my mind’s too soup to look at it properly

write, because how else to untangle yourself out of all of this porridge

i just want even just a few hours of brain-peace. tired of tired of tired of doing The Self Managing thing. to be able to discuss and collaborate and not be stuck amongst the swirling mountain-wind choirs for every tiny-movement-happening whilst i try to gather the selves in a way that is holdable. in a way that the porridge is pick-upable. she cuts the porridge, holds it like a cake. serves it to the sun, arm outreached, above head, above mind, sugar-oats glistening like a roundified lake. all of the pieces… together one. perfect product, wobble-edged and squashable.
i’m inside out, i feel inside out – but half-edged. diagonal-jagged buttercrumb sliding, squealing, drip down formulate, congealate, seperate, puddle-expand expand expand engulf and disappear.

do i silently ask for too much? do i crave too much? is it overnough? they watch the thought glide by, like a passing paraglider in upward drift.

i am evernoughed, yet neverenough, they tell me, but my mind’s too soup to look at it properly.

i have a seemingly constant fear of people falling. i have a seemingly constant fear of being the cause of people falling. and i’m sorry that you fell. and i’m sorry that you have to fall, and that you’ll fall again. and the fear of falling feels like falling.
why must that mean so many things? unjumblings in parallel, resurfacing the whirlpools as if i asked them to be looked at. summoned uninvited. welcomed, but i’ll face the wall.

i adjusted the cinnamon routine and am worried about the changes in the universe. reclaiming the cinnamon routine may confuse things even more, and create even more possibly-not-good changes. therefore, i’ve sneakily adapted by cinnamonning doubly elsewhere, to maintain the cinnamonspheres, yet to embrace the possibility of significant positive release. change is possibility. possibility holds possibilities. not all possibilities are wanted possibles. unwanted possibles hold unseen possibles. unseen possibles hold unknown possibles. unknown possibles hold tiny sparkling porridges. she licks the tiny sparkling porridge, like a ladybird on a leaf. she yawns; she rolls; she stretches… and flies to unseen planet seas of poss i bi li teacups on telephone-string, teacups on telephone-string swirling and curling unfurling and yearning and yearning and yearning and yawning and curling-up-into-a-ball-of- BEURGHGGHGGGHHHHHHHH the butterball melts and burns like hot on concrete, spiky like the sunseeds on a greedy-licker tongue.

“not greedy, just curious”, confirms a hopeful voice but my mind is too soup and the curiosity burned the greedy bat, my mind’s too soup, too soup to look at it properly, my mind’s still soup to look at it properly, must i continue to reinforce until their communications tread water like loitering mind-dolphins instead of inside-outing within an already inside-outed too-soup-to-look-at-it-properly beurghh-creature?

exploding exploding exploding

i see fallen bodies and i am sorry. and i will upside-down us all through horizontal-land travellers buzzing through the air.
this is terrifying. i don’t know if you know that this is terrifying. the wordifying, i-ifying, the saying re-looking. there it is, straight ahead, immersed, dark-abyss hurtling. but i notice the terror from too-soup-to-look-at it. i have been here before. this is pre-bleak pre-grief. and i am sorry for the fallen bodies that i have saw – i am sorry for the fallen bodies i fought and fell and-

disturbance-interruption from the giant-tiny noises. cold radiator creaking in the warming of the sun, like irony-filled empathy smiles from world to world. brainland echoes the smiling, and the buzz-glow spreads like softened icing on gentle bread. feel the essence. pause the ____-ness. Be the ____. the ___ ___ _______ ___. *+*.+. *.+*+. *.+. *+.+.+..+*+*+*+.
*+*+*

*+*+*+.
+.+….+.+*+.*
*+.+.+*+****+.+.*+.+*+**+..+.

