Starting this now for a few words but I have work at eight so I have to come back. I want to talk about breath, compassion, joy, meaningfulness, yea all that funky stuff. Love you have a great day at work!
It is now August 15th 2020 at 5:17am on a Saturday, I never came back yesterday. I had a lot of time, but I spent all that time eating. Not really capable of doing anything but rambling and talking shit. I was thinking of a topic or some way to start the aforementioned intentions of the the previous paragraph. How about simple shit like breathing is good for you, your cells need it to burn stuff. You can control anything in your body if you can control your breath. You wold think that. Maybe its because I am writing for yesterday today that I have a sense of not giving a fuck, wanting to throw it all away, perceive this as a failure get down on myself for fucking up my shit. There was a time, a very young time. Good young old times I had when I was a wee little chap. The one time has become memory mixed in with dream, but from what I remember actually happening I had a really messy room, and my mom yelled at me to clean it. So did I do? I trashed the place even more to “show her” some shit. Except you missed the actual consequence that now YOUR room is wrecked. That memory in physical time is either at the house in ne philly or at the apartments in Haddonfield. It ha to be the castor ave stop, because I have a slight memory of the room at the apartments. The memory of the room from the memory is hazy but not the one from the apartments. Other than that a memory of my room from the castor ave house just isn’t there. Thats what makes it feel like a dream. The one point of reference is a playskool basketball hoop. I remember that being in the room more that the room itself. I remember that thing had a base that I stuffed a bunch of trash and balloons from my dads 30th birthday party in. Eeek that feeling of being late or running out of time isn’t all that present until moments like this when I realize even my dad was married with a five year old by the time he was my age. Maybe thats why I feel so fucked up, because if I had a kid at 27 that kid would probably be a bit of a mess due to that first period of time that I try to get my shit together. Those first couple years are crucial. I don’t know what the fuck happened but it happened then. I painted the picture of how the world worked and followed my interpretation like a map. I always want it to be some thing I can point to. Some precise moment that changed all habits up until that point. Except in this case I really cant remember what was really going on. When I was like three, when I have some of these first memories shits all dark? Why? All of these first memories are like small tales of misery. Being left locked in the bathroom, mom screaming at me over a cash test dummies toy, nail in my knee, pooping in a playskool toilet, mentally disabled guy throwing sticks. Eh maybe thats just what you focus on, because more that I think about it the more minor insignificant memories are there as well they just don’t mean as much so they aren’t categorized as important, but they are memories none the less that aren’t all dark. I guess what I’m calling out for is some memory of joy. I know that it definitely happened I just cant remember. Maybe it was a later formulated memory of the youngest years that only focused on the “wrong” and “bad” stuff that is why that is mostly the stuff I can remember. What the fuck happened? You continually get to this point. Again trying to find that one thing to point at and prove that was the thing or moment that caused things to be this way. Well I’m gong to have to let you down here and say that what you are searching for may never be found. If you call what you are doing “searching or seeking” for what seems to be missing then you my friend are going to have a long lonesome road ahead of you. Because to me what it looks like you are doing is kind of the exact opposite of seeking some bedrock truth about “what happened” to you that cause you to be so “fucked up.” You really believe that don’t you? That you are somehow “fucked up” meaning incomplete, imperfect, broke… Maybe its the eyesight thing? There it is you found it can we move on. Get you big fat pointer finger and point to your eyesight. Thats too much responsibility for me to be taking right now about the three year old version of me. I’m going to say that it isn’t necessarily my parents “fault” any of this. But I sure as fuck am not taking blame, fault, or responsibility for my perceptions and actions as a three year old thrown into this fucked up world. Cool, now what? Thats kind of always the place you eventually get to. Try to not take responsibility for stuff before like 8-10 but then also realize that you now are responsible for a guy who has childhood trauma that I continually want to play off or play down because in comparison it doesn’t seem that bad. But still is some source of misery and despair. Other people were there, other people manipulated this thing you were thrown into. Other people manipulated you and you aren’t happy about it. So it is up to you now to clean it up, clear it out and move forward with a life of maturity because you are destroying all of what is unknown and potent infant of you with a grudge towards the people and this world that you perceive has wrong you in some way. Not fair, shouldn’t be this way, BUT, NO, wah! All I can do is wonder, wonder without attachment to gaining some other thing to point at, that expectation has to go away. Wonder what I can do today, this week, month, year to support myself, all. of myself, especially that child that is so eager to love and learn. That is true, you know that is true, you are curious, and you see things from different perspectives then what is generally presented to you so you are kind of destined to be conflicted. Its neither good nor bad, its a path and you are on it. Just remember that you always have a choice…6:06am 1164