A response.... a justification for myself.

I cant sleep. I wont sleep. I need something that will make it better. Nothing is making it better. Insomnia, no, terror, panic, yes. What a great time to be alone.Why would I want to sleep when one day all I will do is sleep? Shop online? Trivial, stupid, feel sicker, dad;s only gonna resent me more. Watch tv, play games, listen to melodies, harmonies, comedies, anything. Nothing works. Your mind isnt in your ears its in your head, and its screaming "youre going to die one day."

Excuses, excuses, excuses. Stupid excuses. "Its not just nothing, youll be okay, theres a reason for everything, you dont have to die, youll find a way to live forever, youll deal with it when the time comes, maybe when you get there youre ready to go." Lies, excuses, excuses.

One day Ill be on broadway. Doesnt matter. I got that solo today. i got that part. Doesnt matter. Im behind making my films... doesnt matter. I have to make my mother start living once more, my brother needs friends, my dad and i never had a relationship. Wont matter. Won't matter, why try now? Because we all just die. Oh god, mother, brother, dad, brother, not fair! I won't watch them die I cant i cant I CANT, i wont. But it doesnt matter. I have to. no, not fair.

Afraid to write about it? Perhaps not anymore. Afraid to even show this to the world? Maybe. Thinking you were alone in this fear, this sensation? Innacurate. Online, fine, cheking. Wait, I'm seeing things. There's no way that person wrote this when I needed it most, just when i was running out of distractions. It only took one line of writing to pull out a gasping breath of fresh air, a hope, a freedom, an acceptance. "Its ok if you cant escape yourself."

A beautiful phrase, a stunning phrase, stopped in my tracks kind of phrase. Is fear gone? No. Will you still die? Yes. Were you meant to know this wonderful phrase? Why yes I think you were. Will you be able to sleep better? Tonight, maybe, but tomorrow? Who knows, you don't, they don't, he she it doesn't. But nothing matters.

Tomorrow, it will matter again, maybe, maybe. But tonight, knowing you, you of all people you wrote the one thing i needed to keep moving forward. Keep moving forward. Theres another thing with you. Always you. My friend, my best friend, my go-to, a stranger, acquaintance, a love, whatever you are. You did it for me tonight. You made the fear better.

Ill write, I will write.

You did it. And i thank you.

And Im not alone.

3:14 Every Night

From a recent late-night sketch session.

I went in with no plan on these, equipped with a sketchbook, chalk pastel, and pencil, and just kind of drew what came out. I tried to layer the color in different ways for each.

The Witching Hour

And you know you will not be able to fall asleep until you begin to understand him. And you can’t fall asleep because you’re always thinking about so many things, in a distinct order, and all at once. Thinking about very small things like laundry detergent, or the sandwich you had for lunch today, or debating whether you offended someone at that party with your off-color remarks about Asians...while you also ponder big cares like your bank account, recent developments in your love life, your anxiety about the Christian Right, and what it would be like if you existed as someone else, even for a minute, and could see yourself as they do.

Many nights you wish you could keep that sensation of being…else…that your body always prevents with a sharp tingling in the back of your teeth that acts as the emergency switch to make you stop—before your very identity is lost.

And, of course, riding along with all of these concerns, is your fear of death. Every day you think about death before you sleep. Which does make sense. After all, it’s a natural progression of thought as you approach the middle space between waking and…whatever. But sometimes you can’t get over it, and will just stay up thinking for hours and hours. You remember this happening to you ever since you were young. You couldn’t name it then, but there was a recognized fear that often drove you out of bed to your mother. Until your nearsighted eyes could adjust to the sudden light in the living room, you would just grope along toward the formless figure you hoped to be your mother on the couch. And even though you knew she would scold you for staying up, at least you could escape, for a few moments, the dark isolation.