*+.+*


+.+

Feb.[ruary]

February noteling-notethings, from the February ghost-things things-that-i-wrote-things:

i used a pan yesterday for the first time since the pan incident. actually, i used a pot instead, pretending that it’s a pan, but i used the pot for the function of the pan, and just let it have its safety walls. there’s not even much point in explaining what the pan incident was, other than describing it as: Overboil. Overload. Overwhelm. and it was everything to do with me, and nothing to do with the pan or its contents. Too much goes on around here, in here. constant overlap, layers-upon-layers-upon-layers of under-communication, like icy-frozen sheets of solidified meltyness. unacknowledgable, seen-through. i can’t keep up with my own mind as it is, so how can i expect another mind to want to try.
you never know what’s going on for a person, okay? internet-judge as much as you want. you never really know what’s going on for a person. so many internetty-demands these days. expectations of presentations of communications and i would like to be free in the places i am free to be free-me. i don’t write to be looked at. it’s a happening, that happens, i realise.. but you’re invited, and i mean that kindly.


*zoom back to the February here-now this-now* [which is now the not-now, by the time i press the internet-button – and the update from the future is that i have successfully used the pan twice since then…. The pan: actual pan… but it’s still past-land Feb[ruary] whilst the below words crawl out of the shadowswirls that dance from my fingertips, alphabet ballerinas frozen into photographed moment…..]

every week is just… … . ….
and it’s lonely, and lonelier, and lonely.
i was less lonely when i was in a small room on my own for months, than whatever this is.
[…]
i’ve experienced optimum interaction, so i know it exists. glimpses of it, like glowing butter. i know it’s magic. i know it’s brightening. i Know it’s possible. i know it’s worth melting into the slippery buttery sea, just to feel the feels to Be, as starry as the quietening that lurks like soft-smile blanket above joined presence.. loneliness wasn’t a choice of mine, even when on-my-own was.
maybe it’s an option. maybe it’s the option. and maybe that’s okay.
maybe it is, and what ‘is’ is okay.
but.. the glowing butter……. *+*+*+*+*+*
they draw chalk-circles from social gaze, and then avoid the edges. i must enter to participate, i must participate to be anything other than other, anything other than self-excluded object. i observe the they-drawn peramiters, the closed-moon perimeters, and become gravel-sand upon dusty knee. it is summer, and the sky is warm – it opens, invites
, smiles, welcomes… and i float upwards, hover, absorb, become light. transcendable. be-able. where are the other otherlings, i wonder, as i drift back down to gravel-ground.

a thing from LAST APRIL

oh – STRANGE – I just found this draft-post from last year (April, I think). maybe i posted it already? maybe i should check? surely i’d remember…… nope, very-questionable memory at the moment – ok fine i’m checking…

it’s not there, as i only caught up up to March before my legs became dolphins in the bath, etc. why am i such a time-machine, always?!?!!! WELCOME TO THE TIME MACHINE!!!! April2020. but don’t actually go back there, because it’s probably not very nice for most people.

[ages-ago writing from last year begins here; CONTENT WARNING: The Worldly Thing.]
HellooooOoooOOOooooooooo I am here again.

I know, I know, I am a month or more behind on this type-things-on-the-internet game – but that’s nothing out of the norminary for me. but still – sorry. for DisorganisedMe. there was a lot, of spaghetti-tumbling reasons upon reasons, as usual.

A couple of months ago, I decided I wanted to write-research-write about isolation&autism… but now I suddenly don’t want to do that because TheWordlyTHING has changed the entire context of it all, and even the word seems to have different meaning now. It was because I was speculating on the ways I naturally isolate myself due to autistic functioning, and the personal need for that, but then the way I struggle with coming out of isolation when I need and crave non-isolation because of different areas of autisticness, which results in what then I associated with the then-true meaning of ISOLATION, as opposed to solitary-ness. When I typed to someone that I was feeling unwell and isolated, it meant an EntirelyDifferentThing back then, and it’s not really a coincidence because I’m used to premonition-like things.

