Is this rock bottom?

Look at me typing words.

My fingers are so slow that my mind is already paragraphs ahead of the sentence I just wrote and I've forgotten most of it already, so now the phrase Look at me typing words looks completely idiotic and irrelevant.

That's the real challenge of writing, isn't it? Not observation, contemplation, mastery of language, the translation of ideas into useful words, into mood and imagery, into effective storytelling. No it's this bloody impossible task of getting the sentences out of your wretched head and onto the wretched page before they fucking dissolve.


I'm pretty sure I'm fatter than ever before.

It's too warm in here for this sea lion biology of mine but I'm too lazy to navigate the hurdles: vacuum cleaner, bag of empty wine bottles, non-disposable grocery bags containing whatever stuff I haven't got around to putting away; cans of tuna and black beans perhaps. Maybe the guitar strap and hardware which I have still not installed and which must be somewhere... Too lazy to navigate these hazards and kneel down painfully and reach way under the desk to turn off the electric baseboard heater which I rarely use. I like it cool, or even downright cold and I have a duvet although I'm still just using the cover; which is of course just two bed sheets sewn together and with a zipper. The actual pocketed goosey thing is still in the closet with too many other things. It was two or three winters ago when I last used it despite the habit of leaving off the heat. I do just fine under a couple sheets.

I want to write in this space every day. I want people who struggle with a journey in their lives to witness my struggle and learn from it or garner support. Or not feel alone. Or maybe even reach out and say, Hey! Me too! Let's do this together!

But so many pieces I don't publish or don't even write. Sometimes for laziness. Sometimes for sleep deprivation. And many times for the sake of other people's privacy.

I once decided that what I had to say was too important to ever discourage anyone from reading my blog. And so friends have found it and some can identify the aliases of others and this compromise to anonymity leaves me handcuffed. I don't want any secrets for myself but some of my associates might. And some of the people I love most might not like me getting all mushy here.

So I'm fettered somewhat. But that is still no excuse not to write here every day.


Facebook is becoming a source of - depression perhaps? Am I susceptible to depression? I'm not very joyful these days despite the knowledge that I should be.

All the Trump stuff is just plain ghastly. The admission that I'm actually capable of wishing another human being dead - yes dead - assassination; bath tub slip; attack by a flying devil-hunting piano - I don't care. It's just a sad sad state to realize you feel that way about another human being.

It's not just him and all his ghastly intentions; it's what is coming out of myself and others; especially those who support the cretin for their own tiny reasons which seem so big to them, and are so indignant at our outrage because they can't see past their own noses!

Look at this impatience of mine! Look at this lack of pity! I know better than this. All my bad habits and non-mindfulness are piling up and getting in the way of everything.

Yet even in my sleepy self-critical malaise I know the answers. I know what momentum is available to me, to turn things around. Do I just need to hit rock bottom and then begin the rebound? Am I there yet?

My room is too cluttered and needs dusting. Stuff needs to be given away again. This should not be a daunting project! I know that a good friend even offered to help with that but I can't remember who, but why should I need help?

Messages to someone very dear have gone unanswered for two weeks and I feel fear from that, though I am almost certain the fear is irrational. I have no feeling that the fear is irrational. It is strictly an intellectual process. All I feel is the fear.

But to say, "Hey! I'm scared! You need to reply!" is to up the ante. What then if there is still no reply? Panic?

All I feel is the fear. But just seeing it on the page like this - makes it feel less real.

How disappointing. Look at all the fears I once defeated through consciousness. Yet this one I cannot or perhaps just won't.

Is it because that to defeat one's last fear is to dispel the myth of identity? Is that why? Because everything I have taught myself threatens to cure an addiction which I mistake for my very being? I am the one who loves hopelessly. That is me. That is 99% of my life. Loving hopelessly. If that goes away then what is left? Harmony? Oneness? The tough question is: Do I really want to know?

I once discovered such a surprising wealth of power in myself, at a time when my ego was soft and the realization was not a giddy one but a curiosity. Where is that power now? I really sense it is not far and has never been far.

Why not reach out?