Hello again, readers, hello,
I haven’t given up, but my next essay remains unfinished. Here’s another poem instead. It has been edited from the published version (very little editing was offered by the publisher). Please share if you like it.
I’m also contemplating on putting all writing efforts towards my fictional worldbuilding and letting my Substack go fallow for a time. How long? I’m not sure. I’ve neglected the dream. I feel the need to turn inward, to find shelter, to privately mine my creativity and leave the maddening din of our shared times to play out without my participation.
Distraction is legion.
I’ve deleted the Substack app off my phone because of its dark ironies and delusions. Same as it ever was. If I could delete Notes off of the desktop app, I would.
The short of it, I’m tired. I tire of the world and its descending throes. Weary of its theatrics and posturing. Dead to its petty competitiveness. It needs not my added commentary. What will be will be. Time to retreat to the cave of the imaginal.
But I’m famous for my contradictions and chaotic turnabouts, so who knows?
I’m grateful for your support. Truly. I will finish the essay. And I’ll likely keep posting poems, old and new, as poetry is my truest expression in this dire world.
Feverishly yours,
—C
PS, If all of this is confusing, the turd references especially, you might want to start here:
A Call
Gazing through windows with eyes clouded Listening with ears deafened By a one song station An ear-worm An endless pop rain Inescapable lullaby of pain “Ground! Ground!” beg feet Aching for a land-ing A landscape without beginning or ending No right or wronging Only trust and belonging Damn this web of wounding and binding I’m looking for souls of longing— Nobodies, fools daring to birth new meaning Sowing visions of existing Needing no blades, facades, or blockades No gateways, walls, or hoop hops— Just possibility without locks Give me messy and unruly Give me the damned and unworthy The heretics and the terrible— Breakers! The destructors of the impossible! Evolv-ers, bleeding lovers, un-captors of thought Give me the fuckers that can’t be bought Where are they? The ones? Who do not turn from what’s ugly Who can swallow truth even when it’s sharp, Pluck the strings of disillusion’s harp Who can walk in the unstitched dark, Wonder-wander until new suns spark Tell me I’m not lonely
The Bonus Round
That which does not kill you grants a bonus round. Life has granted me several bonus rounds despite my reckless disrespect. In honor of the cosmos’ generosity, I now deliver them in a 3-pack at the end of each newsletter.
This edition is dedicated to just good feels. Joy is ever-present. Spontaneous. Emergent. It’s not an antidote or an escape. It’s not mastered or owned, it just is. It flits and flutters. Offer it a perch, even in the darkest times.
And Neil Gaiman warned us that caged delight becomes delirium, so leave it wild.
#1
If there is a singular comic that sums up my life since I had the luck of turning 40 years old, it’s this one. I’m almost 55 now. Nothing’s changed.
#2
Replace “woke” with “Hamas” and you have the same joke. How long before the dickheads merge the two? Insanity travels faster than light now. Wasn’t the internet the bestest idea ever?
(And before my joke is hijacked by the bloodthirsty, I do not support Hamas or Netanyahu’s leadership. I support pathways to enduring peace.)
#3
It’s genius! It’s dumber than rocks! I DON’T CARE IT BRINGS ME JOY.
—FIN—
I'm sending you a hug first. Reading shortly. Without reading I am of the mind it is stellar. That is all, for now.
Also, what Neil said...