After a few of weeks of being in bed due to various burnout/brain-switch related SuperGloom ill things going on, I was delighted to wake up one day in a different kind of brainspace (i.e. not in SuperGloom). Waking up out of SuperGloom is a relief, but it usually means there’s still a lot of things to fix. There I was, ready to embrace TheOutsideWorld again – and then I found out I was supposed to ‘begin’ embracing TheInsideWorld again. I’m lucky, that SuperGloom was so bleak that anything was easier. and most anxieties were not new anxieties, as it’s stuff I’d been panicking about for quite some time. I’d already been going through the whole ‘I caused the illness’ fake-guilt, before I even ‘knew’ [or before it was confirmed outside of my ‘is-it-anxiety-or-is-it-magic’ knowing] that it was something that was going to be swarming this country too. I was already immersed in many unknowns, which I was dealing with, in a PACK-UP-AND-RELOCATE scenario, so not being able to sort any of this out felt like packing for my death. Not in a morbid way, just in a evaporatey way – I didn’t know where I was going or what I was going to do so I was just like… *shrugs shoulders, waving hands in air*

Comparing me now to me a month ago, I’ve made massive progress, which means I’m mentally much better than I was. I’m lucky that I accidentally transitioned into the Thing, meaning it wasn’t such a shock. I’m used to my MyNormal levels of anxiety, confusion, what-is-going-on-ness, etc, so all of that is sort of reassuring in comparison to a month ago when I was immersed in Bleak. I’m also used to being in this room on my own for days, I’ve had plenty practice at that. It’s weird to observe my internal reactions when suddenly people become concerned when I’m mentally fine, compared to the abyss-ness of underwater-Bleak. It’s sort of… confusion, an inability to compute, and wondering if it’s some sort of trick. (though actually… that probably happens with many things!).

I cannot bear most of the social-internet these days. I still use it, because how else am I supposed to distract this me-filled brain – but constantly have to remove myself /distract myself from it, in the usual game-battles of ‘engage’, ‘no, disengage’, ‘try to engage’, ‘fail to engage’, ‘crave to engage’, ‘YOU ARE NOT DESIGNED TO ENGAGE, LEAVE IT ALONE’. I find it sickly and alienating. and it’s made me realise a personal lack of empathy that I did not recognise within me before. Over the last some-years, I’ve been through the whole over-empathy thing – stating that I am over-empathetic, over-sensitive, etc – but I found a flaw. There are so many experiences that I just do Not emotionally understand. and I find it very difficult to relate, or empathise with those things. A lot of those things are ‘norms’ for perhaps the majority of society – normotypical society. and whilst I can wonder and give allowances/thought for some of those things… I must internally admit that I can’t empathise with a lot of those things. so the whole lack of empathy lot of empathy thing… I’m reconsidering it. I am often emotiony-absorby. but those emotions don’t always relate to scenario-based empathising. That’s something I must do through conscious cognition, creating the matching scenarios, deciding on the best fit between my world and theirs, and feeling guessed manufactured (but real-feeling, and often intense,) empathy. but a part of me still concludes with ‘…yeah I have no idea.’

I think dissociation plays a big part in it. *dissociates and jumps topics in my brain 10 times… like space-hurdles.*

[by the way these are subconscious semi-conscious whatever-conscious unjumblings, this is writingtherapy writingrambling, grambling, scrambling, this isn’t ‘academically-formed’ theorising, i am not theorising here, this writing space is me being soup spilling over, live-writing is a part of my aliveness and i need to do that sometimes, even if it might be smarter to Think More About Thoughts And Formally Write Them ‘PROPERLY’ – I can (try to) do that too, but this is not that, so if i’ve accidentally written ‘incorrect’ thoughtlings about empathy through my wordspillings, then……. *shrugs* if you want to know-learn about empathising and autistic empathy look up things like ‘double empathy problem’ discussed by Dr. Damian Milton. however, here in this rambly-typingness i am just expressing a moment of being like ‘whoooooooshhhhhhhh i thought i was very empathetic extreme now i suddenly realise i am not always that and am sometimes VERY Not-that, BEURGHGHH WHAT DOES THIS MEAN IN RELATION TO MY EMPATHY-Y EXISTENCE’. continue.]

I don’t know what it’s like to miss the interactions people are missing right now, because I wasn’t having them before. but I miss going out to the gym, so I translate my missing the gym to other people missing hugging people. (There’s this punchbag at the gym, and one time I stood near it and it leaned on me – and I was SO comforted – it was like I finally felt like I understood what people liked/missed about comforting hugs – living/Being alone removes you from that understanding-sphere maybe, but leaning on the punchbag was like, OK YES I GET IT, I REMEMBER, THIS IS THE THING! kind of makes you miss humans if humans are gonna replicate that. That was a few months ago. I’m kind of sad for all the machines, but I feel like there’s some sort of ghost-party going on in there, it creeps me out when I think about it too much so I’ll stop).

