So, a few things. And no photos (except the lead) because most of the subjects have been elusive, or… well, un-publishable.
Tuesday night, during my walk for the day, I spotted one of the neighborhood cats in the greens. It looked back at me as I shined my flashlight on it— a flashlight with weak batteries, so a dim light on its face. During one later pass, the cat was in the path; I couldn’t help but approach it, slowly, having to complete the path, whereupon it got scared and bolted off into the woods.
The next day was a bit strange, and I’m not sure if the cat was involved. Remember the chipmunk I mentioned in a previous post? Well, I may have found it— or had— in the backyard… on its side, moving only because of the insects beneath it; in other words, deceased. Not a disturbing picture at that stage, but definitely not a picture that’s going up here.
It only got stranger that night. Glenn Beck appeared on MSNBC… live. I won’t go into that ball of stress… it was just unusual.
I contemplated making a long voice message in response to my far away friend, who as it turns out didn’t respond within the week because she was overwhelmed in work, among other things. I made the decision to do the recording… and at the point it was past 11 p.m.
To fill you in, on past matters, briefly, making a phone call wasn’t possible because of the mobile network she had— not being able to call locals, so the next best thing was to make voice recordings. When absolutely necessary, anyway.
Problem is… I am bad at speaking as myself. I’m bad at speaking in general, sometimes losing train of thought mid-sentence, but into a mic, and outside, at night? I could get paid as a voice actor the way I can bend my voice, but… as myself and quiet, it came out a mumble… as usual. And not a “cool” mumble as with Elliot on Mr. Robot (even though that show has become rather dull). The content of the message… it was awful, despite preparation— some preparation. “Wing it,” I cannot. So that message is not getting sent. I would have to transcribe it for clarity, which defeats the point of a voice message.
It approached the definition of precarious being outside before the turn of midnight. The stars were out, the crickets were at full volume, and I had used the screen of the smart phone as a light— no “torch,” as they call it in the U.K. But it was not particularly safe toward the end. And what ended the message: There was some kind of barking in the woods, only mere yards away, but not a dog. Maybe a raccoon, and I think definitely, maybe rabid. Okay, there have been no reports of rabid animals, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
I amplified that portion of the MP3 recording so you can hear it clearly:
Yeah, I returned to the house.
…A house that began to rot four years ago.
…And now, it appears as if aunt J. has given up on me, relinquishing everything onto my mother— someone who, after barely doing anything, doesn’t follow through on the ideas she sells… She doesn’t even remember a written deal she made and I accepted.
Okay, so I’m opening up my depressing circumstances again (and technically it’s more than a few things beyond this point). Sue me. I’m alone in all of this.
I know we all are sometimes undervalued and left to ask questions, not always knowing what to ask, but in my case… Am I not like an animal in the dark?
I know I’m not rabid, ha. But there is definitely darkness, even during the day. An alien in the neighborhood, where I might as well be some stray animal. I’m subject to learn in a vacuum living here. Aunt J. said in 2014, something along the lines of, you a champion, someone who will fight for you. Of course, she made it a matter of disability… to have the public pay for my help. No further help from family… whatever family that’s left.
I’m certainly not an animal if I can speak spoken languages and do square roots in my head. Still, not much of what I say is going to get across anywhere— and doubly right now; the people behind the MERLIN Project say information does not pass well long-term around one’s birthday and six months away from that— biannually. In my case, that’s early March and September.
(I was also going to link to the Wikipedia page for physicist George Hart for more on MERLIN, but the page had critical opinions stated as fact— and for a long time. I did my best clearing up the page, but the vandals out there can be so pervasive that my changes may just get undone. Also, my revisions or wording might not be clear enough or meet standards, so there’s only the win in trying and contributing.)
Right now, I should expect a lot of silence, and making big decisions will fail later on. I should be taking care of things at home, and of myself, and frickin’ sleeping. My teeth and gums are in a concerning state, my right ankle is warped, and my neck is messed up. …But those things cost money to deal with, and I should have a job. It runs in circles.
In my willingness to fight the darkness… as absurd as that gets… I got cocky again. Online, I recently gave advice to people left and right— the kind of advice that makes me— or anyone else— go oh, God… I wrote that. And my far away friend, overwhelmed, certainly doesn’t need essays in the form of emails from me right now.
With my words, trying to make change right now is like barking in the woods.
Then again, ‘right now’… is so small in the grand picture of forever… this darkness that never ends. I’m very much like an animal… on a leash, trapped in my head. …Then again, that could be considered insulting to animals. Who am I to complain when the smallest of creatures must traverse long distances for food? They run circles around me. They reproduce, and I probably won’t… regardless of how much I want a family.
Animals aren’t bothered with human trappings and emotions and judgment… Even the animal people on Penny Dreadful embrace their instincts, and act, whereas I am… reserved in my dreadful absence of support.
—Okay, enough of that. I should get some more air.
I was in a fictional building, amongst, I don’t know, soldiers. Maybe the setting was affected by the latest wrestling-themed episode of Supernatural.
