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Stories for High Folks

1

There’s this tale. It’s about this client and his therapist. So this client had one particular problem. Namely, that he could never get his candy canes to a point.

He tried it in the park, sitting on a bench. He tried it on the bus, hidden beneath his mask. He even tried it while receiving fellatio. To no avail. That one was just for the boys.

Finally his therapist recommended he try bringing one to a point during their regular meetings. It came sort of close. Strangely, it seemed a wild animal could have done a better job.

It was like he put it in his mouth, and his mouth just snapped it. Like when you put a wet willy into the mouth of a… what the heck, I don’t know where that was going

He looked so depressed. If that man were in a room with her, she would have slapped him across the face, and impaled him with an eggplant

If that man were in the room with her, he would have left with a pineapple midway between his chest and his scapula

And then. As the session timed out. And nobody could really log out without first looking completely dead in the face. An angel came.

She took his mouth and, with a golden candy cane, spun him in circles, holding his legs, a bangle on her wrist shaking metallically.

When his body stopped, she vanished. With lips as tender as a fish he pulled a candy cane out. It had come to a perfect, perfect point.

The therapist momentarily remembered childhood religion. It wasn’t Christianity mind you. She held her glasses from her face, put herself on mute.

The session ended, but not without humanity restored.

2

I have a funny idea. It’s about the strange scents that come from not showering after a long day, all in the morning—arising from one’s bed, on the shortest day of the year.

Not allowed to feel freezing temperatures, but knowing they exist. Not allowed to drive without first clearing ice from windows.

I’ve got a couple jobs to apply to. Soon I will be a master’s graduate. Still feeling like I’ve got to start from zero; ready to begin again, soon.

Not tonight. Tonight’s just GTA 5. In my mind’s eye I am resting. Close as it gets w/out flying in one’s dreams. Too much to mind—full of great ideas.

Full of burnout—with moments where the sun shines through, and I know I’m resting. And from that place of rest, looking on where-ever I might be, like:

“And so I deal with this.”

“What was that?” Asks the man walking by with a fish for an upper torso and absolutely no pants on.

“Don’t worry about it—Patrice.”

Non-Stop @.@ (ft. Calvin)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_8Cag2E_U0

Me and Calvin put this together. It's a homemade song. Lot's of rough and happy accidents~

Calvin said, if we polish this, this could be really impactful. I shook my head furiously, "No! That's what everybody has ever said about any of my work and I just can't have it!" We laughed, knowing there was truth in it.

We too busy to ever revisit, and whatever we'd make couldn't compare to the joy we'd placed herein,

Someday maybe, but most likely not~

Enjoy the this, the here and th' eon 🐓

Lastly, how to befriend the sensations within us? Bessel Van Der Kolk recommends meditation & yoga. I want to try again, open up to the supple stuff in me own heart.

Enjoy the green & blue berries. Chomp on the grapes made just for wines. Blow into a kazoo, stay alive 🌶

Outside, heavy raining~

Update:

Funny story—I am thinking of picking up a Digitakt. They cost like 700$ new, and I can snag one used for 550$, apparently very gently used, and not much used at all really. I have to get it on Sunday, in Seattle. I am down for this. Are you down for this? I have a plan to pair it with my Microcosm pedal, and to go ham with it. I am ready to go ham with it. I want to bring these two things with me to Chile. I can jam on them in my grandma’s house. I can also jam on them while in the US, while here in Washington. I am such a music hoe. Can’t help but be moved to want to get this stuff. I am excited for the learning curve involved. Apply this energy to other things soon. Music is the best, I want to give it all the time the inspiration in me want to give it, amen.

I searched up, poetry and Digitakt. It said, through chance, Digitakt is for writing poems, Octotrak is for writing whole stories. I love this. I am a poet right now. Fuck stories, poems now, stories later.