I miss cooking, so that’s something I understand. but internet-everyone seems to be doing loads of that, more than before, so, that’s just another one of the alienating things. Do I miss cooking enough to just, cook? I thought with all this that maybe I did – I had a whole4-maybe-5 minutes of, ‘dyu know what, I should just make some pancakes and be done with this thing’ – but it turned out, Nope, fear’s still real.

+.+
+.+
+.+
TIME MACHINE END! ZOOM FORWARD MANY DAYS WEEKS MONTHS oh look it’s not April anymore it is FEBRUARY 2021.
why am i so behind.
oh gosh i now have a horrible thing where i am imagining me behind me and also am kind of like the me behind me that is watching me sat typing. and so i keep having to turn around to look at the me behind me to disappear the me behind me but every time i spin around they appear again and then i see me typing again. why must this be a thing.

okay that”s enough, i feel sick, finding this past-draft-post *** DRAFT-from-the-PAST *** made me feel a bit boaty, i”m going back to do the thing i was doing before!

sometimes, my legs become dolphins

[writingtherapy from the things]

sometimes, my legs become dolphins in the bath
each big leg, one big-leg dolphin
and not just, me imagining that my legs are dolphins (although, then that too, as an additional external layer, upon observation of what is being experienced)
but the remembering, the travelling, the… guidance…
immersive, yet naturally existent moment-feelings, when my legs become dolphins in the bath
all two of them, all all of them
yet i don’t know what it’s like to be a dolphin at all
even if i happened to relate to any part of dolphinness, i would still be relating from an i-am-not-a-dolphin This
and from and as non-dolphin-That
outside of dolphin, as un-dolphin.
(unless you’re zooming out of dolphins, in which case dolphins aren’t dolphins either, even when they are).
i don’t know what it’s like to be a dolphin at all..
but big-legs each know what it’s like to be a dolphin, each, when they are each dolphin in the bath.
does each big leg know what it’s like to be the other dolphin? does each other dolphin know what it’s like to be the other big leg?
does each dolphin know what it’s like to be the other dolphin?
can each of them know what it’s like the be their ownself dolphin?
without the other otherself sameself dolphin?
symbiosis is a requirement
symbiosis is an existent
we require symbiosis, we require other, we require self
and we collect, and become a separate,
that requires symbiosis, requires other, requires self
and we group, and become a grouped seperate,
grouped seperate of grouped seperates,
which requires symbiosis, which requires other, which requires self:
Us-collective
which requires non-us dissonance, othered, non,
and on and on and on and on…..
i do not know what it is like to be a dolphin
but my legs do, when they imagine they are
and each leg does not know what is like to be the other dolphin
but without the other dolphin they do not know what it is, a dolphin,
and each dolphin does not know what it is like to be what it is, a dolphin
and each dolphin does not know what it is like to be what it is, a dolphin
and each dolphin does not know what it is like to be what it is, a dolphin
and each dolphin does not know what it is like to be
what it is, a dolphin
what a dolphin is?

..
I keep losing and finding cups of water around the everywhere. i don’t remember filling them up, and then i don’t remember putting them down, but then it’s like they either all disappear or all appear at once, multiplying, ctrl+v repeat. and whenever i drink a cup of water my brain makes my arm turn into a cartoon popeye arm with a can of spinach, until i put the cup down, and then it reverts back into its body-arm self. 1 2 3 4 5 4 3 2 1, says the fingernail tapping. brrrrmmm, brr. brrrrmmm, brr. brrrrrmm, brr. saving the world. magical-thinking ego needs kicking like a crumpet. how good would that be, to kick a giant crumpet off the edge of the universe. giant kick. leg goes flying. inner-leg dolphins released into spacelands, pouring millions of tiny dolphin inners out into new planet-forming realms. crumpet still whole, like a punchable moon, disc-spin floating with overkicked knowing. strong. do you like marmite?
who am i asking here
i thought i was talking to a chatbot and nobody replied
.. oh.
also, i don’t actually care, so not sure why i emotion-focused on the oh-moment, for a moment, i maybe-think it was something in the bodymask’s way of saying ‘i would like marmite, feed me marmite’. it’s not going to happen, marmite is far away.

