hey, i'm here.

visceral experiences of a chaotic emotional landscape

[ideacrisis]

Internet Vipers

I fell

into a pit;

walked right in.

soft grass beckoned

obscuring vipers within.

Trapped. I wait,

glaring eyes hold me down,

look for the slightest mistake;

an ill-placed movement,

a breath too ragged -

fear too bare.

Bodies coiled, tense.

As I sit, staring back

at vapid eyes,

I see I am not the

object of their focus.

Viper shapes dissolve.

Formless bodies, just

shadows hiding eyes:

obesience glitters.

The black obalisk,

underground,

sings a silent siren song.

Eyes hold fast.

Unnoticed,

I crawl away.

Silence, stillness,

air heavy,

skin crawls in the fever.

Potential energy fills the space.

I crack;

I break the screen,

shatter its holding power.

The eyes turn to me;

I am devoured.

[ideacrisis]

Spring

Spring, the ground releases

from winter's hold;

snow and ice recede.

No inbetween, not here

anymore - the sun bakes

the soilless dirt, needles and duff.

Heat releases scents so sweet,

alighting to the air.

Work, work, uncovered,

work everywhere.

It grounds me, holds me still,

anchoring my wandering mind.

[ideacrisis]

My man

My man, a good one,

in the way you would typically think.

He is a father:

loves his kids-

nurtures them deeply.

He builds stuff:

happiness finds him there.

A creative.

My man works hard;

always on the move.

He will not try

too hard:

failure emasculates.

He can not be wrong-

will not allow it.

Sensitive: I want to tiptoe in,

gently whisper

a sentiment of dissatisfaction;

I wait too long,

stumble and trip,

words clatter about in a

cacophony of frustration.

Rage.

I paste myself, naked starfish,

to the window from his tower:

See me. Hear me.

I scream.

The sound feels muted.

My face fades.

He fades

to righteous sleep.

My man is a good one.

Not a feminist, he tells me.

Will not change;

can not adapt.

Not for me.

Maybe for his daughters,

on day, when it matters.

Not now. Not for me.

My man is a good one.

Not now, for me-

I often wonder.

[ideacrisis]

I like her

Blond hair and

warm blue eyes.

She lights up when

I see her.

Something familiar, a warmth -

reminds me of someone special

from home. I want her

to be my friend.

We message a little,

see each other on

the street, strollers before us.

A quick and happy promise

to hang out ensues.

I message,

she agrees.

We meet, nervous.

It's pleasant, I think I affirm too much.

We part, babies under arm,

she's free any time, she affirms.

Silence, an empty inbox.

I find it's always me, reaching out.

I begin to realize she's not interested -

embarrassment reddens my skin.

I realize that light in her is always there,

not especially for me.

Subtle rejection settles in,

an ache, uncomfortable

in my skin.

How can I react?

We see each other at drop off,

around the motherhood sphere.

The usual way, I suppose -

friendly, but aloof.

I want her to know I don't need her,

I don't care - better off without.

But it's she who doesn't care,

has her friends.

Maybe it was me, a lack;

Like a predator who senses fear,

she sensed my desire, too strong, and

unworthy.

Still in highschool, so many years later.

I fidget, I stew, I hope to move on.

Get comfy with rejection.

I really like her.

Unlike highschool,

I know how well time heals.

I sit and wait,

maybe do something

in the meantime.

[ideacrisis]

lying in bed

... like Brian Wilson did...

Lying in bed, Neva next to me.

Every ounce of creative genius wasted,

Washed away, diminished.

Thankful she's here, but honestly,

The sick pit in my stomach

Consumes me.

Where have I gone?

I don't think I ever went anywhere.

I've thoroughly killed my desire to write,

With sloth and gluttony.

I'm a major disappointment.

Hold on! Get cracking! Make the most of it, darling girl. Go get em! Shine your shoes, make your money - don't get sidelined, eye on the ball!

[ideacrisis]

Wilderness hides its unnaturalness behind a mask that is all the more beguiling because it seems so natural. As we gaze into the mirror it holds up for us, we too easily imagine that what we behold is Nature when in fact we see the reflection of our own unexamined longings and desires. For this reason, we mistake ourselves when we suppose that wilderness can be the solution to our culture’s problematic relationships with the nonhuman world, for wilderness is itself no small part of the problem.

William Cronon, The Trouble with Wilderness or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature

[ideacrisis]

untitled

Sometimes I fall into these self-destructive habits that are oddly comforting; maybe because they exhilarate and excite me. Like collapsing my backbone to the pressure of friends and expensive, totally unnecessary booze and feeling the anxiety of making a bad choice, that feeling of permanence that comes when I am alone in bed at night. Then waking only to realize that it is a new day, full of promise and excitement, but muddying it by drinking dirt coffee in three cup doses on 5 hours of sleep. 

[ideacrisis]

thought of the day:

Are natural disasters planned expropriation and gentrification?

[ideacrisis]

a human in power.

“uninformed, young, naive. a little girl”

in a house of men, rulers fat

with wealth and uninformed.

a broken hierarchy, large crown 

upon a brittle pedestal,

crumbs on the floor.

A rebuilder in a slender cloak,

slight hands with a tenacious grip,

power in a sound mind.

Rash, brazen, nurturing, a storm

upon a bountiful sea.

She holds us in her heart and hands,

fighting to an unknown better.

[ideacrisis]

Agnes Obel - The Curse (Berlin Live Session)

[ideacrisis]

Rachel Carson, a new heroine of mine. Against so many odds her voice permeated through western culture, questioning ideologies enough to shift cultural perspectives.

Meticulous research, a uniquely feminine voice in her time, and a voice of reason elevated her ideas to a broad audience. 

[ideacrisis]

gap

hey. I started something with no idea about what it was. I left it alone, nothing happened to it. here I am again. I still don’t know what to make of it.

[ideacrisis]

Time goes by so quickly, and I can only take in so much. The last three weeks have been so full, and I almost feel like I’m losing pieces of it like grains of sand falling through my fingers.

[ideacrisis]

F*ck. 24 and still haven't figured out what it's all about ... 3 years later, not a whole lot further.

All the dreamers hit the walls of previous prophets and of old wise thoughts.