Who put this crown upon our heads?

Us.

in failing to receive the recognition, the french-kissing of models and the chortles of bearded pipe-smoking ship captains we believe we rightly deserve, we’ve turned our hunt for verification to elsewhere, from the virtual world of poorly-paid casting couch porn stars and neckbearded glass-pipe smoking insomniacs. Note that we said verification. Our crowns are self made, we wear them so that our heads may sag and our necks break, we wear them to remind ourselves that being part of a generation of wanna-be’s and posers is nothing to be proud of, indeed is something to attempt to escape from as fast as possible. We wear them so that our bodies break long before our flimsy ego’s built upon years of being told “you can be whatever you want” do.

Every artistic compilation project must have some goal, some nirvana to reach towards. Ours is simple, submit, for your approval or loathing, our creations, so that you may judge/enjoy. Anyone can wear the crown of a Peachy King, anyone can submit to our oligarchic asses their magnum opus or works of lesser opus, All we ask is that you read, you write, you play, you create and you be some version of our cult’s ideal member.

Namaste.

Restlessness

What does one do
with a free and sober mind
on an unencumbered evening,
when the birds find nests in
neighbor trees
for chirping cat-calls
amidst Orion-shine nightclubs
till the peacocking sun
flies over St. Mary’s Peak
while roosters rouse farmers
and pigeons drown downtown
with sour monotone coats
and begs of coos and cas
outside the Depot and the Rose?
Continue reading

Creative Writing 101

Still not dead. Still writing sometimes. Either this is the first real evidence of my insanity or a somewhat decent take on the philosophy behind creative writing. 

To work in creative writing, in storytelling, you have to be able to access lives. Not just be capable of crafting a character, but a whole life. Building fictional spaces can’t be where your work stops, you need to experience those fictional spaces in every possible way.

Characters can’t know they exist to fill archetypes, can’t be handed plot armor, they have to take those mantles, by force, from the author and audience. Characters exist in physical realms for those who consume the medium, and they (the audience) can compartmentalize them however they see fit. Those who write them well must be connected to their life and be able to enter their notion of reality. They need to look at everything in the very fashion the character, not the author, would. There is a fallacy in this notion, certainly.

Bear with me as I wax philosophical for a minute. Every person living is experiencing a different life. My understanding of everything is different from yours. Literally everything. We cannot actually share a true reality. Even our agreed upon truths and safeguards for civilization and emotive creatures aren’t the same for any of us. Sometimes those differences are massive and noticeable, but what I’m talking about is more simplistic and broad than that. My understanding of, experiences with, and value of anything cannot match anyone else’s. The details of humanity are too beautifully complex and violently chaotic for that. The methods by which we store information and use that to interact with the world is a deeply personal thing. One alteration to our experience would vastly render us different. If we ventured into an alternate reality that only differentiated from ours in one way, whether it is the name of butterflies or the hand you use as dominant, you would find yourself alienated from your alternate reality self. You wouldn’t be able to think the same as the other version of yourself. It can be fun to consider this, to give reality this much elasticity. It is also alienating and puts humans on a path of solipsism. I think this is unfortunately true.

Now, there are methods by which one can get a sort of look behind the veil of other peoples lives. A glance at the network that connects us. Methods to get “online” a sort of spiritual and psychic internet. Meditation, drugs, shared experiences, sexy maybe. But being able to see the others, or talk to them even, aren’t the same as being them. You are still connected via your understanding, experiences with, and values regarding these cosmic treats. You’re still using “software” you designed yourself and you happen to own the search engine. I’m not against fostering these connections. I’ve dabbled in all the methods above and love all my time spent “online”. It’s only on those grounds I’m comfortable in my conclusions. We haven’t mastered self-awareness as entities. We haven’t escaped the reality of human consciousness. I think it is unfortunately true.

See my fallacy? I’ve made creative writing essentially impossible. If to write is to express lives and you can’t ever truly escape your own, how the fuck can you write?

The answer is you can’t. Writing is like conducting an experiment. You can’t ever actually prove anything, but you can disprove dumb shit and elevate certain theory’s credibility. A writer’s job is trying to create places where others live. Good writers make those places seem like a place you’d want to visit on your own consciousness internet excursions. Good writers elevate the good places and populate them with characters that don’t have to prove anything. Their characters spread out, touching the surfaces and melding with the place. The good writer sets out to birth creatures and lets them roam freely and develop into what they need to be, not what the author wants them to be.

 

I

(this is from 2012 or 2013, approximately)

It’s the coolest shit ever,
Not the tv show,
Or the piano,
Or even the science,
It’s like it’s been there,
So many times,
Sitting behind the sidelines,
And just laughing.
You take a break,
While your friends laugh,
And reminisce,
About the previous moments.
What’s up?
NOTHING!
But seriously, what’s wrong?
And he just laughs and laughs,
And you know,
That this type,
Isn’t the speak,
Outlined,
Five lines above,
OH.
It’s like reality’s playing a cruel joke,
A cruel,
Cruel,
Joke.
And if you were younger,
It might help.
Burn up, and just die,
Watch yourself,
Die.
What?
You wonder,
How many superstars figured it out,
And didn’t tell anyone,
And how many superstars,
Never figured it out,
And never,
Ever,
Told no one how,
They felt,
Their entire lives.
It’s all right there,
And that’s what’s frustrating.