the spaghetti is over. i need to make the spaghetti not be over, again. unover the spaghetti. it’s been a while. potion-routines are necessities, if i am to fuel the this-existence body-creature thing. being in a bodymask is such responsibility. host to so many. to be in it while as it while for it while not-it yet it, is task, such task. such necessary task.

ohhhhhh how WONDERFUL, the ‘i hate u’ brainthings have arrived, like scrunched up balls of paper hurling themselves at tired bits of innerland wall. the goblin picks them up and reads every single one. absorbs it. fills their goblinself with it. and then neatly pastes it on the wall, using clear-drying sugarglue. and the wall smiles. ‘i hate u’ ‘i know :)’. this continues for a while until the cake-wall is ready to horizontal. and then it rolls into itself, rolls away with themself, leaving us with the sugarghosts of Was. acceptance involves all flavours. all-listening cannot ignore. it might multiply the kickers, and the throwers and the beurghghghg-ers, but… how else? the other option is to leave.. and the universe-things have already decided that i’m not quite ready for that, quite yet.

i feel resonance through my presence, more so recently – more frequently – physical buzz-waves like ‘whooshhhh’, where you feel like you’re being enveloped in universey death-seed energies, in a good way. (death in its positive form. dead-energies are so alive to me. i need more words for the splitting of the different ways i sense the word ‘dead’/’death’). i don’t know what it means, each time it happens, but i accept it, while it does, and intend not to meaning-make in those moments. try to listen – but, not even that. i try to with it be, if being wasn’t an action and was a *+*+. (remove the action of try, it’s not accurate.. each be word becomes do word when thing becomes word-word..) i allow it to sparkle-fizz over my creaturing bodymask. i allow it to over-absorb, to travel through, to travel through. easily pathologised as an obviously-provable vitamin deficiency or ‘maybe being a bit cold’, but it’s not like that – fizz-knowing is more evidence than any evidence anyone could write – fizz-knowing is more *+*+-ing than any explainers – and not knowing co-exists perfectly with all knowing. i don’t know what it means, but i absolutely feel-know what it is. explainers deviate-divert the is. “my boats are open, my boats are free…..” that’s what i feel while I non-wordily sing through energy-shapes in those magnetism-sparklefizz whoooshhh moments. within a human bodymask AS a human bodymask, it often feels the opposite – panic-boats in tight ropes, ravelling, squabbling, push-pull struggling.. but when the universe-things arrive: “my boats are open, my boats are free…..”, in non-wordy shape-song. not even a choice, just a happening.

each misplacement is, from somewhere, intentional

[writingtherapy, from the innerghostling-ghosthings of inner-ghost me]

the escape button has escaped
and I have not, yet

the jumblings unjumbling yet words are like meltymarshmallow pillowstuffing that carry so many shadowbiscuits, and each shadowbiscuit is a shadowbasket filled with personalised perceived meaning – the ‘that’s-what-you-mean’ meaning, the ‘oh, i get it’ meaning, the meaning-that-means-things meaning, the relateable relate-shapes magnet-meaning – but the words remain vibe, remain inner in a mind that won’t arrive at those places of meaning-belongingness… because there are always questions upon questions, and spiral-spin thoughtwebs and further-farther clarifyings and broadenings, meanderings, and a jelly-soup-potion on the floor is not a fixed shape, unless the fixed shape is a morphy shape, forever morphy, forever unshaped. but, how to escape?? to be returned is to arrive, perhaps. how to skip that? departure to departure seems impossible.

the ovals are a spirolellogram, loop-hovering like candypastel ribbons, like the falsified calm that only exists in moments of present-time reassuring, before the reassured. it’s action, not result. unreachable ribbons: existing, disappearing, ‘here we are bye’ – the unlickable ghostspoon, unhoneyed from sugary responsibility. and how to reach that? not from this, but AS that? the sugarglooms fly parallel.


