Peripatetic, Writer, Harbinger of Mirth
On following others:
School is following others. Culture instills following others. Corporations, countries, and organizations require following others. Following others is not for the individual. It’s for the safety of the herd.
On freedom and the individual:
I need the freedom to express. I need the freedom to explore. I need the freedom to create. These are only taught by the world’s best teachers. Learn to learn from yourself or risk living someone else’s version of your life.
1. Compose from my place of emotional vulnerability until satisfied.
2. Edit such that I like it sufficiently. (ideally, I would edit until I like it maximally, but 1. One can only do so much in limited time and 2. It’s better to edit something over multiple days than to avoid editing it altogether because I can’t make it maximally satisfactory in one.)
3. If it’s safe for public consumption, share it.
Life advice:
Since this year began, I have written and published each day. (Some “days” were completed 2 am the next morning, but I pre-determined that to be okay.)
I only once spewed a first draft, tabbed to publish a different writing, and forgot to polish the original spewing. A technical success, but not within the spirit of the law (nor something I’d like to repeat).
Since May 2017, I’ve written every day. (In addition to that half-time, I’ve only forgotten once, wherein I wrote twice the next to compensate). I’ll continue this habit, probably for the next eight years. That would make ten. Hell, I could do this for life.
Starting at puberty, it becomes socially unacceptable to exchange touch with anyone but romantic partners. This is bad. Touch is calming. It’s connecting. It’s fundamental to proper growth and development. Touch should happen more.
On a road trip with a friend, I hadn’t touched another person in a week. That’s a long fucking time. A week without touch is a cruel punishment that I wouldn’t subject on any animal. It’s not even a sexual thing – I just wanted physical contact. I asked if I could lie on my buddy’s lap. He said sure, so I did. Our conversation continued. I felt human. It was great.
Why does our society suppress touch? I understand the moratorium across gender and the requirements that touch be consensual. But why is it weird (or labeled “gay”) for guys hanging out to touch each other? We’re primates. Primates touch. Even gorillas – the biggest and strongest among us – pick nits out of each other’s fur.
I’m not sure why, but I don’t like it. I also can’t see a good reason against it, so I’m going to touch more.
At 9:11am, the morning’s not-funniest time, I slipped 50mg of caffeine past the tape on my mouth before crawling back into the safety of my dreams. Another hour-and-a-quarter passed before my bunkmate awoke, only after which did I first leave my bed. How much of this time was spent avoiding the world?
I’m coming off a cold. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been sleeping so much. I’ve also been emotionally exhausted, overcoming a childhood trauma and rebuilding after a breakup.
My bed is warm. My bed feels safe. In it, the world feels far away. My mind moseys, wisting aimlessly from place to place. I like that safety. I like that oblivion. I live for that vacuum between conscious and gone.
(Context: I haven’t eaten food in the last 72 hours.)
Fasting isn’t difficult, but it is trying:
What do I do when I don’t want to write?
I write about how I’m annoyed.
Dozens of writings begin with the phrase,
“I don’t want to write today.”
After a while it evolves into poem
Or into emotional quandary.
The process can feel like picking a scab
Or bleaching ratty laundry.
Sometimes I only know five minutes in
That my first few beginnings were flounders
Eventually arriving at the place in my mind
Where seconds are minutes are hours.
Time stands still and speeds along
As I’m lost in expressing myself.
I nibble at feelings, explore one of my sides
Before putting it back on the shelf.
Most of the time I write end-of-day;
It typically feels like a chore.
Why do I do it? Why write every day?
Because that’s what a writer is for.
A stabilizing force, it keeps me sane,
Reminding me life has no breaks.
Even if just one sentence: “I don’t wish to write,”
I write for writing’s sake.
Julian Wise 