I then looked up, Digitakt and poetry, reading poetry, to see if there was anything there. There wasn’t and there shouldn’t be. Poetry with beats, hip-hop mostly. I looked up Digitakt and hip-hop, and learned, as I knew this already, that it isn’t very hip-hop really, just ain’t. I ain’t either—so it should be alright. I just want to jam and go in. Go in. Go in. The device is so small. Strange design. I will have dreams around this thing. I can sample from Ableton or Logic, which is exciting. I can take the VSTs and shit I’ve already gathered, and I can edit away at it using this little black box. Give my eyes a break from the screen hopefully. I am paying for that in a big way.

I didn’t get the job. I shouldn’t be spending money but, dammit, I want this thing and I am a baby. It is time to tighten belt buckle, but I am a hoe so I don’t want to. Go hard forward, I am addicted, but I am also aglow with excitement for music, so I am also sort of rich. I am staying with parents, I am spoiled, I can take this plunge. I am going to Chile. I am getting a plane ticket, insurance that qualifies me for Chilean Nationalization, and I am going, then staying with family again—it is all about family and saving on rent—right now. I also don’t have kids, and I am cheap generally. Just not surrounding music. Fuck. I want everything. Music gear, skill, and cameras, and I want to read my work, or publish it, or present it a myriad of ways, using adobe suit, after effects, I want my text to swirl. I want to be right there, making everything cool and warpy—lo-fi—analogue / digital… vintage / new-new goodness. I want to weep too. I want to prepare for the storm. Weather is bad out there. Floods. Tornados. Fires. What else?

How to prepare for shit show of weather and life. I am dipping into my rainy day fund and this is not smart. I am not smart. But I am trying. Doing an alright job. Could do better. I should be smarter, but I don’t want to be. I am too young and ready to party, make music, share, flex, etc.

Chile, then Chile, and more tameness—meet the tameness of Grandma's house with cool music you can fit in a suitcase. I wish I could bring everything but I can’t. This will probably work. Music music music. I am excited to get into sampling. What will that be like? Mono sampling out through my stereo pedal. What happens then? Sparkling magic I assume. Takes the coldness of the Digitakt and makes it warm and fuzzier, magically. That’s the plan.

Did I also tell you. I am going to apply to be a substitute teacher. It’s going to eat me alive. I am going to hate it. I am going to be on call constantly. It is going to bite me in the butt. No breaks, just constantly on call probably. How does that sound? Sounds pretty good—considering I am not paying rent. I will get beat up by kids. I will get white shit from a dingo up in my teeth. I will get lashed to a teeter-totter and doused in bleach. I will then go home, work on my field project, prepare my naturalization app for Chile, and practice my Digitakt, or so it seems.

Then I will leave. I will get to hangout with Calvin longer which is really nice. And then we will say goodbye to each other and this strange existence we’ve had here. And I will say goodbye to my family, give them hugs, kisses, etc., and be off. No temptation from my Ex, as the universe has intended. I am so antsy still, but I feel pretty good. The savings I have really help. Too bad I am so hell bent on spending it all. The music I learn how to make will be worth it. I am going to be a little bum. I spend so much on everything. Guitar classes, 45$ a month—therapy, 260$ a month, and soon insurance, who knows how much a month. I kind of want to quit therapy. That’s a lot of my money. It’s scary. How can I do without it?

Question:

If you want to, how do you leave your therapist?

Chill...

Basically. I am overwhelmed. The idea of coming out to Bellingham, with this job, freaks me out so fully. I don’t know if I can manage. If I could believe that this is something that other people do, I could do it. I don’t know if I believe other people do this. I also don’t believe I am going to be making enough money. How so? My mom said, quite passively, at hearing how much I am expected to make, “that’s an okay start”. And I don’t even know what she knows. She’s never worked much of a job herself. But, I guess, there’s more I could be making—or something. I don’t technically think I could make more right now. This is what I’ve got, and I don’t got it yet. I think I could really enjoy it. Don’t forget where you are. Or where you could be. I tell myself I would go to Chile if I don’t get this job. I can really do that—but I am scared cuz this is starting soon. The semester is starting soon. It’s a break now, but I don’t know when the next one starts. I need this to all work out right now, and I think that it could. I need to be making money, getting benefits, etc. It’s not easy.

