend its property, or a man shooting a rifle to declare patriotism.

Fleeting mindsplinters that lodge and tickle our blood of contemplation. Sentences that string together like weak magnets to form a wall. Structural value is but a measure of nanoattraction and quantum perseverance. When will we all realize that we have realized all that we need to realize and can do so again anytime by realizing it is in the forgetting that we realize and in the realization that we forget? Blurp. The quintessence of wordology is that in naming things this or that or which and what, we are putting our faces where our asses could be and our elbows in the cosmos’ dinner plate. Interrelating rationalism is by lingering entanglement that our monoplanetarian, disproportionate, contemplative grasping is of no further virtue onto one’s self than a flagellating biopnitudinal hindrance. And shall be acted upon as such.

No, writing is not at all like painting a picture

(and at the same time is exactly as such!)

but rather it is a predestinating assignment of iridescent figures that may or may not craft itself unto chronological sense. Whenever and howsoever one may want to believe in the truth and/or fight in the name of faith, none of us honestly know what the author means to say. Worship and reverence is in place of curious doubting. Authoritative idolization becomes when egalitarian enthrallment should have opened its eyes and taken its breath.

We forget how much we remember. Let us ask our questions silently and be answered by the ringing in our ears and the bubbling in our heart! Let us sink to the brim of the glass and burrow in the meniscus of our conscious recollection! Rise, brethren, and let fall! Take up your arms with me, and then your legs! You are not alone, but rather you are the only you in all of existence! We stand together separately in our own skins and our eyes shiver in the massacre that our thoughts and opinions lay forth! My sentences can scream no louder inside your skull, the holy grail! Focus on the end of this paragraph!

Feel its sudden silence!