book 5 - Hands

Lots of shit-stains, gotta clean this shit up, damn-it!

Start (June 14, 2026)

hAPPY-

Even if I want to say that I wake up sad and depressed, I just don’t. And it’s not that I’ve gotten so caught up in what I’m doing that I don’t have time to address anything or anything. In fact, I actively address these concerns in my journaling. I’ve grown to become so much more sensitive as well as articulate. And it actually feels great to be alive. But at the same time, I recognize well what it means to be okay. What it means to be who I am, after everything, after years of wondering and wandering. It feels funny looking back, but no, it’s never truly just funny. It’s all of the things, and usually, I’d have something to say. But other times, I just don’t, and that’s its own writing. The articulacy as well as the moments in between where everything both shuts up and drifts into ambience. The rain, the clouds, the chatter of the people around. You’d think I had it all together, and the funny thing is I do. I’ve lived a life as much as anyone, and sometimes, I can barely even adjust to anything, and other times, it feels like everything’s just landing on me like egg on hard rock. Other times still, it all passes me by, and I can barely even begin to face it all. I’ve known it all, all manner of feelings, as well as great unknowns and dissonances. My life has been all about dealing with these dissonances and wandering through these tall, huge labyrinths I can barely even begin to escape. But it really is just a matter of sitting down and enjoying oneself even as there are many big questions yet unanswered. It’s not like they’re my personal ones anyway. I’ve already integrated a lot of myself and have taken the time to address my personal concerns, so whatever lies beyond those is just curiosity and perhaps dread of something far larger than myself. All of my writing presently is continued exploration. If I knew writing then, I know writing now. Even more so. And through it, I have been able to capture a lot of the pieces that didn’t necessarily make me fundamentally more okay, because at one point, I already reached a point of okayness and even cloud-nine happiness. But whatever else is extended appreciation of all of that which my life is. I am only as much as I am, but I am multitudes, the mass of all that I am, a prolonged journey into a world so big and bright, a self so full and rich, and a medium of expression that keeps yielding as well as confounding. I’ve barely even begun, yet I’ve become so much, already. It’s funny, yet it’s as somber as gray clouds. Ha-ha.

I want to do a full experimental diagnosis of where I am mentally, emotionally, psychologically. But it feels like the oblique is the only place to find it, but maybe, I’ve collected, accumulated enough of myself in all of those obliques that I can begin to synthesize, just one step of faith, with a breakthrough in short order.

I am a person. I live and go along. I also sit and stay. Long enough that the wind keeps rustling. I don’t usually write, but when I do, I write with my soul. I say “usually” when I write thousands of words a day, but it honestly feels like most of my writing is not me writing but me thinking and being and existing in all the ways a person can, breathing in the beautiful scent of existence and being one with it. Writing is merely the exhaust fumes of all that perceptive effort. And less effort, more falling from a great height but never landing with burnout, exhaustion, or breakdown. I am always at the edge of my creativity, finding new frontiers in which to play. I don’t know what I do most of the time, but when I do, it’s that moment after a whole day spent with something, and then others and then some… and then done. I give myself that… or it clicks and it feels real great. And I allow myself that, give myself that, have set it up all my life, feels like, but really, it was a patient, painstaking path to get here. And here I am. With all that I am. What’s a word to a person? Not life itself, but the place where feelings meet in the act of writing, with the words being mere active brain activity and emotional processing and smiling, crying, ranting, and all that that the brain manages and undergoes. It’s a fun-happy-thing to be alive overflowingly that I can say all this. I feel good.

And it never feels that it is simply just that, but it is all the simplicity in that moment of saying it and feeling it with a closed-eye embracing smile. I feel it all, down to the rudest smile to the brightest to the biggest to the most exquisite. The complexity, sophistication, elegance all blended in a perfume-like grin. I feel it all. I feel it. As big as the clouds, as sorrowful as death, as longing as infatuation but without getting lost in it, as heartful as eyes that soften so much they feel like they might dissolve. Cotton. I wonder, and I step with a “might” in my gait, that “maybe” that feels like it embraces everything openly and without walls. I feel it all. Embracing. Hugging, Fully coming in a mixing motion, being one in motion. I feel it all.