the directions to space take me back but they don’t erase. because going back might unappear the shapes, temporarily, but they always come back. they have to come back. because they were the happening, they were the happened. unhappening the happened DOES NOT ERASE. it repeats, recurrs, replies, with original context. time-travel is no saviour: it’s already. time-travel is no future; it’s past-here. i see it all now, i see it all, through the ever-zooming globelands. the backwards scar, the prequel-star, the multiple existencies – and yet we expect this shape to be the constant, the actual, the square-cube square. and here they are again, the spirolellograms, this time extra wispy, smug and almost… taunting… if a spirolellogram could. there is a difference between reaction-projection and whole-actual perception… and the sugarclowns enlighten that divide, with fancy-mess and glow-mo sprinkles. and in that glimmer-glimpse of hinted joy arrives the feeling-meanings, the meaning-feelings, the ‘oh i get it’ mindview seeings…

unshared trifle: lonely, cold, desserted.
what use is the translation to a sugarghost inhabitant? unescapable presence, unescapable stage... and so I move, and so I wait, and move and wait, in half-full knowing that each misplacement is, from somewhere, intentional.

there’s too much to backtrack

(writing-therapy from the innerthings of me)

you know that thing when someone speaks so well about something that it resonates through the unimultiverse and your entire bodymask-being, and you think you’re going to throw up all the stars because every time you’ve tried to voice it it’s been an absolute strugglefluster leaving you SQUASHED and TRAPPED and unable-in-the-present-circumstances due to misunderstandings and power unbalancednesses and carried-over soup on soup on soup on soup, on jellysoup, on jelly on jellysoup, on jelly, and all of this horrible tangle throat-monster brain-metal BEURGHNESS where the hoover of the sky forgets you, forgotten toastcrumb, forgets to whoooshkkksssrrkkkshhshhshrrkrkk you up out gone so you remain beurghing to what feels like eternity… but then someone speaks SO WELL about something that it resonates through the unimultiverse and through your entire toastcrumb bodymask-being, and you think you’re going to throw up all the stars into beautiful beautiful beautyland because every time you’ve tried to voice it it’s been an absolute strugglefluster? ?? ????: That.

There’s too much to backtrack. There’s always too much to backtrack. The cassette-tape intestines become a fruit-winder, melted in the dashboard of a hot car. I haven’t been in a hot car recently. I’ve been in a cold car. I was in a cold car the last time I left the house, to sit in the car, which was maybe a month ago, or a few weeks. and then the melted winder intestines get folded over and frozen and – solid-gooey-solid – so much, SO MUCH, but just… stuck. but a few weeks was a few weeks long ago. what happens to the intestines when you’re not even in the car? do you have control? or just, not the option of the loss of it made possibled, and, not the option of the gain of it made possibled… and if control or the sense of it is not a controllable thing then what are the brain-gamers supposed to do all day, all night, all dayallnight, if i declare their tangenty-purposes placebo or imagined or non-trustworthy, non-truthworthy, what are the tiny raisin brain-gamers supposed to do with their tiny little ghost-nudges, what are the raisins, what are the brain-raisins, what are the tiny brain-raisin braisin-gamerss supposed to suppose to do, if i declare a ghost-nudge echo of a possibility of unpossibling the control?

and i’ve been so…. … so, …. … I CAN SEE IT I CAN FEEL IT, I CANNOT TELL IT so do i know what it is or do i just not….. YES, I know what it is, because translation doesn’t equal knowledge (apart from when it adds or motivates the surfacing of further untranslateds). and non-translation doesn’t remove experience (it’s alive and moving, talking, not all-the-time hiding). it (whether ‘it’ happens or doesn’t happen, which is a valid happen) shares and develops and opens up all sorts of possibilities and awares and re-awares and outers the inners and re-inners the outers and – – and – – but… . . . *observes the normified un-norms, uniformed un-norms, normed in their non-normified unified non-normalities* so longing to magnet, so longing to magnet – but – no, it’s not like that. no, no – it is not like that. it’s really not like that. and it’s painful to not feel like all the other ‘it’s like that!’s, amongst the ‘it’s-not-like-that’ manydimensional-BEURGH.

nothing is still, always moving. nothing is still not still, always moving, especially when still.