I told Julianna to go to her room basically. I get myself to my room and I am here now. I am trying to start. I don’t want to start. I am burnt out and don’t see a way of applying this. I want to be studying something that I can deeply apply, I just don’t know what I am getting into right now, and whether this is worth it. Honestly, money, tight right now—housing freaks me out. I am gonna be fine. Mom says, “go with the flow”. She asked if my therapist pointed this out that transitions are hard for me and I said “yes, duh”. This is super hard. I don’t want to start from nothing again. It’s been this hard for a long while. Fuck. Hard in the sense that it’s hard for me to do things. I told this to Anthony, and he agreed, he too felt this. We are both out here feeling alone, naked, and without the energy to do it alone—and, as a major difference, Anthony isn’t alone. He’s with Jaime, and I don’t know how they would do it alone. They must have each other. I feel like I need someone right now. And here I come into Bellingham, and as shitty as it sounds, it sounds like Marlo wants to get back together with me, and I want to be with someone—do you see where my mind is going here?

What sucks is this. It feels like I am just settling for Marlo, instead of appreciating her as a great person for me to be with. It’s like, I am underselling both me and her. And I believe we can both do better, in the sense. And, furthermore, I am 26 years old, hell of young—but am I positioned in such a way to not disappoint myself? I don’t know. I am that thing I am worried about, hating myself for not making more, raking more net-income, etc. We’ve got to try harder; I’ve got to try harder, but I am hell of tired. And this is my rant. I am so tired. And this is writing for me sometimes. I am a writer, so I want to share this, but this can also just be for me. So, I save it just for me. I am here. Greetings. I am scared. I feel anxious right now. Count to 10. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. You counted that too fast, count that again.

Julianna had to feel my wrath. She hates this and I understand why. She’s so stressed and tired. This is so tiring. We are pushing her so hard to do whatever, yata-yata. Sometimes a brilliant lawyer is born, just doing whatever they want. Just study law wherever you can. You can go far in yourself. I am so scared when I think about student debt. Hold yourself. You will start making more money the sooner you start taking this whole thing seriously. You will make 3,700$ a month now, and then, in 5-10 years, maybe I can double that. 7,000$ a month. I can then, pay for my own space, and hopefully I can be sharing that with someone I like, and I can treat them right. I am stressed, and tired, and I really just want to take an off day over this. It all just adds up. I like nice things too much, you could almost say, I need nice things too much. Why the fuck did I let myself pay for such an expensive university right now. It’s okay. Just start working—atone for your sins.

I want to smoke weed. I want to let all of this go, fall back on all this that I have. I want to feel in my bones that I am still held. That this planet holds me up. That my family holds me up. That my friends hold me up. That the roof over my head. That the trees outside. Are more than enough for me to take control of this life, even though I am—swear to Garsh—just a freaking dandelion seed. And this is hard for me, pulling teeth. Good God how does anybody get to be anything. Different things. Different challenges. Big wheelhouse in the self, that let’s one through to be whatever. Through to be whatever. Through to be something reasonable—even though, in the words of The Mountain Goats, the safe path ain’t the only path. It’s the finding an actual path that means something to me. Plus, service industry, I am no good at it—it’s about discovering what paths I am actually good at. I don’t think I am any good as a teacher. I think my talents are better applied elsewhere. Tutoring. Dancing. Haha fuck. Dancing—pole dancing. I might be an even better pole dancer than teacher. These are just facts, and I am scared.

