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.
like crumbs of crumbs
the breaded sums
rolling, uncountable
unassembled breadlings awaiting the butter magnet from a winter-chilled utensil
dried and scattered

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

busying the non-escape


Is there a feeling-name for that constant urge to run away from your own self? Every few minutes it’s like I want to just, drop everything and escape. I feel like I am constantly distracting myself so I don’t end up at a station or an airport or just on a million buses. I feel ungrounded, I feel a strong pull from the spaceclouds, I feel that pull when I stop distracting myself like it’s reaching and beckoning and I’m worried that if I stop, I will be zoomed away – though maybe more worried that I’m actually not worried about the zooming-out-ness, because it’s so appealing, so… so, whatever the word is when it’s like magnets and when it makes more sense than whatever this jumbled nonsensical figuring-out stepping stones life is that I must engage in instead. It feels like I am trying to hold water, it feels like I’m trying to swim through candyfloss, an unsugared tongue unwoken, overspoken, it feels like I need to abandon my own inner oceans, it feels like if I just walked and kept walking I could wander out of the gamesphere into the grey, the reassuring grey, and I could hold the grey, then Be the grey, and then nothing else – and then nothing – just the ghost-essence of dead stars waiting to be glimmered. and so I write and type and sing and pace and repeat the soup round and round and round like an alphabet-circus of shouty number-shapes which refuse to stay in any one place – but even the sugarclowns are bored, their abacus-bead faces round and polished as they roll down forgotten hillsides which we no longer choose to climb. Productivity is a jellyland mountain through which my sense of purpose trembles. so again, I write and type and sing and pace and repeat the soup, throw the soup and splatter, like shattering liquid platecrumbs hurtling through a zero-gravity ceiling. and once again, I stand up, sit down, change the order of the pillow-pile, flip the duvet over, touch the wall, clap, stretch, tap, gather imaginary butterflies from the corners of runaway shapes… and force myself to stay.

arrive with me; arrive, and let us be yoghurts on the floor.

More writing-therapy from the ghosts of me – because I have to, because I want to, because I don’t know else how To.

I’ve been well the last few weeks, which, after unwellness, feels like a gift from the sky, and aside from the custardy guilt of being very aware that other people are unwell when I am well, I have been trying to absorb every moment, like collecting sugarwater before a planetary drought. Being well has meant joy and love and wonder and universe-sparkling magnetism; it has also meant anxiety, panic, stomach-tangling sadness, voices, unwelcoming thoughts, as of course these things don’t just disappear – but all of these things through Wellness is a difference I haven’t learned to describe yet. A Grateful Difference. It is Light, it is Life. However, with me still trying to manage on my own I can feel the spheres shifting and I’m currently at a stage of KeepMoving KeepBusy, because when I stop, I feel everything crashing down at a faster rate than I know how to catch all the pieces. and before the influx of We All Feel Like That arrives, like a parade of smug hankies, just – well, if we all feel like the things I try to describe which I long for support for then why on this planet earth is it so difficult to find a way of being helped.

I am aware of all of my luck, I am over-awared of that – I am also aware of my ability to begin each day in a complete mess trying to perform human tasks such as finding keys or trying to put on pants or remembering how to drink or trying to stop saying numbers aloud or trying to curb spontaneous clapping habits because it hurts my hands and people won’t want me to do that, or trying to exist without things shouting at me, trying to hide from the umbrella-lamps of expectation. Trying to understand How Much I Can Manage Today without thick guilt for accommodating my own basic needs. I feel like I’m living every day under the strange guise of a person who can manage on their own, whilst living a private life of being a yoghurt on the floor. yet most of the time, I refuse to unveil the yoghurt. I understand that I am pushing myself with all of my luck in the world, and I want to keep doing so. but how to maintain self-managment in the yoghurt-speheres? admitting yoghurtland to others means admitting yoghurtland to myself, which distracts me from my quest to the outer-land universe. and what do I want from the outer-land universe? more portals to the inner-land universe. to Dissolve.

i hide the yoghurt; i lose. but, how else? what would I gain by showing the yoghurt? There is no magic towel to transport me to space. I would seep through the floorboards and travel up to the skies via tree-water. so… I get up. a walking, wandering, rolling, bumbling yoghurt-ghost and scream raspberries until the world makes sense. and the world doesn’t make sense… which makes sense. Why would it? It is not mine. I am not mine. I do not belong. Be long. long to be. longing. for belonging. must I continuously remove myself in order to belong? belonging in not belonging. must I continuously rely on the close friendship between my face and the floor? where are you all? must we all remain in the private lands of fall? the silence comforts: the silence pains. the silence is loud in emotion, busy in buzzy-still motion. the limbo-vacuum travels still, still travelling, still travelling still. arrive with me. arrive, and let us be yoghurts on the floor.

a traveler in the realms of me

I was on the tube and there was no one else on it and I thought I was dead and I was having a lovely time, yes I was having a very lovely time and then people got on the tube and I was like HEY, what you doing in my dead, but then they didn’t say anything so I thought maybe they were dead too, and it was quiet, and there was no one else on it, apart from us, and me, and me and us, and then the tube train stopped and the doors opened and no one else got on it and then it was quiet and then the tube train stopped and the doors opened and no one else got on it and –

I glance up and around at all the other dead-me s
I want to squish their fleshy faces and lick the shiny buckles on their bags
like a creepy squirrel

I pull up my socks and wonder if they felt it
I listen to the essence
I wonder if they meant it
I wonder if they want it


and then the tube doors open
and people get on
and it is loud
and the tube doors open
and people get off
and people get on
and it is quiet
and the tube doors open
and I get off
and in all of my dead-ness,
I have never felt so alive


follow your alignment

Find your alignment
Summon your alignment
Dream your alignment
Follow your alignment

The pressures of interpretation aren’t always nutritional
The energy-umbions feed from the oomblets of surroundedness
Floating groundedness
Folded and carried
Wounded, healed
undug, unburied
Opened and shared

Filled with past purpose, free from present meaning
Only un-mined feeling:
These are someone else’s seedlings.

