Stream of Textual Nectar

Hi Friends,

I have more stream-of-con and inexcusably bad art for you! 

I hope you are all doing great! I'm doing half-great. Mostly I am as freaked out as ever at this whole "human condition thing."

My mind is being mauled by two junkyard dogs named Venus and Mars, and my ethylene levels are dangerously low...

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TO DO LIST 9/24: Wake in my comfortable skin. Declare myself President. Run 2 miles on hamster wheel. Fondle myself in the shower. Catch up on correspondence. Eat more ketchup. Call Vladmir Putin and become best friends. Nuke Kim Jung Un because he has better hair than me. Pack for my golfing tour of China. China, China, China. Call Kanye with Fantasy Football picks and hot investment tips. Fly to refugee camp in Texas and weed out ugly ones. [Stand firm by my decision to make America beautiful (& great.)] Do interview with Vanity Fair and take a bejeweled shit. Sneeze a Hitler-moustache into existence. Spew charismatic gibberish at the the minds and hearts of unattractive americans who are making us look bad in front of the world.  Smack my daughter's ass and board the crappy plane that comes with the Presidency. Fly to China to examine their Wall. Know in my heart I can build a better one. [Losers] Die of massive brain fart. 9-24-15

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Friday stream of disillusionment--where are you?--where can I find the ears that burrow into big dark open minds?--where to find hearts pieced together with black tar and molten gold? --where to find that in this crowd of 7 billion who all know empty beehive syndrome and drone on?--where are the ears?--where will this irony deficiency refill its prescription?--I have your meds--I put them in my fuzzy black & yellow backpack and climbed to the top of the tree--You just have to listen for me, softly laughing--Then bursting into a cloud of cumulative despair--come on, you can't miss it 9-25-15

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Willow figurine c. 2006

Am I to trust that there is balance in the world when my meds make me so dizzy? Am I to trust that gravity will hold me down when I want to jump into the soundproof clouds and never have to hear the voices of those who are so sure of themselves? How do I compete with the ones who were blessed by the stars, fortified with earth or hardened by flames? Today I am full of questions, not punchlines. Today my dots are not connected but my doubts are. I can only dig and dig into the deep blue sky for proof of the universe's equity. 9-27-15

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Take my image off the wall and tweak it with your tools. You think I can't feel it. That molesting a photo with digital dicks and a garden of pubic abundance is karma punching up. Mounted by a tarantula, my expression never changes which makes it even funnier. Drowning in files of bananafish, I gasp in my sleep at your lack of originality. Manipulating what you see in me instead of seeing you. Have you ever asked why I resisted? Your atonal lullabies? Your attempts to shill with a throat full of sludge and eggshell? Have you ever wondered why I plugged my ears with tampons and learned to fight in writing? 9-29-15

Self-portrait at sunset. From this summer's daily drawing challenge--this quick watercolor was a big failure.

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Psychiatrist Parking Lot v. Housing and Urban Development: child left alone, crying in car. A 21st century felony. I look around for witnesses, ABC's 'What Would YOU Do?' cameras. No one sees my brief consternation, my decision covered in skullbone--leave it alone. None of my business. How many hot cars did I sit in, sweat beading on minor hide, and survive? This personlet had open windows for its screams. So I chose deafness of character and drove away. Are we there yet? Road rage so far from highway euphoria--we will never get there. 9-30-15

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Bye Friends…I'll talk to you soon (in writing). 

Pixel & Eloise not caring

Digital Distractions & Analog Rebellion

Hi Friends,

I hope you are well.

This Fall is all about waiting. Patience. Sitting still with all this loose adrenaline and crass cortisol pumping through my veins. Not just mind over matter, but mind over its own chemical output. Meditating in a garden of wasps. OMMMMM…

Each morning I do little exercises in stream of consciousness to get my mind in a more fantastic space. It seems to work and so, here are a few:

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From forgotten dream to spiking anxiety, a day that only says, "Wait." Wait in the room with chihuahua microaggressions pumping through your nervous & lymphatic systems. Wait for the benefit of the vet printing 3-d parts for your unconditional lover. Breathe backwards (or inhale) and count to seventy-two while chanting the word your babysitter gave you to chant while she was busy evolving on the phone... 9-19-15

Creepy chick molesting a guy's hand with her bare tits...

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Good Morning, Pope-star:

I look forward to your words. You're the kind of Pope who speaks not just to the ears but into the microphone of the soul. I like that you want to cure the Earth's cancer and the church's child porn rash. You disavow my dysphoria, but here's how I deal w/ that: I motor over to the Town Shopping Center and buy a hat just like yours ($9.99 at H&M). Now I feel like a pure white cock tucked in the crack of Donald Trump's bible. I love you like a brother, Human Pope-star. Here is my question for you: Is it better for a child to wash ashore in red or in a plastic bag? 9-20-15

...