I am want to be held. Tonight I feel like shit. And I think Marlo would hold me, and that’s why I am scared to be near her, cuz why wouldn’t I just go to her? I am letting Kanya go, but I am not letting Marlo go somehow. I am moving to Bellingham. That feels wrong. I feel wrong. I am all full of crawling skin sensations. The presidential candidate of Chile, Borik, would tear me to pieces. Of course, he’s the best of the best apparently. So I shouldn’t be comparing myself to him—he’s amazing. I just do though—and there is a fullness within me that I feel I am lacking. I will never be that Chilean. I will never be that, so don’t be. I am American Chilean, with a dad who’s American Italian—white—and I am afraid to be white. I hate even associating myself with white, and maybe life could get easier if I acknowledged that I am white. I don’t feel white, but like I said, maybe I need to let this in. When I think to letting in whiteness, I don’t feel like I am letting myself in, but the history of this country, so much of which I am not a part of. So, I forget, cuz I never learned to remember, what exactly my history is. How does one know? My family is from Italy, from two places, what’s relevant there? The politics there that led each family to decide to immigrate. To make that move, around the 1900s, maybe 1880s. What did my family know? They took a stab—and I feel like we’re all still taking a stab, or at least I really am. I don’t know how to make the most out of the situation. In many ways, we are given / alotted what we are alotted. The American dream is that ability to stay afloat within all this, and dream is required for most everyone.

I am overwhelmed, and if I am overwhelmed, what does that say about me politically? Is says that I don’t offer much. I am overwhelmed, and that aint a great way to go out—I am stuck, stuck, but might be getting this job, and if I do? I can make moves within that, and be political within that. And what about outside this job? Don’t I have to showup outside this job? I said I do, in the interview, which just came out of me—I think I would try. I am literally working so hard—and yet I don’t know what I can show from it. I am a walking person, with all the hard work I put into myself either shining—or showing through my lack of energy. In that I am stuck, feeling stuck—in the words of my past self. Let yourself fall over on whatever bike you are riding. Let the bike just tip over. You will scrape, roll, get hospitalized, and need to heal, but you don’t want to be riding this way anyways. You need to stop this. All of this. How do you stop it? You can’t. Anything you try to stop you do with the same intensity that exhausted you in the first place. Music. Enjoyment. We are more than this, but God, I can barely breathe—Julianna needs to get the Hell out of here. I am her brother. I have to let her be my sister. I want to go crazy, enjoy myself, be happy—and I could do that—in certain spaces, like Bellingham. For that I do like Bellingham. For many other reasons, that city blows. I am in Washington but I am not from Washington. So many people feel like they are when they really are not either, but maybe they are enough so so they don’t feel some big dysmorphia—and I bet most of those people don’t get just as crazy about Washington as I do. I go literally crazy. I see the Netflix show, “The Maid” is set in Washington, and all I see is me and Marlo, and I cheer that such a show has been made. Cuz I feel represented. If that doesn’t tell you that I am white, then what does?

I wish I could put my words to the silver screen, but I don’t have that kind of discipline. I don’t even have the discipline to write books of poetry, and, at the same time, I think I am so good. Why do I think I am so good? Cuz I know I am trying so hard, and I am holding onto to writing as a form of expression through all of this, even when it all feels like bullshit. I still believe in this, and in that, it’s my little fucking hero, and how can I not go hard on this thing—writing. And say, I am a good writer, I just don’t know if I can get published. With all the responsibilities that befall us, I don’t know if I have it in me. I have it in me to do this, but I don’t have it in me today to do much else.

Listening to art as your make art, or journal, is great. Right now, I feel terrible—I just hear a bunch of people who’ve got their shit together enough to produce something complete. Everything we get feels complete, by so much work and stuff. We surround ourselves with masterwork. Be it ads for Coca-Cola, or music from Alicia Keys. Be it machines like cars, produced in great labs. Be it heads of lettuce, produced in labs, harvested by master farmers, or scientists. Everything in this country is so great. Racism aint so great—maybe racism makes this whole thing worse, living up to all these impossible expectations, only producible by the hands of overworking ( understatement). I don’t want to live up to this greatness right now. I just want to squirm and be an ugly worm, and to boot, that’s what I am doing right now. All in all, I just want this feeling to end. Anxiety hits me like all my nerves are clenched like fists. How do I get past this?

