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Eating Paint
I have been treading water for a week now
Swimming, I know how to
I forget the tiny details
I stroke enough to keep my nose above the surface
More and more difficult when
My head swims, drowns
Forgetting little, big things
So much lost between the mind and the reminder note
In my sleep, I don’t fly anymore…
Last night:
Walking around licking paint from a brush
In a hardware store, tall shelves, dark aisles
lights so far above, I can’t see their source
Avoiding help, complaining in my head that no one helps me
In the Corner
I sit and scroll and look at things other people say, every second thinking about everything I should be doing and talking myself out of it. ‘What’s the use’ while procrastinating is like trying to climb out of quicksand. Not quite…it would be more accurate if I were trying to climb my way out of a pool of jellybeans to sit in a comfy chair. Except there are times when I don’t want to climb out. There are times I want to fail. It’s gone pass where all I have to do is snap out of it and ‘just do it’; it’s getting to be where I have conditioned myself to not know what to do or how to do ‘it.’
I try to write how I feel, to show people how to think and be better citizens, but I find myself needing those same people’s approval. I want them to act a certain way, yet I don’t want to offend them. Criticizing when you constantly doubt what you are writing is right, the only validation received are the facts that are cited and hyperlinked.
I have just now learned that writing is a release…well, I’ve always known that, I just aversion-therapy-ied, or reverse brainwashed my brain into following the same advice I give people when I tutor. Before then, it was like I had to have equations to function; predesigned slots programming my thoughts and movements. I was a player piano.
I had to actually hold myself accountable and realize and face my faults to come out and actually try to write, to create. Now when I show people how to express themselves, I am coming from an honest place. Writing is one of the few activities that I do for myself that is not a front, a shield or a mechanism to hide myself from the world.
Asserting myself has helped me become more confident. The more confident I have become, the more assertive I have become, both in writing and in life. But I still find myself cowering at times, doubting myself in the corner of the room because that is the furthest place to which I can retreat and still be with people, passive aggressively making it their problem, their responsibility if I fail. Their responsibility if they cannot find me.
Picture credits:
Stings of the Lash (2005) by Vincent Castiglia
The Punk Rock Bride by SepiaDreamscape
Count Dracula by SepiaDreamscape
The Phantom by SepiaDreamscape
Frankenstein’s Monster- The Hipster Years by SepiaDreamscape
Imhotep by SepiaDreamscape
my pain is
the pain
desired numbness
bathed in the dull thud of
the indecisive
slow ripping
exquisite shearing of
limb from joint and
mind from sanity
brain is squeezed
twisted
pulled
creeps south
throbbing unites
dull rolling
communicates
conspires to cleave the body
in two
the worm begins
enters through the eye socket
squirms through the ear canal
into the brain
washes warmly western hemisphere
subsides
awakens as it constricts the chest
muscles tighten in the arm
Not enough to be something
Explodes into nothing
submerge
Noah’s Flood from Gustave Doré Bible engravings
familiar twinges
my mind body recoiling
my muscles ignore the brain
inevitable, they say succumb
to the warmth pity immerses me
presupposes sorrow
and never be happy
find joy and sorrow
in what has not come
regret the past
All you have present.
severance, Repeat
Lilian Lucy Davidson (1893-1954) http://www.courant.com/
Severance of body from soul is not necessarily death, but it probably feels better when it is. The blocks of stones and wood that weigh us down when leaving or being left by, anything or anyone loved physically berates and scathes the glossy veneer of our lives causing us to play catch up to the masks and costumes we wear every day in the endless parades that are our lives.
Square pegs in round divots, we try to hug to what we think has been preordained, dowry paid with the chits earned against debts incurred from our own blood, from our own tree, poisoning our fruit, making us unconsciously sour to our own existence. If not soured, then all too eager to fulfill what we assume to be our own destiny, blindly plodding along into the unknown abyss that swallows everyone.
Like ants, we trundle in service of this or that, scouring our little corners of the world, pausing only to pleasure ourselves with the lives and suffering of others…the same suffering and viscous hate we wade through every day and night, but cannot, will not admit it.
If we did, if we confessed to living with emotions, distaste against the trundling of the others, seeing ourselves naked, seeing ourselves alone, we would die of shame, torn apart by sharp-fanged regrets we cannot know, shredding our flesh, rending our bodies, shorn and uneven strips that will only go on to produce and fuel and nurture anguish in our descendants whose lives will only be gnawed by an itch in the back of their minds, repeating…repeating…
Reptiles and Rogues
There is an ongoing cloud of delusion that has been engulfing the earth. It is the same in the small towns as it is in the big cities. There is thin layer, a jaundiced skin wrapped over our everyday lives that clouds the way things truly are. Whatever gives us that teat-sucking comfort as we walk through a world that is immense with privileged and entitled jackals who eat the world, bit by bit. And those are just the consumers, buying and buying and building their wall against the outside world.