the butterscotch-buttergods smile, like toffee-shortbread, sickening, thickening, gloopy-tumbling, like – … goodness, that makes SUCH a good sound. just sitting here listening, to the toffee-shortbread gloop-tumbling, – SUCH a good sound! again. just listening, to the toffee-shortbread gloop-tumbling, – SUCH A GOOD SOUND!!!!! the toffee-shortbread gloop tumbling, – i want to show you and now i am sad. how do you share so easily. just eat a biscuit and dip your head in glue.

you know that thing when someone speaks so well about something that it resonates through the unimultiverse and your entire bodymask-being, and you think you’re going to throw up all the sugarstars, and it’ll be horrendeous but it won’t be horrendous because all of the stars are so fucking beautiful…

‘It’s only the ever-rolling tide… Roll in, roll out. Bury.’

[a writey thing from many months ago]

Rejection is refreshing an inbox seeking rejection, expecting rejection, preparing for the essence of rejection, yet being unable to resist, unable to steer the self away from the drowning magnets of the all-absorbing glutinous gushing stubborn streams of all of the emotions that come from rejection. and is that punishment, for all past-times of not consenting to fulfil another’s ego-inspired wants and desires? is it punishment for lacking the strength to stand up for my variably-expressed non-wants and non-desires? is that deservedness for the balance of my planetary luck? is that earnedness for every time i have wrongfully resented my own existence, inflicting negative vibe-consequences upon others? probably. and yet it’s a constant. this is dealing with the dealings and getting up, like a piece of sand rolling to new seas. I turn to myself, with an icing-glaze of cake-warmed affection. (because someone has to show it. and I’m too tired to run away, from the me that is running away from the me that has run away from me.) Get up, you soggy piece of battered sand. get up, you… you… sand-creature 🙂 It’s only the ever-rolling tide, you should be used to it by now. but it’s okay that you’re not. We’re together, now. Everything… well, okay, not everything, but… things are going to be okay. Roll in, roll out. Bury. 

and emerge, like the sparkles on the wave-rooves, smiling at the sun.

March-2020 (a blog-beginning from months-ago March)

blog-attempt from months-ago March, from the unfinished unposted re-visitable realms:

‘I’m strong and fragile at the same time which is weird. I guess it’s like a teacup. It can hold gently poured boiling hot water. But if you chuck it at a rock it’s going to break. and the urge to chuck it at a rock gets stronger every day. but maybe I get stronger every day too, even when I don’t know it.’

HELLO from the depths of BedLand

[……………………..that was as far as i got with that blog, either due to overwhelmy panic extreme/medium/lite, or just being chaos-distracted and UnableToManageThings]

Sept-2019 lost blog: notelings left on note-things

HELLO. Enter THE TIME-MACHINE, yet again. (i always was often-delayed with things on here but this time there was a bigger gap between writing on here because, Reasons… and now i want to catch up in an attempt to be able to use this spaceland again). I am now finding a few posts in the drafts-graveyard that I had forgotten existed and they are oddly resistant to forever being graveyard-drafts, they want to be ghost-blogyard ghost-blogs… so even though they are from days and days and days and days and more-more days ago, I’m going to post them anyway, starting with this one. this one is from SEPTEMBER! (LAST YEAR September: September 2019). What was I doing in September 2019? I was typing the below wordlings, apparently.

September notelings left on note-things…

top tip: it’s easier to go back to bed when you’re already in bed. kind of. just make sure you have loads of stuff on it so when you drag the duvet up it sits on top of you like a huggable pile like in where the wild things are when they all go to sleep.

but if you stay in bed too long then the leggings hanging up to dry on the wardrobe might turn into a freaky thing. and so will the towel on the shower-door, and the cat-pyjamas on the keyboard stand and the jacket on the chair and the hoody on the other chair and – wow, I really have utilised all the hanging space in this little room.

counting days… counting backwards, then forwards…
it doesn’t prove anything when you don’t know what number you’re counting towards
it doesn’t change anything
it doesn’t alter or reframe anything

and when breathing, just breathing becomes something you have to think about
when leaving becomes something you have to convince yourself not to think about
you don’t have to think or say or do. just, be still.
but how do you be still, when you’re still?