I go around, and for a while, I feel I’ve already reached the end, but I’ve just allowed myself to feel it all in that crisp, clear-minded, even blurry, obscure moment, the fullness of an emotion, fully enveloped, developed, blooming, crashing, crushing, scritching tactilely. I am. In that moment, when I think I’m about to reveal the fraud that couldn’t even get at that, I see instead a face with a warm, kind, childishly simple smile that slowly turns to a grin because the locked-eyes staring gets long enough, that crisp feeling of friendship warmth. I know it too well, and “too” not in any overwhelming way, but in the way it floods and inundates you with love. To see yourself that way, and to see all them through you (him, her, them). The people who’ve been with you all your life, even as many of them have already left and drifted apart. You keep them in your heart, in the mirror when you look, ghostly apparitions still warmly shoulder-to-shoulder, arms over. There’s a crisp, simple magic to that. And it never truly feels overwhelming, beyond what fullness inevitably makes you feel.

I genuinely, genuinely, genuinely want to know it. And I do. But again. Again. Again. And it easily comes. And I feel it. In my heart. Full. Like deep warm kisses that envelop each other. There’s something in that moment, closed-eyed, the world full and warm and embracing and true. Dissonance is a nice addition to all of it, because it makes fullness even more complex in the way beauty is always unraveling, making its fullness ever more felt.

It hurts. And the tears drop like petals, welcoming the stream along the gutter, light shining ever more pleasantly. And whatever dissonance and hurt found “found family” in the hotel lobby where people are gathering and coming and leaving. The world as it was, crystallized in moments like these. Hearts touch, ever so slightly, then like softest lips part.

I feel like I’m at the tip of a very long, long journey. The adventure’s just begun! And if it gets cut short, the loose fabric rolls to the ground, the world always meeting it, never having truly left it, but not ever allowing it ever to consider itself any more than it fully already was, which was more than enough and unyieldingly perfect. I feel it. What smile, optimistic, adventurous, full of wonder and awe, was already thinking of starting fresh and new, continued then along, and, by ending, if it happens quickly, only furthered itself that direction, but not to disappointment or fault, just the way the sound goes down, low, and until silence. And that silence never feels truly dead, something always hovering, meaning something, moving. The past, the present, the feeling of fullness that never left. It was all there like presents at a funeral casket. It’s just begun. And indeed, it has! See, the clouds soar!! Don’t grieve me, welcome life. But yes, in the same motion of grief, feel life flowing most vividly, tears blurring into warmest smiles that can never forgive death and always, in some way, feel life and it one and the same, perhaps unacceptingly, but eventually, subconsciously, unconsciously, one with that knowledge. Denial as perfect as acceptance. The grief is an expression of life.

It’s hard to describe, but it kinda feels like a Makoto Shinkai film, but not in an escapist sense, but in a fully encompassingly human manner, the way the world goes and you feel everything in the breeze, all the memories like petals gust-blown off the steps into a flurry in the air.

Trying to Revive Jesus

I literally have no frickin’ clue as to what the hell I was on about, but for some reason, I was making all the sense, and I guess I still feel that. Of course, it’s been almost a year since I wrote those entries, but even if I’m not immersed in the act of writing it any longer, I sit here in admiration. What I have now, post-book4, feels strange. It’s dumbfounding. It’s like I’m skiing or some shit, gliding on ice. Everything’s already done and happened, the fullness of all of it internalized into my Writingbastion. I’ve become the utter-thing all of that gestures at now. Yet here I am speechless.

I wonder why. I feel every single thing coursing through me without it being some kind of force surging through me. It’s already a part of my blood flow, invisibly. The “coursing feel” is metaphorical and not in the way that they’re actually differentiable, but at this point, just a way of reviving even for a little bit in prose the feeling of that, even if that’s not real anymore. I’ve become One with the Fates. Those grandiose things, and it’s just Tuesday.

To think arrival would come so early. Is it Christmas? Fuck, I’m trying to make light of it with humor or hope that by doing so somehow find some part of myself to portal me into a brand new world of re-feeling—Fuckery!

