What Does It Offer?

Sunday
December 6, 2015
12:23 am
My house
Address undisclosed (because this is the internet)
What to write
What to write
What to write
obsessed death dying death dying love crying movies movies about crying movies that make you cry Amanda love death dying hell pain fear dogs screaming in the night whimpering auto correct dying crying streaming stream of consciousness so outdated so done automatic writing automated writing writing without thinking thinking without writing can they read my mind already? tiny universes of terror and joy and wonder and pain and anger and rage and god damn it, Ashley, I will call the cops on you and send you to jail. I will, I will, I will. Leave nothing. What will I leave? How can anyone read this? Why would they? That art must ask a lot, yes, but that it must also give a lot in return. Yes! I give you myself. I give you myself. I give you myself. You are my audience. Lost to time and space. I cannot see you, I do now know you. Already there have been multiple views of this blog. It was just created. There is nothing on it yet? Who is looking? Who is that up-to-date on the content that is being created on the internet? What robots, trolls, algorithms are searching for what and finding what? How many real people have viewed this? How many real people will view this? Who am I writing for? I have a big problem with this, not knowing my audience. My audience is the potential all-of-creation. So there, I am talking to all of creation, all of you. The youngest able to navigate a computer, to the oldest still able to navigate a computer. I am talking to computer users. Every one I'm talking to is on a computer. I am typing this on a screen and you are reading this on a screen. I wish you were not reading this on a screen. I wish you were sitting in the same room with me and I was on stage speaking to you. I was born to public speak. I can read your energy but not from beyond the screen. That I cannot do.

There is one painting hanging in my house. Only one. My son asks if it is a painting of ice cream. I tell him it is. It is not. But it could be. It looks very much like ice cream.

Why am I writing this? For what? For who?

I have so many things to say but who to say them too? Who would understand? Why compose a narrative? I am a poet. Here, look:

Poetry
A Poem
by Patrick Doyle
Poe eh tree
death
comes to you
like it comes to me
and we all run to it together
holding hands
and flowers
swimming on the air
and fragrances sweet and rotting
worse yet...
worse yet
Can it get any worse?
Oh yes
Oh yes
It is already
It is already coming
Here it comes
Here it comes
Wait for it
Three times
And I'll say it three times
To program your mind
To control.
"To control, to control, to control."
There
Now you are programmed
How do you like it?
You wouldn't know, would you?
You wouldn't even know how to answer that
The whole experience of living in this reality is so insane it is almost impossible to speak plainly about it
I fear indeed there is much to fear about the soundness of even my own mind at this point

Today I slept in late. Didn't have the boys. They were with Ashley. I get every other Saturday free. Messaged a girl back and forth on OkCupid. Sent her my phone number and asked her to text me. Never heard from her. Ate Felix's plate of food I made for him but he didn't eat from in the fridge where I put it yesterday. I feed my children better than I feed myself. Went to work. Late. Listened to a couple Tarot card readings for Virgo for December. They seemed promising. Seemed accurate.

I woke up thinking about you. My thighs ached. I ran my hands over them and squeezed the muscles beneath my flesh. My skin is cool and smooth. My knees. And the cut of my shin like a scythe.

I made tea. Sat perched on a chair at the kitchen table. One leg bent underneath me, one knee up. I looked out the window at the cemetery across the street from my house. I imagined what the sun felt like outside on my skin. I let myself stare. I wanted more. It was hard to hold things together. Hard to hold myself together. Maybe it is because I am undisciplined. Could I become disciplined? My mind jumps from place to place. Male to female. Reality to fantasy. It knows no division. It cares not for traditional coherence.

And so then I find myself back here again: Who will read this? And why? Why would they? What would it offer them? Is there anything new in it? Anything cathartic? Anything relate-able? What does it add to life? What does it offer?