Truth is that bitch.

Regarding process: the following contains scenes of confusion, which I am letting loose here in order to clear some space for cohesive and rational thinking.

I suppose I am not the only one who gets tangled up in mind sometimes, as in a too-loud cocktail party, or more like an art opening, or an intermission, someplace loud, performative, crowded, and so social as to be anti-social, and constituting the kind of recreation that is looked-forward-to but more anxiety-producing than relaxing, that hungrily demands the right kind of attention, the kind that is just so, and is captivating, and appropriately mannered, but somehow also avant-garde and just shocking enough to fascinate and really demonstrate a finger on the pulse cutting a leading edge. Or is it just me?

What I am talking about is that feeling of fighting to focus through the mental business that involves not only real work that must get done, but also skimpy make-work pretenses, garish creativity flashing too much drunk cleavage to be going anywhere quick besides the trailer park, and probably late in the rain, and missing a shoe. And then there’s the bleedthrough busy-ness of random obsessions, uninvited dark faeries and old lovers arriving sudden and pregnant and ugly, hell bent on social derailment, online and off, and on and on and on. This party is going nowhere. I thought we were at an art show? I was really looking forward to this but let’s get out of here. I can’t even hear myself think.

What I mean is that sometimes I write in-between what I mean, what I really want to say. Elbowing through the crowd with one hand inside a zipper feeling for keys, and one hand finding the rest of the way through a coat sleeve. And all these people shouting in the lounge.

Too much pressure to be happy and positive and healed, healing, on the healing path, following bliss. Hang the soul that can’t keep up, and strangle the brat who dares to whine. Emote, express, eliminate. Put her in the dark and shut the padded door. Evolve.

Truth is what about the days when you only get up because it hurts too much to remain horizontal. When you can’t turn your head from the ache. If you are depressed and angry and critical and all you do is gossip obsessively, then it is because you are depressed and angry and critical and and and. Vicious fault of my own. Responsible for this deplorable word.

Truth is that bitch.

You take everything so personally.

Get a sense of humour.

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About owl

Disordered, reckless, persevering.
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4 Responses to Truth is that bitch.

  1. jasminembla says:

    You’re many things and, though you like novels more, I think one is poet. Dense, cutting, so much funnier than I. Love it!!!!!!!!!!1!

  2. michael says:

    Haha, I love the line about not being able to remain horizontal. Such truth is something so mundane and taken-for-granted by anyone who hasn’t been lost for more than a short while.

    This piece is a bit strange, but brilliant and beautiful. But, then again, don’t those three things always seem to go together?

    • owl says:

      Yes, lost, exactly.

      Thank you for the strange/brilliant/beautiful perspective. I hadn’t thought of it that way. I think this particular way of writing for me reaches for an almost pre-verbal expression. It is something I am seeing in your writing too. The jammed-up words and such.

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