digital diary — 4 september 2017
- a good trick for me when i feel as if i am on the verge of an Anxiety Attack^TM is to close my eyes, pace my breathing, and picture my ribcage being broken in half — not in like, a painful, grotesque way, but only breaking it for the practical reason of getting at what’s underneath, like you did with the fetal pig in your ninth grade biology class. and what’s underneath is the goopiness making up the anxiety, the fear, the sadness, the humiliation and self-loathing, the indecisiveness, the feeling-too-much, the not-feeling-enough, the undeserved apathy, the undeserved empathy, the unrequited love, the love you can’t return…. it all comes spilling out in between the spaces of my broken ribcage, like you might imagine the result of a leak in an ineffective waste disposal system. yet what would be ineffective for shit and piss and would have Public Health Services all up in arms is surprisingly effective for Anxious Old Me. i imagine myself slithering out of this skin suit that i put on every morning to present myself as A-OK to the world, being naked of my Appearance and presenting only in my Essence and, in that rare moment, comfortable in that nakedness. I grab my ribcage and rearrange my ribs into makeshift wings that sound like windchimes as I flutter, fluttering away from the puddle of ick that has spilled out of me, fluttering away from all the others in their embellished, hidden-zipper skin suits, fluttering up, up, away into a space where i can breathe 1 2 breathe in 3 4 breathe out 5 6 open eyes 7 8 i am okay 9 10 i am alive and doing my best and i am okay.
- i’m currently reading henri lefebvre’s “the production of space,” (translated from the french)(writing that makes me feel like an uppity prick) in which he writes that between the mental formation of words (“linguistic mental space”) and the transformation of those words into spoken language for the purpose of social practice, there is a “yawning gap.” now, i don’t know what the fuck he was writing that in reference to because i’m only about 7 pages in, and this has got to be one of the most dry readings that i’ve ever done for class, but that line especially struck me. i have never read a more accurate description of what i more commonly refer to as my “social anxiety,” only instead of a “yawning gap” between the thoughts i think and the words i say, i think someone crept into my body in the middle of the night and filled the pathway between my brain and mouth with their own replication of the Hoover Dam. my “linguistic mental space”, as lefebvre calls it, is thriving — i can never get it to shut up — yet in an effort to get into that “social space” in which words can perform their socially practical responsibilities, they all become trapped at the mouth of the dam. the canals from my brain to my fingers are fine, proof by way of me sitting here and typing this, but the itinerary of the travel of words → mouth → social space can probably only be located on a Missed Connections personal ad on Craigslist.
- // notes that i found on my iphone:
from when i visited Uffizi Gallery in Florence:
“all depictions of baby John the Baptist show him with crucifix (?) or cross in hand, ready to serve Jesus. It’s like he was born into servitude, at Jesus’ beck and call straight from the womb. would like to see more depictions where JTB gets to be an actual child”
from a time, place, mental and emotional state that i can’t remember and even if i did remember, would not reveal:
“i wanna hold ur hand”
from april, when i was questioning my own ability and if i were “allowed” to write and share my writings or not:
“i don’t write poetry, i do not know how to curate my words to form real or illusory visions of beauty, i only know i am compelled physically to write because too many feelings flow through me and i have nowhere else to put them down”