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Morning migraine brings alternate universe into focus. Pain is good for that. I see the me I could've been if I'd taken all the forks in the tightrope…I'm glad I took this one, but now is now and then is losing its clout. The tightrope keeps on splitting and I can see its veiny hand lying flat on the documents that release me from the world. Stay on the right ropes and I will get there, unsafe, unsound, signing on the bottom line: Do Not Reincarnate  9-21-15

ewwww...

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My doctor died. He was 61 (which is the new 16). Last time I was in to see him, I could hear the voice of the patient in the adjacent room. It got weird as I realized he was getting a digital rectal prostate exam. Weirder still---I recognized his voice & knew who it was. I could barely hear the doctor's hushed tones, but I could hear everything the patient was saying. When the doctor finally came in to see me, I was a little unnerved by what I'd heard. And when I get anxious or stressed my voice kind of fails me. The doctor went over the results of my blood test as usual. I could tell he was not feeling well. When it came time to say good-bye he said, "It was good to see you again." And, because I was so anxious and stressed, all I could say was "urrghhh." When I found out he died, I was so upset that the last thing I said to him was "urrghhh" that I cried for 52 minutes. He was a really good doctor. Sorry this is not a stream-of-conscious masterpiece, but more of a prosaic tribute.

9-22-15

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Have a good weekend ya' all.

Oh So Vogon

FRIENDS,

I promised lots of Vogon poems this Fall, so here are some (along with some art):

SINGLE VERSE SALVAGED FROM  A POEM I WROTE ABOUT MY FEAR THAT AN ACT OF TERROR WOULD BEFALL THE '08 OLYMPICS 

Fear was not a factor

Neither was fun nor fahrenheit

It was robotic, steroidal

It was a touch-down,

A perfect ten,

A two-minute mile,

It was a strike, a strike, a strike

And it was over before you could blink your

Gelatinous polymer double-refracted orbital sensors

[from Aug 2008]

Vintage Fetus Art

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DIARY ENTRY #9**

Dear Diary,

I'm journaling through the dark again

On your vanilla pages

I'm on hiatus

From the world

And its high frequency

Of needs

From its demands

For laser precision eye contact 

(And deeply disturbing hand contact)

From phones 

That are rectangles full of rings

From dates that are 

Shaped like

Obligation

Tiny little tasks that

Become 12-hour guitar solos

In the hands of the

Faces that smile

(Sickening sweetness

Or sociopathy?)

Extracting quiet

From the paper

Quiet's all I need

I could fill

A padded white cell 

And never bore of

Its silent ring

Its creamy tone

On my hyper-vigilant ear

A combed hair

Amplified to sound

Like a lawn mowed down

Breaks me like an

Engine searching

Downstream for peace

Anxiety 

Refusing to compute

On its own stroked keys

Fat cables crawling  

Between receptive

Orifices

And electronic

Angels 

Devices so strong and

Silent

They make my diary sound

Like a chainsaw

[from May 2007]

** I wrote this one morning when my "lawn maniac" neighbor was doing his thing at 7 a.m. He eventually drove me to insane lengths with his early a.m. loudness. I still do hate the sound of yard maintenance of any kind, but I've learned to tolerate it with a grain of salt. In this neighborhood, which we'll be leaving soon, there is 10x the lawn maintenance, but it never happens before the sun is fully up & it's not right outside my bedroom window.  What will the new neighborhood sound like???

Ancient sketch of Charle DeGaulle making an omelet. He looks like Bruce (the lawn maniac)

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GRIEFCASE

This grief isn't my own

If it were my grief, I'd know it

I'd recognize its chilly detachment

This is someone else's grief I'm carrying

In my salt-worn sockets

In my partly cloudy plexus

In the very membranes that wrap

Around my neurons,

Protecting my system

From your stones, your sticks,

Your photo-shopped dicks

And denied vaginas

This is your case of blue suede

Dumped on my cardiac desk

And left

For me to finish before its deadline

This is your skeleton's closet

Bursting

Beyond the help of any clear plastic

Organization

There are no secrets left

No gov't secrets

No personal secrets

No secret ingredients

In any recipe for conspiracy

And while i couldn't care less that all secrets have died

I cry your tears for you

And conduct your anguish through my days

While you look for new

Places to hide

7-12-15

Butterfly oopsie!

MORTAL WOMBAT WOUNDS

Dear Friends,

How have you been?

I will tell you I've been fine, though it's much more complicated than that. I tend to check in here when I am indeed feeling fine. But as you can tell from the sizable gaps between posts--I am often not fine. Or just very busy. And I will let you go on thinking I am "just very busy"…way too busy to trifle with a personal blog. Jeez--what am i? Twelve?

Yes. Sometimes I am 12. And that is not a terrible thing. 

The terrible thing is when I'm 112.

112 is a stifling attic. An indigo corner. A tragic nursery. A kitchen fire. A swimming pool choking on algae. A garden of sandspurs. A tool shed stocked by a sociopath. A bathroom w/ no hand sanitizer wall-papered with mirrors, floored in knee-high shag carpet and flooded in fluorescence.