Do you remember the words your mother used to sing when you were afraid to fall asleep? That silly song about the Duke of York who had ten thousand men or something like that? No that was a long time ago, you’ve forgotten the words, but you certainly remember the beat. You can still clap your hands to it, da duh da duh da duh. And, great wit that you are, you even came up with a new song—which, on further reflection, you suppose is probably related to him:

‘Cause when you’re up you’re up,

and when you’re down, you’re down,

and when your mind takes you for a ride,

you’re always up and down.

But you like to remind yourself that you’re “just fine.” Such thoughts, you’ve reasoned, are not symptoms of a clinical depression, but rather evidence of your mind’s great talent at compartmentalization. What a blessing, some minds are never organized. And with such a talent you would logically conclude that your thoughts would settle down into sleep, but apparently you still don’t understand him.

In the house next door, another restless figure turns in his bed. He can’t sleep either but, then again, he doesn’t really have to, his dreams are always superimposed on reality.

How can he be sane when even the pigeons make him nervous?

How can he be lucid when everything tastes like electricity and fog?

And every night that you leave your bed and go over to your window and stare across the way, you can just barely make out his outline by the streetlight’s yellow sphere reflecting in the glass. He is always there staring back. And you wonder each time what it would be like to know yourself through his mind. Does he see you at all? Do his eyes supply a coherent picture of the world, or does the outside stimuli dissolve into shifting blobs of flickering neon before he can process them? You trace encouraging words on the window with your fingers—backwards so he can read them—if he can even read them. And then you begin to wonder why it’s so important to you that you help him. And the lack of rest is starting to frenzy your thoughts. And though it’s becoming harder to think logically, you begin to see the implications of the strange connection you have formed. Maybe you should stop this before it starts. Maybe you should just think about the sandwich you had for lunch. Draw back from the chasm outside the window, and simply.fall.asleep.already. Even though you know you cannot fall sleep if you don’t understand him. But maybe you will come to understand. Actually, it’s okay if you don’t understand, really it is. Your patience can only take so much. We all have to sleep at some point. It’s okay if you don’t understand It’s okay if you don’t. Its okay if you don’t.

It’s okay,

it’s okay,

it’s okay if you can’t escape yourself.

SM Oct 2010

Get Murky Esther

“New York is dissolving, they are all dissolving away and none of them matter anymore.

I don’t know them, I have never known them and I am very pure.”

--The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

Come get murky with me Esther. Submerge in the dark deep. The water is black, not choked with oils or mud, but opaque in a way that water could never possibly be. We defy contradictions, and by our presence here this place is sanctified. Do you hear me? Do you understand? Language is useless; touch me and you will feel it, and you will know. Place your hand on my chest, taunt under damp cloth, and you will know by the movement of my blood that we are sacred and alive. Finally we are alive. Let’s sink deeper and be holy and think great things and think each other’s thoughts and believe. The water is dark but it is warm, surprisingly, comfortingly warm. The only light comes from the pale bulb so close above, but dim, a small bubble around you and me and the center of the pool. The green of the walls reflects back at the edges of vision and it only makes your emerald eyes gleam even stronger. If you moved more than a foot away, I only would see the brilliant green of your iris, until both would be extinguished too after a few more inches. But please, do not leave, the water is dark and deep, and I don’t want to lose you now. Come closer. Let me whisper your thoughts into your ear, and you will shudder at first because they are dark, and come from a heavy place, in a voice not your own. Do not despair; I will not let you drown under that weight. We still have the light that glances along the surface, and you can whisper back to me the desperate incantations you repeat each night in your chambers to ward off dreams of sludge.

SM Jun 2010

While You Were Waiting By That Tree

So i've got two new posts coming atchyall, one that's a few months old and one that's brand spankin new. For these, my goal was to move towards prose by constructing (hopefully) very vivid scenes. As always, please feel free to comment.

Also, please forgive the lack of output recently. The J.A.M. is doing their best to be productive while balancing schoolwork and other activities. So keep checking back with us, we promise more good stuff to come. And yes, Godot will definitely come by tomorrow...