What is it? It should burst through me and emanate into the space like some Goliath Jurassic Park figure thing. Shit!

Yet I’m like hands that’ve not found some use yet. It’s not rusting yet, but when I’m this still, it doesn’t feel like stillness. It feels like actual speechlessness. And I guess, I’m contradicting that, huh? I’m clutching damn smoke!

If there was something, something that could get it all fixed, I don’t know how, but there must be something. Something in my head that I’m not entirely penetrating and claiming (as if!) for myself. Can’t know. Dun’t knuw. I feel like a child babbling along and taking whatever sweet little nothings and making something big out of ‘em. Fuck-it. New motto <--

The most arrogant (realized?) version of myself is apparently very humble… and speechless.

I want to burn shit! And fucking gorge myself on those fucking spoils and make something actually creative out of them. Damn-it!

Ironically, this discomfort is its own fuel, but hey, let me have this shit. As hypocritical—or whatever this can be called at this point beyond irony—as it is. What’s (this) god but a bunch of sticks I’ve put together to form something indivisible and un-feeling? Re-feel that shit! Please, godamitt! Take the shit and pour lava or liquid on it, watch it erode, and then, from the little crumbs or whatever tiny debris comes out of it, make something with genuine spunk, fiery fucking pleasure, a bit of fuck here and a bit of toss(-ing) there. Something with at least a bottomless hole of… unsettled ambition. As cringey as wanting to feel it all through that start again, when that was its own rightful anchor at first. Whatever I’ve generated, has eaten itself and spat out the shit and then eaten that as well, somehow. I’ve not found a gap in the symmetry I’ve fucking torn into totality.

What’s a magic word? Poison the wells? Have a go at fucking myself, maybe three times there on the rough-spiky-edged bed? Try something with genuine creative spunk (said that already). Lay three bottles on the bedside, try them on like clothes, pour them gently at first then in a burst like squeezing a carton of its juices and doing it all over my own face, hoping in that creamy white, I can sense a bit of myself, a liveliness that can be called being alive. The fresh, slimy feeling of detestment, of having ambition streak my veiny arms and the weight of my mouth groggily, scratchily munch on flesh, on the growling voices that I’ve collected just for my own amusement, to make myself into something with a little bit of a bitter tirade, which is used then as a launchpad for “even greater things”—happinesses whose flavor don’t demand from me anything but unbridled, all-feeling expression. I wonder. Sit still long enough, start itching, scratch it, watch it bleed, blood running down my thigh, feel it like burns, words spill out, an interrupted cry-laugh-growl-gasp-howl. I made my bed and I will lie in it.

The blood tastes like goo. I gobble it up like the hand even I have cannibalized to produce fire before. I’m that irritable, creatively inspirable. I’ve got a flight of fancy. An episodic explosion of my-self, the symmetry longing for dissolution, dismantlement, something where shards and cracks taste like delicious madeleine cake. I want to fucking eat that and make that the bed I lie in.

All of this is extremely metaphorical.

Yeah

Had a feeling that the only way forward was to go even further, past that threshold. Now, I’ll get misunderstood a lot, but hey, I guess that’s what it is. Language is malleable, but it has to meet the growing, evolving, squeezing self. If not, I’ll start rambling numbly, bumbly, dumbly. Funnily enough, this is just its own sardonic win-by-default.

Grrr

But without the crazy language, I can’t unreveal myself. There’s something about becoming that doesn’t answer any more than it has already answered, and when you add to that, you get more of the same, not that it’s redundant to keep becoming, but I feel at least in this technical case, it’s very much a done deal of just yeah, well, pop goes the weasel.

I feel I’ve said this a million times. In innumerable different ways. And every time is a new time of defeat. High time for defeat!

I’m fucking myself over with classical music playing in the background.

I’m really trying to re-invent myself with a bunch of words. hA-hA!

But yeah, looking back through my writings, I’ve said something pretty cool stuff. Phrases. Shit. Things I’d like to do again, totally novelly. But yeah, it’s up to me to crack the bottle that is this inane thing I am by default.

Man, those stuff I wrote then really did feel good to write. Shit.

To be continued...

Gift [give me time to cook]