It's not pretty. And still…I'm making it sound better than it is (with the shag carpet and all…)

The good thing is--I really have been busy with some pretty exciting stuff. But it's not introspective enough for me to just rattle off a list of shit I've been doing. That is not why I created this blog. 

FRIENDS, as you know I decided to get serious about writing in early 2012. That is when I started taking all my old (and new) Vogon poems---many of them written live right here in the Octo Diary---and crafting them into fine polished turds that "some editor somewhere would surely love." And I sent many of my beloved poems out into the world via Submittable.

I did the same with my short stories in 2014.

At first I got only rejections. Then I got some feedback that was encouraging. Then I had some success getting a few poems published online.

I actually got much better feedback on my fiction. Unfortunately when my mind crashed last year I was unable to handle fiction-writing so I concentrated on poetry, thinking "Why do I love poetry so much? It is such a useless, irrelevant thing. A dead art. But I will use it to keep my mind alive until I'm able to work on stories again." 

Well guess what? Poetry is NOT a dead art! There are exciting things going on in the poetry world that make politics look like a panda exhibit. There are more poetry journals than ever, and more talented writers than ever.  (I say "than ever" as if I've been alive forever & know exactly how many poets have always existed. Excuse my hyperbole.)

I am blown away by the "competition" out there. I don't like to think of fellow poets as competition, but unfortunately they are.

Young Ginsberg (drawn in 2012 when writing was a pure joy)

For awhile (since 2012 at least) I have been aware that publishers are making more of an effort to give voice to poets who were marginalized in times past. I have seen many requests for works by people of color, LGBTs, and yes, even women (as a minority group). This didn't phase me at all. Hell, I love to read good poems by anyone & everyone. And I have read many GREAT POEMS by all colors and genders and shapes of people in print and online.

Recently this "political correctness" in the publishing world---and no doubt the high visibility of writers & publications on the internet---has resulted in a sort of smack-down between 

a) people of color (black/brown/yellow/aubergine)

b) feminists (people of clitoris) 

c) white guys (people of pink penis) 

d) editors (people of red pen) 

e) people of faith (religious, ya know) 

f) others (people of opinion)

I won't get too detailed but let me say…it ain't pretty. Though it is exciting. Poetry Wars. World of Poetrycraft. Mortal Poembat. This is what I always dreamed of when I said I wanted to change the world with words!! Alas, I think I am no longer battle-ready. Would I be honored to fight in the war of the words if I needed to? If I was drafted by some Publisher-in-Chief and my nerves were as savvily sympathetic as they once were, and not the tangled string of Xmas lights they are now? Yes I would.  

Whose side would I fight on though? I was born female and will always be a feminist, but I was a 3rd wave feminist (ie, a fun feminist) and feminism is back to being deadly serious. I think. 

I was supposed to start HRT* today, so I'm now deadly serious about identifying as a trans man. And I'm white. But I'm not angry about others having a voice, so I probably would not be allowed in the special white guy forces unit. 

I don't think I could be included in any of the other 4 factions either. I'm definitely not an editor. I may just be f) a person of opinion. We all are, after all. And I'm happy to remain on the sidelines for now.

(I'd like to know where all the reclusive surrealists have gone? Away from the internet I guess.)

I feel like I'm just a little too ripe for perhaps the most interesting literary era since the Beats. And that makes me cry tears of GenX remorse.

Some kind of post-nuclear insect 

I've decided to retreat from writing-to-be-published for awhile, and return to just writing for me. For fun. For the love of fucking writing!!! I'm pretty saturated with the noise of writing now. I remember when writing brought me peace and it has become the exact opposite of that.

When I'm rested and ready i will join the fray again, and I'll work even harder to have my lonely, gender dysphoric hobbit voice heard. So… look forward to seeing more new (and old) Vogon poems here this Fall.

Speaking of old!!! Here are a few automatic verses written in the months before 9/11 ---

Birds fly 

As big as planes

To a glass nest

Secured from the public eye

[Jan 2001]

Airlines desperation throes

Crash landing into barbed-mesh-

Nail-split ruins

Fractures bone & metal & even glass

Then fills a colony ship

With metaphysic travelers

[Mar 2001]

The sky spoke

Meningitis megaphone blaring down streets

Hollow vertebra terror

We never made it to NYork that day

And the floor of the world

Opened like jaws below your feet

[May 2001]

I wanted to see everyone's face break

After optic nerves or ear canal witnessed truth

Hate. Prejudice. Violence.

Blinders always in place during

The most dangerous game

I see history distort &

Wonder what happened all along

Explosion

An ocean of wisdom

Universe graveyard

We're next

[Sept 4, 2001]

As it fades from the forefront of the media, I will never forget the man-made horror of that day. From each life lost, to the ongoing international crisis that ensued…it haunts.

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*I didn't start HRT today due to circumstances out of my control. I take it as a sign that it's not quite the right time.

A little cartoon I drew at the time of the flag fiasco