Category Archives: Consciousness

I have waited for this day.

Earlier, I was thinking how sometimes my writing sparkles clear in sunlight, while others it is muddy, often shallow.  I am learning to use this cycle to advantage.

I write best when my symptoms are at bay.  And, I keep them at bay.

Brushing them back with cannabis.  But.

Things break down.  Symptoms intrude.

I chase them, increasing my dose.  Hoping.

They go away.

Eventually, they disappear, but only after I bottom out.

I typically rebound.  A floor higher than the basement.  I found myself, in.

My ceiling, lower than some past, previous floor.

Rebound is when marijuana can inhibit my writing.  After chasing symptoms with heavier doses, and diminishing effect, I need that break.

Today, I hadn’t used any since the day before yesterday.  It’s subconscious subtle.  I don’t even notice a decision to abstain.  I just notice that.

By evening.  I haven’t used any all day.  And, I ask.

Myself.  Can I sleep the night without?

If I think so, I know.  I am bouncing back.

But, I still can’t write.  I can’t think.

I sleep.  I do things.  I move around, caring for vegetables, and two cats.

My camera takes photographs.  I appreciate that.  I enjoy this beautiful world.

As pain creeps back into picture, the game begins.

How long can I wait, as worse it gets?

Today, this evening.  A Thin Mint, vaporized.

Finally.  Feeling good enough to write.

Yoda rough skis do

=== 12:13 a.m. (Thursday, the 17th) ===
Small couch, east.

I just came home from Yoda rough skis do, <== isn’t this fantastic? This is what Apple’s voice recognition software heard, when I spoke into my journal, “I just came home from Jodorowsky’s Dune.”

It was my second time.  The first, I felt a deep spiritual connection to this man, Alejandro Jodorowsky.  I had heard of his creation, long ago.

I went again.  This time, to focus on his words.  The first time, I felt a bit dazzled by his originality.  This evening, I was prepared for the surprises, so my attention could remain on his words and ideas.

I can’t recommend this film highly enough.  See it, and watch how an artist thinks.

Awkward

Out of my head.
Got it.
Down, in some physical form.
Memory, accessed externally.
Rather than.

Solely residing in my head.
For, only a moment.
Before gone. Write thoughts, to make them.
Real.

Unless written, they remain etherial.
Essential, and missing. Unable, too.

Make points. Make jokes. Make sense.

Speaking, more primitive.
Than writing.

Stumbling, over faulty recall.
That next word. Spoken tokens, embedded in grammar.
Queued up, within the mind. Around each thought. Then.

One wanders off.
Lost again.
In the dark unconscious.
Too shy to be said.

These last few days, more than a week.

DSC_0303

I am in a writing world, largely motionless. No inspiration here. Instead, I have been occupying myself with little things.

Dishes, and floors and weeds.

My sister and nephew are coming on Friday. With a little daily work, the home can present well.

And, while I knock out each task, I re-arrange my thoughts.

Some more.

How to complete the book? What is stopping me, now?

These last few days, more than a week, I am outward looking. I have turned to re-arranging my physical world, and it’s a lesson on my latest state.

Every so often, two or three times per year, these last couple. My strength rebounds. And I tackle things I could only dream of, the week before.

In the yard, I am installing a garden, designed to feed me vegetables through summer. In Tempe, the challenge is the extreme heat, typically in the 117-119 Farenheits range, at peak. I am only planting warm-weather crops, with which I have enjoyed success in previous years.

Swiss chard is surprisingly stout under the summer sun. I have them, twice paired, with collard greens and hollyhocks, in one grouping.

In two others, I am planting okra, together with cantaloups, cucumbers and three squashes. Zucchini, acorn, and kabocha.

Since the vines typically wither by July on their own, they will hang out, this year, under a lady-finger shade.

I still intend to pick up a yam and a sweet potato from the grocery store. Cut some pieces, to sprout new vines, while eating the rest.

But, I’m unsure about something.

Is this latest bit of ambition temporary? Or, can I make it permanent? I decided last week to tackle the disorganization and dirt surrounding me. Get the dirt out of the house, and organize the it in the yard.

I broke it down to simple tasks, like watering, and digging. Watering is an easy, daily activity. Digging depends on energy, So I bounce between the couch and the garden, throughout the day.

Dig, then lay down. Then dig some more, followed by another rest.

Thank goodness, these past ten years, for all the done-digging. Keeping it loose and easy.

Well, the shovel-work and planting is now largely finished, until fall. Next, I can vacuum and sweep and mop. Tomorrow through Friday.

The strategy is working, but, will it remain stable when I go back to writing? Can I do all three, in some measure, each day? Can I write, and still find the mental energy to also take care of my surroundings?

Although I am dealing with muscles at low strength, this challenge seems more mental, than anything.

It should be doable.

What comes first?

In bycicle?
The ‘i’ or the ‘y’?
It must be the ‘i’.
Bicycle.
That looks better. I just need to remember.
It’s the same ‘b-i’ as bi-annual, or bi-sexual, or bi-headed. Because there are two wheels.
Why do I mess it up so consistently?
I blame my great-grandfather. My mom’s, dad’s, dad.
He changed Bykowski to Byke. My mother’s maiden name.
A family name. Damn it!
I know how to spell the family name.
But every time I try to spell ‘bicycle’, my brain inserts the ‘y’ before the ‘i’.
Will I ever get it right without thinking about it?

Thoughts of Carrots Bubbling

Can’t take my mind off my crockpot creation.

Gastronomic patience.  Expecting to cook and cool.

And eat.  Glued to the scent of a recipe.

Sensation.  Enjoyment in a word.

Yesterday.  Thanksgiving’s trip.

Concluded family matters.

 

Babcia treading kitchen linoleum.

In darkness.  Her skidding slippers sounded.

Lonely.  And her cookbook collection.  Rearranged.

My thoughts.  A new library of culinary habits.

Never tried once until soup.

Think.  Thank.  Thunk.

 

On the long flight home.

A lentil.  Craving purposed my mind.

Why not?  Stew it over while writing.

Half past morning.  My favorite shop of coffee.

Googled ingredients.  For a better batch than one.

Found leaving home.

 

In a crumbling copy.  Laurel’s Kitchen.

Sadly for something.  Thinner than thick.

Supposing.

Dinner was a bowl of this.

Would I return?

Again.  Until.  Full.

Scientific Rumor

A rumor crawled along the grapevine, into my ear.

It was presented as scientific fact.

The human faculty, for music, predates language.

 

Early cavemen played music before they could speak in sentences.

I don’t know if it is true.  But, suppose it is.

Plausible.

 

Hands clapping and slapping.

Beating out complex rhythms.

Could poetry exist, otherwise?