I am transport
I am traveling bowl
Upside down
Unmilk the bowl!
Release the foal!
Feel and echo kindness
Follow your alignment
Summon your alignment
Dream your alignment
Find your alignment
True treasure’s not to have or hold
to claim nor own

The beauty and the unbowled soul:
untangled at the gate,
unstorified by fate

Will you follow your alignment?

I hope and trust and feel and fear a chance you may not take… but it’s not my choice to make.

To do, to do, to do………

HELLO. Here I am. (“Here I am! Where’s The Spill?!” exclaims the brain-echolalia, covering the place in imaginary paper towels).

Did you ever watch ‘Get Your Own Back’ where there was a game on there with giant foam toast and people had to crawl through a toast grid breaking all the toast-boards, and it used to look like it was so satisfying, or at least made a satisfying sound? Well I’m in the mood to do that, apart from, walls hurt your body parts because they don’t want to play, I do not recommend. Unless you have a toast-board… or toast-walls… in which case it’s probably okay. Instead, I threw my face (and the rest of the body it’s attached to) into a big pile of stuff which I just took out of the dryer, which was quite good – it was warm – but, it wasn’t the imagined toast board so obviously it didn’t make the noise I keep expecting to EXPERIENCE. toasty).

After hours of clapping, swinging things around and shaking about for all the times I didn’t when asked to do the oaky koaky (is that even the word? this is going to be like that song lyric thing, isn’t it, where it’s something really obvious and I’ve just heard it as ‘koaky’… OH I just googled it and I’m laughing – it’s Hokey Cokey, apparently. Nothing oaky about it. It’s also bringing back terrible memories of small-child-me feeling pressured to do the same movement as everyone else on demand – never was one for audience participation. or any participation… when made to feel aware of the Participation Part, anyway). ANYWAY – – – I can’t remember the end of that sentence because my attention span is

My rucksack looks like a happy axolotl
(or one gasping for breath)
(a bit like me swimming last month)
(before I discovered how much goggles help me breathe even though I do not breathe with my eyes)

You know those rugs you get – well, which you CAN get – of fake animals lying on the ground, as a rug? well I’ve been impersonating one of those, in between sudden bursts of getting up to spray some SURFACE CLEANER on a chosen bit of surface and wiping it to keep the monsters away. It doesn’t keep any monsters away. or maybe it does and I just don’t know it, because They are Away.

I wish I had a swing. Why don’t I have a swing? well, there’d be nowhere to put it so having one would be useless but, I wish I knew a swing. Why don’t I know a swing? The last time I found a swing I noticed the sign that said I wasn’t supposed to be there unaccompanied (because I didn’t have a child with me) and then I was too scared to go back there in case the SwingPolice took away my swing-rights, for not being accompanied by a child. Number 1 reason for having a child: TAKE ME TO THE LAND OF SWINGS
actually no, I don’t think I want to go to that land as there’d probably be too many people and a high swing-collision probability, but, just one swing would be excellent


and on that note, whilst I’m on this note, before I go to write the other note – Here’s something I wrote a few days ago and FORGOT TO PUT HERE.

Sumita +.+

To do, to do, to do………

to do, to do, to do……… to do it I’m falling.

I feel like I’m taking on the world and failing. and I’m not. I’m not taking on the world, it’s only an assignment. and I can’t fail it before I’ve done it, and I haven’t done it, so I can’t be failing. to do, to do, to do, to do, to do………. am i failing doing it, by failing to do it? to do it I’m falling.

I’m tinier than a dead star. I’m tinier than that dead rock-debris fragment that I can’t see in the sky. I am more insignificant than dust. but dust travels. and like dust, any significance i do have travels. and if I can guide the direction it travels in, then I have to care. or I don’t have to, but I have to choose to. or I don’t have to choose to, but I maybe want to? because, there isn’t a because. (BECAUSE OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS HE DOES!, screams the inner-brain-echolalia, into the absence of done things.)

I need to write more lists – nothing is getting done around here. ‘THAT’S SOMETHING!’ shouts a sugarclown. I thought I told them to leave after they insensitively laughed at my baby dream and punched me in the stomach. I squash its tiny plasticine face and lick the candyfloss out of the sky – today we shall be grey-flavoured. I like grey. ‘I don’t’, mumbles a squashed sugarclown, but I’m not listening to its whiny non-joke, they were squashed ages ago. UNSQUASH YOURSELVES, commands the orange-juice-escapee sun, having runway from the recycling-press from the juice-box it was homed on. What do they know, they were 2D in the first place. and what does that make me? I close my eyes and try to sense my ghost-D presence more presently. Nope. Still stuck in future or past limbo, or some sort of amalgamation of the two. I must resume the future-past. I must do to be, and be to Be, and be to do, but mostly Be – not do to do to do to do to do. I fall but I’m supposed to. I be because I am. how else am i supposed to? how else would i do? not being would not do, for me. yet here i am, neither be nor do. Time to fix that. OPERATION ENERGY CONVERT!