You want to scream out epically,
And remind the world that your part,
Is completed.
And it’s all over for now.
And that over,
Is everything.
But unfortunately,
And as truly,
As you’ve ever known,
It will never be over.
The chase,
Is the chase,
As long as it’s,
The chase.
A chase,
That can only chase,
Itself,
As long as we chase,
We,
Chase,
In a maze,
Lost,
In the maze,
Lost to the point of,
Insanity.
That’s life.
And your heart screams in,
Sorrowful fury,
Then wait,
ALL of that is,
Meaningless,
The line that means,
The,
Most.
Is.
Not.
The line.
Ha.
It’s hard to explain in words.
In words.
I mean, really.
There’s a point when you realize that your friends,

Were just,
Your friends,
For the present moment.
For music,
Reminds us.
Indefinitely.
In
Definitely.
That’s the other pure truth.
Music will always be there.
In your head,
In your world.
It never leaves.
What does that tell,
The,
Soul,
That,
Observes,
And,
Makes,
The,
Mistake,
Of,
Identifying.
Once again,
We find ourselves painting,
For years,
And years,
Like greek legend,
We lose ourselves.
And once again,
With tears,
Or music,
Or that,
I SCREAM!
Oh no,
My friends.
My cry,
Reminds,
That this poem,
Was written in transition to,
The bliss,
We all know,
Lies.

In.

You can do it!

You can do it,

I believe in you!

 

 

Whether it’s been a:

Day

Week

Aeon

Millenia

 

 

You can do it!

Although the spark itself is empty;

The parks hail with heavens…

 

Don’t reside;

Do what you have to do.

 

 

You might be surprised how much a little good

Can do.

 

Cry at lakes,

Hands in your face,

There’s no way to say…

What you can feel so deeply…

 

 

 

 

Get off my chest (Bullshit Please Don’t Read)

Since I’ve turned 25 there has been a girl of the month. A tinder girl I visited in a Eastern Washington town in August, a girl I knew from college who sends me random nudes in September, a girl from my hometown I spent a whole evening with in October, a chubby gal who left during November, a fuck buddy reconnect in December, a Co-Ed in January. Part of coping with losing a 3 year Relationship (I wanted it over, she wanted it over, but it was still a big change) probably. Some of them have been friends with benefits. That was fun usually. Not always. Sometimes meaningless sex is just that. Some I’ve been really excited about. Those have been more interesting, since I’ve consistently found a way to make it not happen. Not self sabotage style, but via actual revealing of myself. Once through drinking, once after a month and a half of texting and even a actual date. The last one was the girl of January. It’s a fresh wound. I’m still hurt, and confused, and conflicted by the fact of that pain since it was good before.

This model is what I missed in college, during the span of that three year relationship. It’s undeniably harder to live this way now. Post early twenties. Post long term relationship. All the other elements of my life scream complete in some capacity, I’ve found adulthood. It’s boring and better all at once, but my relationship status fails to have grown up with the rest of me. I don’t really know what to do about that. Like, how do you find someone compatible, with the right amount of common and different? How do you even make friends at this age? How do you turn your crippling anxieties and depressions into anything that someone else is willing to help you deal with? Where do you find the fucking girl that also grew up with Jurassic Park and the Matthew Broderick Godzilla movie and she’s also the same amount of hot as you? What if the answer is you don’t?

To the girls of the month, thank you for everything. To the girl who is everything, where are you? To the notion of true love, why did you go corporate? To myelf, you need to be happy with yourself more than anything. Also to myself, I fucking love myself, so redact that last sentence. Also to myself, you’re selfish. And once more, to myself, don’t give up.

Waiting Helps

In Buddhism, there is this notion of “Samsara”.  This is the world of desire – the universe of suffering that arises when we want things to be one way, when they are presently another way.  Samsara is a painful feeling.  For example, you might wake up on a perfectly fine morning.  The sun is shining, etc.  You put on some good music and cook breakfast.  Then, a little thought supposes itself…some predicament.  It’s the exact same thing as a cloud passing by overhead, but instead this is passing through your psychological life.

You might say, “My anxiety is telling me to do my taxes right now.  Surely, this is rational?  I have to do my taxes, or there will be consequences.”  True.  But it’s all about one’s relationship with that thought.  You must do your taxes, but your taxes also must do you.  Where’s the rush?

The best way to deal with Samsara is remain aware of it.  There is part of the mind that wants to see things change, and that’s a wonderful yearning.  But in order for things to change, you have to wait.  Waiting is boring.  It feels like the opposite of healing.  Samsaric logic believes that waiting will make the moon crash into the Earth…but interestingly, it only takes about a minute for things to refresh, and then you’re left wondering why waiting ever felt difficult.

You’re Perfect

Beautiful

 

You’re beautiful

Even when you fail…

 

You’re beautiful

Even if you mess it all up.

 

Even if a little voice says to do it right

And you do it wrong,

You’re still good.

 

The sun can impale me

And I’ll still say it…

We can move away from each other and I can lose sight of you

For a long time…

 

I don’t know what this world wants from me,

It wants something between sanity and madness.

 

But let’s stop for a second and say to one another

Very simply, “I love you quite a lot!”

 

I care about you,

I care about you…

 

I want the best for you.

You are definitely worth it.

You are stunning and amazing

You’re perfect and hospitable.

You’re powerful and strong and gorgeous…

Has anyone ever told you that you’re simply gorgeous?

It flows off of you so effortlessly.

 

Even when you paint and your shadow-side shows through

And you want to tear the dreaded thing in half…

Just relax…

You’re still doing it right!

 

Isn’t that surprising?

You’re perfect;

You could still be better but you’re perfect.