reframing

soon soon soon soon soon

it would be a building on a piece of land where there are no immediate buildings surrounding. i’m not too picky about the terrain– a forest and a creek would be nice but i would enjoy dirt and desert as well. the building doesn’t have to be too big but i’d enjoy walking outside of it knowing that no one was there to perceive me. inside: a nice carpet to sit on. optional: furniture that i only sometimes sit on. mostly i would sit on the carpet and do my things. read, write, watch movies, flip through books, flip through my mind, criss cross applesauce, sip on a coffee, sip on wine. it depends how long i’m staying there but if it’s longer than a little, maybe some vinyls and a record player would sit on the floor as well. a warm toned lamp. most importantly no sound of nobody. i’d cry tears of joy, of life, holy fuck, (because i’m crying different tears now at just the idea of those other tears,) to experience the soundless noise of nobody. right now i’m trying to write the fantasy and not involve my reality but since i’m listening to it right now and it’s fueling that special and raw type of anger, i’ve gotta say that the sound i can’t stand is the sound of other people doing things in their own illness. specifically when one knows those people and their illnesses. it’s simply not possible to avoid or ignore. i live with His and Her noises. right now His is that of a young stuckness: i never had it, i couldn’t, i Had to export that energy Outside the House; but, i understand it. it’s: slowly moving around in the nothing actions, sleeping into the afternoon, heating up frozen pasta, never leaving the house because nothing’s there and at the same time Everything’s There in the most overwhelming way– so it’s easier to stay inside making the same microwavable dinners, knowing that at least for the near future, you can keep doing just that. it bothers me how He’s always here doing nothing and i can’t control it. i don’t really care except for that, for my whole life, i’ve always been Not Here, been forced to be Not Here, and sometimes, the fatigue is just too much and all i’d like to do is sit on my rug surrounded by my things without the loud noise of Him doing nothing. and i can’t. and so i leave again and again and again and the fatigue grows stronger and stronger and stronger and then i sit here writing this, somehow writing even though all i’m thinking about is His damn nothing noise. He’s not as bad as Her, though. and i’m sorry to say it. i love Her, i love them both, but i should maybe love them enough to not be writing these things, to not even be thinking them– i don’t think i have any right, but i do anyway, and maybe that’s My Illness (but at least it’s quieter, ha, ha.) with Her, it’s unbearable to a different level. today i was having a successful day of ignoring His nothing noise (and for the record: the first time i’ve tried, or the first time i’ve even had the opportunity to try, in at least a month; i think i spent the entirety of october only coming home to occasionally sleep in my bed)... anyways, successful enough, until She came home at 7pm and burst it all. really i try not to be dramatic in my reactions or retellings. but man. She let the doors bang after Her as she walked in and immediately searched for our presences: Hello ? Hello ? HELLO ? and just jesus christ it’s not even personal but sometimes a person is comfortable not having to talk to anyone for a minute. the issue with Her is that Her presence is completely inescapable. with Him, i can tone it out or drink enough to pretend its not there, sometimes. but Her presence is like an earthquake. almost as if She has a fear of doing nothing, of staying still. often i don’t come home until She’s asleep because that’s the only way to be in the same building as Her. if i go into detail about the largeness of Her presence i might never stop. do your best to imagine a person who lives off their own anxiety, who does thing after thing after thing in the most anxious and loud way and who, after finally getting tired, doesn’t let that tiredness stop them– in fact it only makes them louder because now instead of just doing the things they have to also sigh and moan as they do them. this person always has things to do. always. even when they act relaxed they are always buzzing. even if they are sitting and not doing a physical action, that energy moves into their brain and out of their mouth and they start talking talking talking about all the things they need to do and the things they believe you need to do and the logistics— Ohhhh man, The Logistics. their anxiety fuels the things they do and yet, even as they do the things, they are impatient for themself to do those things. She stomps her way up and down and up and down and up and down the hallway. Her feet are quick and heavy, She goes back and forth endlessly. She slams around the kitchen as if the inanimate dishes and kitchen supplies are moronic in their natural lifelessness. She is trying to get through with the maintenance of Her life as quickly as possible but for what? She will never not always be creating more maintenance for Herself. She Needs It Or Something. anyways it drives me nuts obviously. whenever i don’t have to wake up at 5:30am for work, She wakes me up at that time– She wakes up and is thrust forward; She can’t stand the idea of being awake and remaining in bed for even a minute, even if it’s 5:30am and She has no business being up at that hour; She will complain about it later and blame it on the cat or dog. Her presence is so loud that i cannot even sleep through it. a while ago within whatever this piece of writing is, i was starting to say how i was surviving today until She came home around seven in the evening with Her classic entrance; She went on to banging around in the kitchen, obviously; of pounding back and forth in the hallway, to and from the garage, the garage door slamming with its weight every time. naturally my mind started to spin and i slammed my own way out of the house. i can’t stop thinking about how badly i wanted a car to run over me, and how much i hated that i wanted that, because i know how much i am so so completely capable of being happy and fulfilled aside from all of this. i’m not even the smallest bit suicidal, i haven’t been since i was a teenager. i’m past that and i fucking love life. i was starting to explain that all i really need is a place where i can sit inside with a sense of Real Peace. i don’t even need the carpet. i’ll sit on the bare floor. i’ll take whatever i can get. i don’t even care if it’s noisy as long as it’s either the noise of strangers or just the noise of people who aren’t wrapped up in their own illnesses. i’ll go to the middle of nowhere, i’ll go to a random midwest city, I’ll Take Whatever I Can Get. if i don’t get it soon… nevermind. sometimes a piece of writing speaks enough for itself.

i’m worried that none of this sounds very fair. you have to understand that it has been over a decade of me coping with this. i’ve done very very very well. i’ve spent most of this past decade outside of my house. i’ve reframed and reframed and reframed the world outside of my house so that i could find a sense of enjoyment out of it; i’ve reframed it time and time again even when i thought i’d found everything i could possibly find from it. i’m doing it again right now and although i desperately wish it could be the last time i’d have to do it, i know it probably won’t be.

i no longer want to write about my fantasy living situation because i don’t even want much and i don’t even want anything specific; there are so many things i would take; i just need something that’s not This.

the iron shell no. 4 by clarence john laughlin

isn’t it great though? i’ve learned to survive off of reframing the same thing over and over again to a, frankly, insane extent. it’s a great skill to have. it’s great in the first place to be able to make something out of nothing but it’s even greater to be able to make another thing out of it when the first thing runs out, and do that over and over again. and i know i’ll keep doing it for as long as i have to, because i don’t have any other choice. i’d just like to take this skill with me to somewhere else. i’ve started to pray to god in my dreams.

(i’ve started to pray to god in my dreams.)

but hey— see here now? (i’m always talking to myself but i am especially here.) look at this. look at yourself. look at myself. i’ve taken this shitty tuesday night and reframed it with my writing. taken it out of my mind and feelings and into these collections of symbols we call language and i’ve reread it and i’ve felt a little guilty for the things i’ve said about my family or how some of this could come off as privileged but in rereading it i’ve also felt a little charmed, i’ll admit, by my ability to organize words in the way that i have. i never write as much as i used to because i take photos now and my natural state of perceiving has become, unwillingly, that of a visual language and translation. but god, every time i write, i remember how well it saves me, even if just for a moment. if only i could have more time and energy to spend on writing, if it wasn’t all spent on finding places outside of my house to catch a short breath before moving forward again. soon. soon soon soon. soon soon soon soon soon.