The true life suckers, the slithering reptiles that beat the dead horses with their studded tails in the street, feeding bits of the horse to the scurrying even weevil lackeys as it struggled on trembling legs to rise. The weevils come hither and yon to hear the scaled scoundrels blather, cajole and vomit their self-proclaimed truth and throw their daggers of spiteful judgment and at those who rail against them.
The rogues, the ne’er do wells, try to help, expose the reptiles by cutting through the skin, the slimy veneer the reptiles hide behind. Some rail against them, the rogues they are, walking up to the slithering beasties and tug, tug on their forked tongues and cram crow in the gape of the reptile’s gullet. The crows fly to freedom and peck the rogues at the knees, flying away with the knee caps. They speak, they yell, they hack and receive feces in their ears and gaping mouths.
Most want nothing to do with the circus of reptiles devouring each other and some run repeatedly into the walls looking for a way out. They topple, they cram the dirt of the earth into their ears and scoop out the their seeing balls from their brain holder with corn pone spoons to be blind and deaf to a truth that is hard to swallow and lies that go down like acid. They sit and face the back walls of their cages, inches from an exit and speak to the shadow that was their world and cry blood when no one converses back.
The rogues are outside, banging on the walls, struggling to come in, running from the reptiles that have no interest, but occasionally lash out in hunger and spite. They multiply as they are hacked by the rogue’s words and jibes, crawling over each other and away, to infest those who are shut in, struggling to speak to the walls. The rogues finally batter down the walls, only to find an empty room. They yell until their vocal chords explode and write until the tips of their fingers go from clack to tick on the keyboards, buttons stained red.
Wall of communication
I can scream,
Tell people to rail against those who hate
I can scream
Against injustice
I can scream
At the sun, curse it for its cruelty
But when
I scream
At my loves,
All seems lost
All seems wasted
As we hit the wall of
Communication.
TM
6.2.2012
failure
failure
quitter
quitter
quitter
wordsthatfloatedthroughtheairandmy
head
sure is what i say because all are
true, yet all are not bad
better now than later,
better here than there,
better i tried than not
sure is how I feel
scared…my future
wheredomydreamsgofromhere?
tom
2-25-01
lazy flies
piece and void
sucked from my heart
as the melody is brought in
love and friendship is momentarily gone
loneliness takes the place of smiles and wonder
the pressure of a non-functioning brain pushes
the last of my creativity falls
splashes like so much blood onto the page
fingers twitching in the final throes of life
typing its own eulogy
hole VI
Fatigue had overcome him. Unending darkness designated is lethargy as his only marker of time. He no longer searched for…what? Why had he stuck his arm back down the rabbit hole? What rabbit? Her rabbit? Slick, sand papered sinew coiled itself around his buried arm and pulled. He braced himself with…nothing.
His arm. He had to get his arm.
Just as he was sure his arm was going to be pulled from its socket like a turkey leg, the earth surrounding his upper arm and shoulder gave way, first in clumps, then completely. He braced his eyes against the onslaught of light, which left him unprepared for the free fall. The shallow hole had become a deep, underground cave. The water he had submerged his hands into had receded and was evidenced only by the sound of it lapping against the rock walls at the unseen sides, the sound of wet skin on skin, warped into his sister’s pleading and confused sobs…flashes of her bleeding on the stark white of their family’s bathroom floor, him holding his bloodied arm.
The stygian abyss bit through the stark white and swallowed him whole.
hole V
Head weighed to the ground, unable to move, he sees a figure move toward him from beyond his property. Skulking and low to the ground, the being moved warily; its head constantly moving and jolting up, maneuvering its ears and sniffing the air toward him. Bored with its lack of progression and still unable to make out what it was, he closed his eyes. When he opened them seconds later, his face was filled with dirty and putrid hair. The thing’s face dug into the earth that had entrenched his arm and shoulder.
Jagged teeth tore into his upper arm, tearing away the flesh.The thing shifted to get more meat; after dirty blue and white frills wafted across his line of site, all he could see was a tattered stuffed rabbit with chewed and flayed floppy ears.
It stared at him with mournful eyes.
The beast chewed him free, and bolts off taking the stuffed rabbit in its teeth; his arm falls in and disappears. A great and blinding light beamed up from the hole. Feeling the heat on his face and where his right arm had been attached, he fell back in awe, covering his eyes with his remaining arm, reminding him he needed to retrieve its cohort.
His left arm, not needing permission, dove into the hole…
Buried to the hilt.
Beyond the tree line, he heard a guttural snicker.
hole IV
He tugged and pulled, but could not gain enough purchase to free himself from the hole. The pain was maddening. His mind went haywire, picturing the flesh from his hand and forearm peeling away and absorbed into the earthy soup.