Support groups. I feel, still, like I could be a good one; within all this; within my complete lack in ability to turn over a profit—I feel like I have something in me that is healthy for others around me. Even as I am so fucking tired. I think my family has this too and I am super grateful for it. In this I could be a good teacher. But, perhaps, I could equally do something more lucrative. But maybe, I am just getting back on the Ferris-Wheel again. Make money, make money, make money—so scary. People have jobs like that. I have jobs where I make a set amount—I am not a hustler. Hustling. Fuck, it, is, not, for, everyone, or else, it, is, and I, need, to, just, settle, down. This Masters was me hustling—I just don’t know if I made a great gamble. I feel like now is when I need to stick the landing and I am just not doing that. Chile. Got to go to Chile. How can I get into Chile? If I don’t get this job, there should be no question—but there is always a question. And can my family stand me? I feel so annoying. I feel so annoying. I feel so annoying. How can I just allow myself to be how I am when I am trying my hardest? Facebook sucks up everything I write. Can I do anything else? The floodgate is there, but that thing is evil. I can try e-worm again. But I want to write something else. I want to write something else. I want to write something else. Books. Why would you read this? This is for me. Me me me. All books are, right?

No, some writers do it for the reader. I don’t know how to believe in the reader. I guess I post to Facebook cuz I believe more in the Facebook post reader, than the book reader. Who else is there? All of you, I cast out to a big audience whenever I write to myself. Can I even reign that in? Can I do something else? I have journals. Can I try to truly journal. If I could, I would type, not anything particularly, but maybe, like, I could just say—I am scared to be alone, and what is worse, I am afraid to be around all the drinking and darkness of Bellingham. I feel I need support right now. I am scared. I don’t want to live alone. I can do this, but I don’t want to. Chile, could live with my grandma, poor grandma, having to live with me. Fuck, I am hard to live with. I am just so damned emotional. Get so worked up. Cool down. Take a chill pill. Drive it off. In car, in your mind, maybe try smoking some weed, or don’t.

I could keep writing forever. Plugging away at some digital Word document. Ain’t that annoying? Sometimes, as if by some miracle, someone says, “your writing isn’t annoying—it

is amazing.” Haha—as a dude who calls himself a writer, on account of a hobby, I appreciate this. Makes me blush! What the fuck. Aint no reason to be stressed. Just day by day. Working towards goals. Yes. Ex situation stresses me out. I know I want love. Just wait. Like a dog, wait.

Poem

White are the people in this God ugly state,

As the many brown and Black packed their bags and moved away,

Now that I see it is when I think I decide to stay,

And I can’t think a better reason for to fear this country’s fate,

But that ain’t quite the reason… why I sing this country song,

It’s cuz I feel my heart… collapsing off and on…

And for this I give one reason… though I could give many more,

To a girl I saw this weekend who I haven’t seen… since years before,

And how we’ve both aged, and look much more mature,

I told her where I planned to go… as silence too informed…

A tornado ripped apart the chance we had to live a life,

And dropped us not far enough within the same roadmap of life,

I told her as I tell you now the plans that I have made,

I get a job at Western or I fly out to Chile,

I get a job at Western… or I fly out to Chile…

And if I stay in Washington, I know I’ll need a raise…

If I stay in Washington, I think I’ll get a raise…

That alone could be a reason, for that alone I’d stay,

In truth I am and have been… ready for some new love,

I can’t keep holding out this napkin just for eating lunch,

Apples fall and we turn seasoned like a steak in pan,

Oven fries our big dog leashes to birds that we can’t land…

I really think that really thinkin’s… important to the soul

If it wasn’t then what’s all this blood I keep inside my coat

Release me from these demons biting me with hives and coals

I reach out and touch Jesus and feel his face unfold

Like raisins in a time machine… like deer tracks in the snow…

As coffee turns from drink to bleak awakening good spell,

I hope that really big fat changes overwhelm this Hell,

A wiser woman could take the lead and with just a half of life,

Put us back on course again, this lunchbox full of time…