I guess the goal of every day was a bit too much for my current ability to focus on writing things. There's still so much so trapped in here and I'm not really sure that this writing space has helped, although I would hope that it does. But the words just don't come to me. I barely know where I am, without them. So it looks like I'm still drifting..

Fuck, what do I even write here? I'm off in my own head, most days, but also tonight, although the empty draft beckons to me. Also the empty canvas, but I actually feel differently about that tonight, sort of shy? It's because I am not entirely sure what's going on in my head. You'd think that's a sure thing, wouldn't you, "Oh, I'm thinking this thought, that is what is going on in my head," but you'd also be surprised at how easily that falls apart - not under inspection, exactly, since there are really so many of us with our eyes open. it's really just a testament to how the thing works, and why, which is something I'm still looking for and beginning to truly hate that question.

Probably not in the way it could be, though, for which I'm grateful but mostly curious. which kind of redefines the point. I guess. Anyway, by the time you read this it'll be too late to do anything about it. I'm almost certain of that. am i wrong

Either way, I'll just carry on, and there's really no need to worry, the shape of my emotional landscape has been shaped into something that lets go of something good before it's even over, following the pattern of my experiences. It's a colder place than where I've been before, but it seems to be necessary if I am to get any rest. And it is rest, here and now, even though there is more life and buzzing in me than before. That is expected, at least by me, because we are alive, it is in our being to be in and with and participating.

And so it seems I have made at least one more step against whatever resistance or heaviness is in me, which would be easier to combat if I could take a hammer to it, rather than doubting its existence at all. The question "who is my enemy" has arisen and been without answer so many times that all that's really left is the restlessness that comes of not having something to fight. And yet the fight remains. (I'd call that a paradox, but not really - there are other, much more disruptive of those.) Waking up to myself, like clawing to the surface, feels like all but might only be part of it.  I still don't know where my isolation is.

I'm not at all sure what this writing project is becoming. I'm merely glad it's not dead yet. Alive, instead, which is what I'd hoped and supposed I would find in it, even if just on the inside.

It's about this morning.

Communicating in this way is as ambiguous as ever, but certain things happened this morning, and well, I've decided to use them as an anchor point. I have to start somewhere, you see, and it just works a little better if I have a structural system that supports itself, regardless of its "reality." This is where the visuals help, because without that, all I have is the rest of my perceived existence, and although I'm sort of being flippant, that can actually be a bit misleading. There's so much that happens in my head, or maybe that's not the precise location, but who's measuring anyway - and despite some effort, not all that happens in here stays in here. except for when I don't want it to. of course.

That event just now, that won't show up in the published post. I know that much, so what i'm fuzzier on is who does get to see it and when. It's that kind of verification i'm talking about.

So I guess what I want to talk about is communication, and that has to do with this morning too. When you're communicating like that, with variables jumping out from every shadow and time is.. well it's going to be against you for sure, with certain luxuries missing and all. Look, I feel like I did pretty well, all things considered, and then it was better, which means of course that I can't believe in it, and would you call that a shame or would you call it fate?

It's been a rough day for me. Every day I try to regain control over my mind, and some days it's exhilarating and hopeful, and other days I get exhausted and angry. The anger is a hindrance of course, but it's difficult to dispel. I used to be capable of so much more, on the inside. Nowadays it takes the entirety of my attention and focus to speak in my head with my own mindvoice - something that happens naturally and by default for most, and used to for me as well. There are many other similar limitations that I don't know how to combat, and today my limitations are all I can think about. It's a negative cycle, but I doubt it will last long. Every day my mood and thought patterns are slightly different - I can count on that, at least, and it's a relief to do so.

This blog is showing me that I really have nothing to say. I mean, I do, of course, a million things to say, all boiling in me, drowning me - but either due to my limitations or my own inadequacy as a writer I can't seem to pull any of them out. It's frustrating. I mean, I've never been amazing at it - it's why I've never been able to maintain a blog for very long. The medium I'm best at is discussion, conversation, interaction - which is why I did my best writing and playing on reddit. but things are different now, and so here I am, talking to myself, substanceless and boring. I'm nothing without the input of the world around me, but I can't even find that world anymore through all this invisible, maddening interference that keeps me from myself and doesn't let me think and keeps me from the things I love so much. And so I'm angry.
I'm glad this day is over.

My body is full of blood and buzzing nerve endings. I move in it, with it, through it, waiting. Hidden away somewhere inside is a wellspring of touch, electricity, heat.

Hidden away in my mind is a playground, secret and now lost, a space of rush and longing and connection, of touch and struggle and celebration. From this space I could reach outward, bringing into myself pieces of the great cumulative exhibition of body, beauty, and breath. or inward, pulling at my own inner tides, deep hungers, clashes of want.

everywhere, others are sharing this dance, riding the rise and fall of their various passions, dipping into the current of the rushing heat. Many come to share and be shared, as slowly we leech the poison from it, very slow, very sure, separate and together like the forces that pull us and make us reach for each other.

and I, longing for longing, hoping to join again, to find the gates to me and the world, and all we share, and all that we don't yet, all that we might. from my isolated empty place I can sometimes feel it stirring,so deeply a part of me, so deeply unreachable.

I've been doing me some learning about the human voice. Check out the larynx!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35bzHJf_Kk4

Ew! Pretty cool looking. We are slimy, slippery machines.

Reminds me of this fun little snippet:

http://youtu.be/26REYsR0K_I?t=2m1s

ART.