Mi Ani?

There are so many me’s.

I remember the man I used to be. Funny, fun, friends with everybody, fond memories of yester-me, a lesser stress level and never let messes muster my content demeanor.

Not that the qualities have been released from these pastures, but have had the gates locked by responsibility, medication, interpersonal complication.

I used to think this wasn’t me, just situational. This was just me on Adderall, and there was still a fun me waiting to come out once it wore off.

Fast-forward four years of daily consumption. I’ve lost practice at this claw machine, I don’t really know how to control my non-medicated self anymore. Over the summer I got to be in a new social situation, free from meds, and had a mostly negative experience.

I felt more self-conscious, impulsive- I didn’t like myself

I used to not like my medicated self.

Well… who am I? Am I a motivated entrepreneur finishing my undergrad or an adult with ADHD relying patient on medication to achieve my goals?

Am I a serious person?

I never used to be. I used to basically be fun and comfortable with anyone. Now… if I’m going to meet new people I try to time the effects wearing out. I want to like myself, and be liked by others, be successful, without drugs.

I figure you might as well like who you are, because you’re going to be you for a long time.

If I could be any part of me would I choose to laugh and love and lack responsibility

Or given the chance to be someone I want to see proud on the cover of TV and magazines

Could I Choose Just One?

I miss me. I’m proud of me. ani mitga’ageah ha chaim she’yhiu sheli. Ani rotzeh l’hiot bsimcha, im chaverim tovim sherotzim l’echol haochel simchoni mitachat lashamayim.

Most days are fine- no one relies on me. I am responsible for myself only, my rent. My food, sleeping more or less, evenings,

working mornings early early wording work or worry deleted twitter tweeting preceding impeding response possibilities, responsibly pollenate (sung) pentatonically

Other days are modally totally different

I convinced myself I would change once I graduated, live a different life, professional private practice actively perusing my passions with free time, a dog, a life beyond that which is my present. Past, and immediate future.

And that’s bullshit.

My life will continue to fly down the freeway, 5 miles per hour above the speed limit, passing some cars, getting cut off by others.

Momentum, my experiential inertia, intrapersonal kedusha, busy body branching out, balancing responsible interruptions with non immediate priorities, productivity prior to prioritizing, prying open an agenda and then the momenta go get some somayach kshe ani bli hafsaka: I’m alive.

I lie awake, I truth awake, I wonder what path passed I didn’t take could make breaks in my brittle branches, cracks and snaps with breezes I bend, with gusts twigs fall around me. My leaves change color the freezing nights, some sunny days, rays to my roots route round serendipitous sidewalks and roundabouts searching for the next step

Big toe dipping slow into the water, ancient thermometer,

conquer or want her or ponder or proctor

the last step I took, and the step to come.

You know that walking is really just allowing yourself to fall?

Every step is controlled release. Could the chemical crutches I utilize really be my rise to my greatest potential? Could it be the petrol to my locomotion?

Or

Can I be like the sun? Will I ever have enough energy to support autonomous fusion?

My mantra was: “I can do anything.” I forgot it for years, but I remember it now and want to try it again. I can be my own sun.

I think I can.

A little orange pill, 10 to 20 milligrams of incarceration, or do these chemicals jingle with keys of freedom? Locked in a car, you can still go hundreds of miles.

How can one define the authenticity of means to an end? Authenticity, or, credibility, or one’s ability to fend for the feeling that ‘this is the right choice, and I believe I am right.’

I figure it’s somewhere between “I think” and “I thought”

In that case, I think I can do anything.

In the style of Louis Jenkins II

Do any of us really know what we want? I act like I do, from time to time; however, there are very few outcomes for the predicament. One can either reach this want, or not; then move on. I even tend to find what I want, look it in the face, and realize it wasn’t what I was really looking for. I take a note of it, desire for my next want, and move on.

I have reached my destination. I’m reflecting on my journey, considering myself in a mirror posted on my 36 dollar-a-night motel’s wall, my face striped-red from the neon bar sign across the street shining between experienced blinds; and I ask myself,

“now what?”

