Sep 2019
From Journal: September 2019
Some things are simply a matter of midnight melancholy while others are a direct result of the full moon. Sometimes a wish gets made mid-sneeze, mid-yawn, or mid-sentence, getting somehow ruined. Who really understands how all of these things work? I know that I don’t. I probably never will. But, I keep trying. Don’t we all? One way or another.
Some nights have teeth, fangs that sink into flesh. Other nights sing sweetly. No one really knows which night that the given day will lay upon their doorstep.
What most people tend to forget is that they can almost always exercise at least a modicum of control. This is neither fate nor destiny. It is simply life and it happens to us as much as because of us. This line of thinking is easy to let slide. I try my best to remember.
Apologize when you must. Never say that you’re sorry for something that is out of your control. Be as kind as you are able. Make your mistakes. Learn from them. Hell, just learn. Keep learning.
We’re all out here, following our own humanity around. Like something we keep on a leash. We walk beside it. All of it is lost art. A sonnet. A painting. Something Michelangelo or Aristotle left abandoned in their basement. A statue, somehow alive. It scratches its ***** and ***; giving its fingers a sniff. It won’t look you in the eye, but neither will it apologize for being what it is. It may very well be more human than you.
Soundless, except for my clicking. Alone. Walking the streets of Downtown. I parked at The Corby and just walked. Today was noisy. People talked to me at every turn.
Earlier today, I was at a bookshop. A lady and her young daughter stopped me. The little girl just had to know all of my ‘why’s’. (Why do you walk like that? Why do you use those things? What happened to you?) I really didn’t feel like going into it, but I couldn’t see any way out of it either. The little girl was earnest as hell and her mom seemed fairly insistent. I felt like I was on display, a lesson in a classroom. However, I couldn’t get the chip to stay on my shoulder. I don’t like being that way anyway. It’s a drag. People mean pretty well most of the time.
As a side note: Pops saw much of this interaction and sat in the van looking rather smug. He looked like he knew that he had raised me right. He did so, but I really wanted to be a **** right then. I don’t think he’s ever seen that much of ‘the thing that happens’. He liked it way more than I did. The lady made her daughter thank me for answering her questions. I felt like an employee.
Lots of depressive times and thoughts. Most of these are still tied to the passing of my mother. I’m not really angry these days, just frustrated. Nothing except home time seems like it’s going the way that I want it to.
Something needs to change and I’m not sure what it is. I want to do something different. I want to do something that doesn’t force me to care about others so much. But, even that feels wrong. I love doing what I do. I love people. I like the distance though. It keeps me even. I need distance a lot. I’m no good if I have to go for long periods making people feel comfortable or whatever you’d call it. I get wound too tightly and have to get away.
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019
Some things are simply a matter of midnight melancholy while others are a direct result of the full moon. Sometimes a wish gets made mid-sneeze, mid-yawn, or mid-sentence, getting somehow ruined. Who really understands how all of these things work? I know that I don’t. I probably never will. But, I keep trying. Don’t we all? One way or another.
Some nights have teeth, fangs that sink into flesh. Other nights sing sweetly. No one really knows which night that the given day will lay upon their doorstep.
What most people tend to forget is that they can almost always exercise at least a modicum of control. This is neither fate nor destiny. It is simply life and it happens to us as much as because of us. This line of thinking is easy to let slide. I try my best to remember.
Apologize when you must. Never say that you’re sorry for something that is out of your control. Be as kind as you are able. Make your mistakes. Learn from them. Hell, just learn. Keep learning.
We’re all out here, following our own humanity around. Like something we keep on a leash. We walk beside it. All of it is lost art. A sonnet. A painting. Something Michelangelo or Aristotle left abandoned in their basement. A statue, somehow alive. It scratches its ***** and ***; giving its fingers a sniff. It won’t look you in the eye, but neither will it apologize for being what it is. It may very well be more human than you.
Soundless, except for my clicking. Alone. Walking the streets of Downtown. I parked at The Corby and just walked. Today was noisy. People talked to me at every turn.
Earlier today, I was at a bookshop. A lady and her young daughter stopped me. The little girl just had to know all of my ‘why’s’. (Why do you walk like that? Why do you use those things? What happened to you?) I really didn’t feel like going into it, but I couldn’t see any way out of it either. The little girl was earnest as hell and her mom seemed fairly insistent. I felt like I was on display, a lesson in a classroom. However, I couldn’t get the chip to stay on my shoulder. I don’t like being that way anyway. It’s a drag. People mean pretty well most of the time.
As a side note: Pops saw much of this interaction and sat in the van looking rather smug. He looked like he knew that he had raised me right. He did so, but I really wanted to be a **** right then. I don’t think he’s ever seen that much of ‘the thing that happens’. He liked it way more than I did. The lady made her daughter thank me for answering her questions. I felt like an employee.
Lots of depressive times and thoughts. Most of these are still tied to the passing of my mother. I’m not really angry these days, just frustrated. Nothing except home time seems like it’s going the way that I want it to.
Something needs to change and I’m not sure what it is. I want to do something different. I want to do something that doesn’t force me to care about others so much. But, even that feels wrong. I love doing what I do. I love people. I like the distance though. It keeps me even. I need distance a lot. I’m no good if I have to go for long periods making people feel comfortable or whatever you’d call it. I get wound too tightly and have to get away.
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019
Not a poem.