He couldn’t pull out and continued to dig into the earth. More frantic, he started further away from the hole and dug toward it. The earth still regenerated itself, engulfing his shoulder. Soon, it would mound up and ensconce his head; he could already feel a plug of mud in his right ear.
The boiling abruptly stopped, the air went catacomb-cold instantly and all fell silent. There was no evidence that his ears even had the capacity to take in sound.
Faint crying drifted into his exposed ear; an infant’s choking cry, a child’s cry of pain, then a man’s sobbing.
Choked at first, the crying cleaved the silence. Within seconds, it became so loud he could not stifle it with his arm covering his ear. Cramming mud into his ear lessened it, but his head soon ached.
His mouth hung open in a silent scream.
hole-III
He frantically dug at the earth that was squeezing his arm, but it was futile. The mud he displaced was merely refreshed anew, its grip even tighter.
Again, he laughed at his fear. The audacity of his fear…he chastised himself for giving into what he had long since declared to be unacceptable. Memories of his belongings strewn throughout his front yard, those who would soon pay laughing at him as they drove or walked by.
Resting his face in the damp grass and leaves, he breathed in and out, slowly, over and over again.
He slowly wiggled his had back and forth in the unseen muck below, which seemed to be all that existed in this dark cavity in his yard’s underground. He pushed into the hole, jarring his shoulder in by treading on the wet turf with his feet. His hand merely sloshed, stirring bits of earth and root.
He had to find it. He must.
Without it he would be useless. He would remain under their collective thumb and attain no greater level in life than that of ‘ineffectual pissant.’
As he calmed himself, the murk below grew warm and then hot to the touch. He tried to remove his hand, but the earth sucking on his arm would not relent.
Feeling returned to his arm as the water began to boil.
hole II
hole-II
His hand spasmed as he tried to shake the sludge from his forearm; his traitorous mind had shown him tiny serpents traversing up his arm, but quickly reminded him why he was digging. When he dug up his treasure…his 
prize… and unleashed it unto the world, these moments of minor discomfort and childish fear would certainly be worth it.
For once, he would hold sway over his persecutors.
“Bastard,” the man hissed at his mischievous imagination. All too often he let his mind run astray, theorizing over and playing out instances or confrontations, disintegrating his self-esteem. Raised to believe what others taught him and had filtered into his brain, it was all too easy to fall back in step with his spineless past actions.
The hand that was supporting him and his legs trembled and shook. He laid down on the wet, cold earth, totally submerging his arm to its pit.
The earth squeezed, sucking him in further.
hole
hole-I
The man rolled up his flannel sleeve, knelt in the damp grass and reached into the hole. He rooted around; grimacing, he shoved the rest of his beefy forearm in until it disappeared, submerging his hand into sludge and sticks. Looking up and to the right, he tried to picture the terrain in which his hand was searching; he appeared to be deep in thought, complete with his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth. He sprawled close to the ground and ducked his head as a truck gunned its engine through the parking lot off his back yard, throwing the light from its headlights as well as dust and gravel in his direction. The man raised his head, wary of more headlights. Had there been more, he would disband his endeavors for the night. Not worth the risk
The man was the only one who knew this hole was here. It was in the middle of the yard under two feet of earth, then landscaping brick from a long-forgotten garden or compost heap. Not sure if the previous owner knew about it, but he was dead and probably didn’t care. This was the ideal spot for his…
The man stopped cold.
My own theory of relativity
Originally published at hawkdad73.autisable.com/758843527/my-own-theory-of-relativity/
For awhile, my son has been having issues at school. Kicking, hitting, etc. mostly out of humor, sometimes out of aggression. He’ll call people names that he has seen or heard in the latest soon-to-be-banned comic or cartoon. He’ll at times bring behavior home with him and depending on what is going on at home and who is there, it could escalate. Sometimes When upset, I have been told to breathe. “When you feel yourself getting upset, just breathe.” I’ll even tell my son that he needs to “calm, count, and breathe.” I usually receive the same frustrated grumble I give people when they tell me to do the same thing (he and I also forget that it actually works). But, I actually thought about it today. What is that asking us to do? I mean, aside from the obvious….
Slow down. It’s all relative.
I could dwell on the fact that I do not spend enough time with him, or that I shouldn’t feel bad because I have two other kids, but the one thing I will focus on is that I too often catch myself doing to my 9-year-old autistic son what I rail against other people for doing to their kids…I ignore him. Maybe I set the bar too high; I always respond to him when he asks me a question and wants to talk…so I guess ignore is the wrong word. I see myself always at my computer and saying, “Just a second,” or “I will after this sentence.” I fear I am not giving enough of those “five minutes” to him. Or maybe I am greedy…I don’t feel as though I am getting enough.