I love STRANGERS

So, I ask myself:

What do I want to do with my life?

Well, what do I not want to do? There are two ways to describe anything: What it is, and what it isn’t. I don’t want to be a doctor, but I like trying to fix people. I don’t want to be a rock star, but I kind of do... Art means a lot to me (I mean art in the general sense).

Art is everywhere. I see art in the good, in the bad...

Some moments, I can’t explain why, are just really artsy to me. Some things are more obvious, like when a flurry of cars swerve and merge into the same lane from various directions concurrently, and merge perfectly into a line; or when a baby cries, and then some native sound matches the pitch, or harmonizes, or creates a dissonance

(Especially if it’s dissonant).

Some things aren’t as obvious, I guess. At least, I’ve never been able to (or tried to) explain them. Like after a night of drinking (usually, but not necessarily) when you wake up, and for a second or two…you have NO IDEA WHERE YOU ARE, even if you are in your own bed.

I love that, it just screams art to me.

Getting a phone call from someone you want to talk to, but you are in a situation in which you can’t pick it up. Getting a phone call from someone you really don’t want to talk to, but being completely free.

Freedom.

Freedom from responsibility for another person, having someone who feels responsible for you.

When you look in the mirror, and say, "DAAAYUMNNNNN."

When things happen just like it was a movie. When things subsequently go wrong, because LIFE ISNT A MOVIE.

Those people you see that you think look really great, but you kind of know that they don’t get told that very often.

The smell of cold.

The feeling of being overcome by sweat.

When something awful happens, and everyone looks at each other and just laughs, because, "what the hell do we do now?"

Going to the bars, and feeling good for being hit on, without trying to go home with anybody.

The spark when you first meet someone who thrills you. The moment you realize you could totally make a move. The fear of making a move. The dive of making a move. The success of making a move... The failure of making a move.

Making moves to prove you choose whether to win or lose, using booze can help on who you use to reach that state of confidence, pompous on your sexy jeans and tight button up shirt, you flirt, maybe getting hurt, but move on.

The journey. Seeing someone up close for the first time, and still thinking they are beautiful.

When you do something for the story.

That feeling when you scratch something off of your to do list... Which reminds me:

what do I want to do with my life?

I have had the good fortune to look at my recent life and feel like I’m finally making it as a musician. I feel like I am good enough to be hired. My time is worth good money (on college student standards). I can afford to pay rent AND eat. I always have gigs, and I'm busy all of the time. But… I really miss one of my true loves: strangers.

Strangers make me feel excited, the spark of a ten second relationship. Like, when I am handing out flyers on campus. I get these ten second relationships with strangers, some we laugh, some are awkward, some people are douchebags, some people are attractive and laugh at my jokes, some people are weird and hang around for a while,

but they are all STRANGERS and I LOVE THEM.

When I order food at an airport food court and crack a joke with the girl at the counter. Is it just that I know I owe these people nothing, and they expect nothing from me? Whatever I do (within reason), most likely I will never be accountable for my actions?

try-cycle

I’m so used to it by now:

Meet.

Chit-chat.

Flirt a bit.

Text a few times.

Hang out the next night.

Maybe share a drink or two.

Lie down and enjoy each other’s bodies.

Wake up early the next morning.

Reflect on the evening’s events.

Was it worth it?

Am I lonely?

Might be.

Repeat.

Break-up poetry, in the style of Louis Jenkins

I’ve never had my heart broken; but I’ve had it chipped, or cracked, a few times. Kind of like an old car, sitting on the side of the road, or in someone’s front yard with a “for sale” sign, only $200!, in the back window. A man and his wife drive by on a cool fall morning. “I could fix that up, make it good as new” he says. She knows it would just be a burden, sitting in the garage collecting dust for a few summers until they disposed of it in the same way. It looked like a nice car, it just never quite got the love it deserved; and Lord knows she wasn’t going to supply it.