Anyway, there was this boundary moving in, consuming everything in its path— like a wall closing in, but not a physical wall. We could get out of its way, but we had to move fast, and climb (I grabbed on to someone’s legs; the chains attached to the ceiling were out of reach). A leader of some sort opened a passageway by hand. And then I woke up.
There was more leading up, but the memory of what happened before that interactive scene is too vague to recall… lost in its seemingly mechanical routine. But the latter part sort of reflects the feeling that my world is closing in on me, consuming me, silently.
There are so many ways at which my world is going dark, and it is kind of scary if you think about it. In spite of my actions, the lights go out around me. And literally— the two light fixtures in the kitchen no longer work; both of them. We’re using a plug-in lamp, currently burning an LED 60w replacement bulb because the halogen bulbs don’t last very long.
Some of what I get in life could go to the whole argument of expectations versus integrity as Togetherness the TV series conveys, that if you’re not all there and ready, you shouldn’t expect much. But this darkness I face is just absurd.
I spend time away;
it breaks me free from the monotony,
but it breaks me, still.
Delayed drops of silence
and warning bells times three,
out of the loop for years, until…
I find myself loopy,
wild beyond reason,
within closed doors,
for each passing season
neglecting the life.
For what, more?
I reached out my hand, sprained.
I gave another welcome, drained.
I failed to make friends and amends,
exhausted myself toward belated ends.
Here, no matter the public,
the contact fades; it always does.
I’m not looking for fame; I want things to work;
yet the old nonsense and noise
overshadow everything; I regret,
holding myself to the flame,
short of entertaining or entering
the eternal furnace…yet.
I long for respite,
should decline become my middle name.
I don’t want to turn back, now, though
too often looking back with shame.
I can and plan hope for the better
years, anew in bad health.
The new world I feel, it feels like it’s falling apart.
The older fool of thirty years
becomes blind in more ways than just one;
ahead of the curve, he was, and still is
in too many ways wrong to count.
It’s so hard to climb in life, and yet so easy to fall.
And so, I bite my tongue, again;
I chew my lip, and take a sip,
I shoot from the hip
in my way, slowly
falling to the darkness that resides before me.
The future that remains for me is presumed short… par usual.
This one is not for small children.
The body and the memory of why… degrade in this complacent world.
It is a form of hell— limbo, stranded nowhere, unable to recall.
Or realize you’re reluctant, accounting the past as empty upon error.
And try to place now…
To vector off your origin ’cause you put your stake in the ground elsewhere.
That now fails at what the past could yield.
But the past is gone.
But try as you must…
To find a place of opportunity… but shallow opportunity at that, you find.
Fleeting moments, like sugar, the boosts of energy tire you faster.
And a tiring in dealing with your ineffable being to refine!
And try for results…
But results oft always off radar.
To make use of convention, but violate implied rules.
Too often you lose, and lose sleep for aimless, “creative” crud.
And try, while more unknowns enter the scene…
And the unknowns of before, now known, now taken stale or falling apart.
Or, in turn, possibly consistently weak…
Or maybe tapped-in-tapped-out— that you are in synch with a world of weakness.
And try, despite small-minded thoughts…
Little broekn lines, words swiftly assembled to justify fleeting illustrations.
More desultory “small talk,” and false memory of things.
Grown sick of the “casual,” as the actual in talk is rare; the common is moot.
And try, but struggle to sustain your social corpse…
And to parse what you poisoned, of either before or five minutes ago.
It’s origin, loaded, with false pretense or misunderstanding— something unsound.
It’s easy to care less… given the weakness all around.
But try to care…
Nevertheless you harden with each unending uncontrollable error or delay.
But hey, you deserted it, and “justly,” it deserted you back. “Deservedly,” you could say.
“Where this D. becomes an Ass,” or just an “A.” (See what I did there? No, f__k you.)
To try, and fight the never mind!
It, why try to define; what creation brings, based biased like all other things, right?
Tired, but too much, or too little too late… What in God’s name is being created??
To try, but in time…
You find in anything and everything hard, and that prolonging the effort helps none of it.
That working harder at a false base will not help; doing so will only age you faster.
…But what is true? Running so long and far, you’ve stressed and forgotten…
To try to try, your efforts “nigh.”
It yields the conclusion, same and old but as to why… you fail.
Not enough love.
Or not the right kind.
To no longer try…
As “love is a choice,” the corrupted mother says… a reciprocity of long past days.
You continue to tolerate the wear and pain, in stagnation and work… to “try.”
Your goal, from long ago, ultimately and unfortunately reduced to finish and die.
I grew a little. I sold without money. I listened and weighed.
But without answers, I can only listen in passing.
Without hope, however, giving up… sounds like bliss sometimes.
This one is not for the faint of heart.
I tried to improve it as much as I could.
It was previously titled, “To ‘Last’ Forever Alone”.
Hide the children.
becoming of you, of I, of soap—
in sink, in drainer, in tub,
make bathing unthinkable, disgusting, or
oneself ’come disgusting.
life—always coming to be,
from water to surface, then ’to, ’fore on
made—stuck in sloth,
‘bad’ or ‘worse.’
So in this life,
“no time or reason” for this discipline. Continue reading A Wallflower In Darkness→