Instead of waiting until aggression and anger set in, I took the time this morning with my son to just sit and listen…actually listen to the bits of information that can so easily go in and out of the ears, behind glazed-over eyes (which, I am sure, he notices). Instead of bickering at him about what he is repeating from his reading in his comic book, I look at it and laugh with him, or I ask him what else might cause earthquakes. The five minutes may only be five minutes (today, it was longer, I am sure), but relative to how his day might be going or what he might be fretting about, it could most likely have been best the best “five minutes” of the day.
Time always goes slower when you forget about it or the things that remind you of it, and lose yourself in their world.
Their’s can be a wonderful…wonderful world.
murdered brains
prod the smoldering fire and it will ignite and
consume
the curious few who gaze upon it.
question yourself, big brother, systems, motives, or
they will eat you alive claw their own way out, and feast on your
head, brain, mind, innards
ideas are murdered
killed through neglect
killed through manipulation
buried
putrid
authoritative-decapitation no longer
stymies
progress, only encourages.
grudge and spite, only for self-indulgence, are
at the wayside of
creativity
spit
on and
rub
away mucky
smudge,
I see the embryo of hate move within
open and dig through the
sludge
for the
stainless steel nugget,
black core of
truth and self worth
What was once mocked and derided as miniscule,
ineffectual
now screeches its call, its warning
Its one eye ever more vigilant without its mate
It is vengeful
It is spiteful
It has no mercy
Despite who is worshiped in defense
It claws open to see inside out
the putrid filth that caused
deception, corruption, and hate
It has no mercy
Olaf
Jan 26, 2011
liMbo sskin
skimming along the lip of the flayed film of a life that is barely
mine
my leash had frayed, torn and I have been running
free
in a fog ever since
limbo between one’s light and my coveted
darkness
this darkness satiates me replenishes my
lifeblood
feedback loop of perception my only reality
pieces of others lain across my skin, I mimic others
a shuffling and moaning
facsimile
mishmash ransom note cut of a
human
customized Abyss
Head swimming and
cajoling to the piercing sound of
nothingness
Eyes pushed nearly
out their sockets
by his rebelling mind and
soul
Sneers of regret bred
from the fornication of
sloth and eroding
self-esteem
–Jan 30, 2008
loathsome
A lot of times, I feel as though I waste my time or that I am a waste of time.
“Why am I not doing that? Why did I do this when I could have done that?”
I could be a better father.
I could be a better husband.
Because I could be better means that I am not good enough.
If I could be better, I should be better; If I should be better and I am not, then I’m screwing up.
I feel insufficient and insecure.
I project that onto my loved ones, probably not as much as I think…but I do.
I yell, but not as much as I used to.
I get angry at my son, and that makes me feel guilty.
He’s autistic and sometimes I don’t give him enough slack.
He yells, I yell back.
I ask him to do something, and he yells at me and/or calls me names…more often than not I take it personally.
I feel weak.
When I read or work, I feel guilty. (I don’t work that much; it’s been slow.)
When I am tired, it is not always obvious to me that I need to go to bed.
I’ll watch a movie or research.
I have felt apathetic a lot lately, almost to the point where I need to remind myself to breathe.
I feel sad a lot.
I am on anti-anxiety medication and am in therapy.
I went from seeing my therapist from once a moth to once a week because I told psychiatrist about my apathy.
I lash out at my wife with sarcasm.
I have also opened up to her and stopped holding her responsible for our lack of communication…
I’m just communicating.
I have been listening to death/dark metal a lot.
I have also been listening to classical music.
Techno or electro rock, too.
I listen to anything that is loud and repetitious or sporadic and chaotic.
I make intermittent and random noises sometimes when things make me uncomfortable and awkward, such as thoughts or memories.
I love to watch horror movies if I am angry.
Sometimes I shut out my kids and my wife. Sometimes I run to them.
Sometimes I want to run away from myself.
Today, I told my wife that I don’t feel happiness like normal people.
I have been spontaneously crying at nothing a lot lately.
Sometimes, I am afraid to go outside or come into contact with anyone.
I indignantly point out to myself what other people are doing wrong.
I am scared of pretty much everything and everyone.
I hate talking on the phone to people.
Large crowds make me nervous.
One day, I am so happy that nothing can go wrong,
The next, I’ll shit on your doorstep for looking at me.
hollow
Tears well then flow
spontaneous
I move forward at snail’s pace only because that’s what I know
an automaton set into perpetual motion,
fueled by denial
No longer intimate,
estranged
I have separated from my self-esteem, we sleep in separate beds
I am wooden.
I am dormant.
I am hollow.
void
numb
numb, no tears
numb, remind myself to breathe
numb, withdrawn inside my head
numb and alone
alone
The Brain of hawkdad73 