We Fight Sleep

We fight sleep. I do.

Yeah, I try and be responsible, keeping my immunity so every time I go to sleep I motivate myself to leave my mind blank.

You know what it’s like. Brain keeps running. Day before, day to come, friends, interests, interesting friends, ideas, inventions. Belated intentions to do something differently the next day, whether the plan is illogical, or possible

I don’t need sleep to dream. I dream during the day. Everything I do I do, so soon I will move to another scene between now and later, transfer these skills, be qualified, degree at my side, resume sundried, no more of my faults, no need for Adderall or amphetamine salts. I dream of the future, I dream of today, I dream about people, music, dancing, so many things rushing through my head pictures sounds ideas

I don’t have anywhere to write it down… not at night, head on a pillow.

While Im running, driving, dreams surround me, sometimes when I should be listening too, Im sorry: Dreams are life, life is dreams.

So I fight sleep.

There’s too much life to live. So I use Every minute, hour, moment, for purpose.

Unless my days are broken, they shatter forth with constant construction, shards of memories reassemble and resemble a situation, a window of familiarity to see the therapeutic clarity of my personal tv station,

my meditation makes clear the proper reaction

action acts on action, axon to axon in my cerebellum, asking each other

“this seems familiar, have we been here before?”

déjà vu true to the transfer, previous disaster plasters proficiencies on the deficiencies I’m after, an actor in my day dreams, week dreams, month dreams, life dreams, all teams plan scrimmages using images of

primitive politics passing a monument after the top of it goes outta focus I sleep til we

make it to the next destination I have to trick myself into surrender.

So, yes, I fight sleep. And I think you do too.

We’ve all been doing it longer than we can remember. How many babies do you know that can go to sleep right away, without fighting it?

Nothing’s changed.

I’m gonna fall asleep someday, we all do. But until then, I’ve got more than enough dreams to get me through the night.

You. Are. Art

I made a discovery, it hovers over me, a sphere floating from my crown up and around my atmosphere, that, in a moment may have changed how my eyes tolerate and ameliorate their various stimuli. 

Every person is a work of art.

This may sound cliché, I’m sure I’ve heard it before, but today I internalized the definition, it’s now in my head, solidified, a new color gel film over the spotlights from my irises and pupils.

Every person is a work of art.

 

The shape of their body, the color of their countenance, hair up, down, going, gone, 

gravitational pull from their hot bod or non-laudable geometry.

Art is separated into the dynamic and static: the static presents its entire self, naked and nervous, after which it allows the viewer to receive the artistic segments and pieces. 

Paintings, architecture, a coliseum of grandeur taking hours to walk throughout.

These are static. You see the sum, then encounter the parts.

The dynamic, presented in pieces, in time, line by line, seconds rhyme or contradict past motif, 

all assemble and resemble the final craft. Music, dance, poetry, moment by moment we receive notes, steps, words; with each interval we gain a new puzzle piece to place, until we construct the ultimate form.

What could be more dynamic of an art than people? 

Is there anyone EVER who could say they knew everything about another person? 

Even if we wanted, could we ever show someone everything at once, and then allow him or her to scrutinize the pieces? Even if you knew EVERYTHING about someone… Wait a day. 

Do you still know it all?

 We are never opaque. We are never solid.

Every moment you are, 
you. are. art.

...and not a painting, not a structure, but

 you are choreography, you are music,

you are poetry verses spoken by your actions, clothes, voice, and experience.

You are a never ending song,

your existence is a symphony in as many movements as you can dance.

The world is not a museum, red velvet rope protecting you from onlookers,

It is a concert hall, curtains never closed,

it is a dance club, beats bumping bodies and ripping clothes

it is teens spitting and speaking on top of a parking garage, expression flying from roof to roof. 

You

Are

ART

This is all speculation, I have no proof. I do, however, believe that this is truth.

And, as such, if I’m right, I look forward to free concerts every moment of every day and every night.