How do you rest and run at the same time?
It’s celebrating and screaming underwater;
swim-drowning, false-flowering


Return the solution to isolation

weetabix isn’t the answer here
i put things down and then i forget and then i see it moved and it’s like someone else has moved it because i didn’t notice the last bit happen and – I’m losing sense of what’s real. The grippable-real.





10, or 12, or 20… 100, 10, 1, O.

The numbers are confusing me. I keep having to google the word decade. I get it confused with the word ‘dozen’ and don’t know whether it means ’12 years’ or ’10 eggs’. I keep thinking it means I’m 10, or 12, or 20. but I am none of those eggs. or some of those eggs. Not all of those eggs, yet. I think about when I was 10, and 12, and 20. It takes me back to the day I walked alone near Barbury Castle and all of my past-mes were running along the path, some crawling, some flying, some walking… the day I wondered how many mes I’d have to meet in this one lifetime. I keep seeing people’s ‘things I’ve achieved’ things and can’t make sense of all the timelines – because we’re somehow in the same time, but not on the same timelines… the Draff of my brain tries to process a thing which the rest of me knows isn’t linear, in a linear way, which doesn’t work, and so I get confused. There is too much jelly soup for simple equations to function here, so I evaporate the liquid through a non-breakable hoover and turn the cubes into a bouncable trampoline playground of joy. A supposed-to-be adult on a bed hits their head on a slopy wall without much effort.

I need structure to fall from the sky like a stackable tray. How are you all doing this? It’s not that I want to teach the soup to dance, or to walk, but to THINK. The thinking is soup when it wants to be… bricks. Stackable bricks. I need help turning the soup into bricks. to jellify the jam. because when they are soup then I am soup. and, I am soup. which is soup, but I’m supposed to be being a human here.

If it’s 2020, then that means I’ve been living on my own for more than a year… is that correct? I struggle to do the sums. Numbers confuse me because of the circle-feeling. It’s why I found it so difficult learning to tell the time when I was younger. It felt so complicated. I get confused as to why a circle was 60 not 100 and yet is also 360, not 100, and when 100, it can be more than 100, not just 100, or 10, or 1, or O. and why there are 12 months, not 10. and they all have different… knuckle-things. I get confused as to what’s today and what’s tomorrow. and how to –
I get confused as to how to just –
it’s like trying to grasp the air within a balloon made of thin about-to-pop-sugar in a dreamland-limbo where candy-cane clouds laugh teeny-tiny paper-cuts onto unsung tongues

Is staring at the calendar-pages actually doing anything?

I retreat into the duvet-iglu and force myself to generate the energy it must take to manifest the inner-self I need to help us out of here. She arrives in the mindcave and I feel immediately patronised. She wants us to meal-plan, route-plan, day plan, night plan. Shower plan, tidy plan. Sort the things to do plan. but she hasn’t completely remembered how to direct us yet. Yesterday, she took us shopping and we returned with fruit and jelly and ice-cream. Tomorrow I shall become one of the plums.

I feel like the luckiest weetabix that doesn’t know how to weetabix.

I must remember to keep communicating with people – to keeping outer-ing, and not give into the lurking temptation of forever-silence, waiting like a heavenly pie-ghost.

I often wonder how much is related to my autistic neurology and how much is related to isolation and/or aloneness. and I know the two inter-relate, because a lot of the alone-ness (the chosen and non-chosen elements) are linked to being autistic too. I wonder if I was not autistic, how I would be managing the situation here. or how if I was not alone, whether I would be managing it better.

but I also know, that I AM managing better – so much better – and that this is all a part of bettering the better-butter until busy makes air graspable and manageable and shuffleable and seeable and the skies will roll to summer and –

dyu remember that heatwave when I couldn’t stop checking my pulse?
…see?! that seems like a lifetime ago.
It’s all just mini-lives.
mini-loaves.
sliced
dispersed
like crumbs of crumbs
the breaded sums
rolling, uncountable
unassembled breadlings awaiting the butter magnet from a winter-chilled utensil
dried and scattered
tiny

sleep, little breadslug
January is waiting for our creaturing dreams.