“Advice? I don’t have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon. Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don’t. Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.” ― Alan Wilson Watts
My Creative Nonfiction Writing blog — A collection of poetry, memoir, essays, music, music & writing, and thoughts, many to do somewhat with centering and expanding from living with PTSD and Bipolar Disorder and a curious life so far. Each poem, essay, clip, piece is another degree that makes up the matter of where I am going. I am training to become a peer specialist for the mentally ill in my area and i plan to continue college, double majoring in psychology and writing all in hopes of what i want to do more than anything–to help trauma victims/survivors heal through learning how to write their narrative and express their experience.
“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.”
–The Bell Jar
“One doesn’t become an artist overnight. First you have to be crushed, to have your conflicting points of view annihilated. You have to be wiped out as a human being in order to be born again as an individual. You have to be carbonized and mineralized in order to work upwards from the last common denominator of the soul. You have to go beyond it in order to feel from the very roots of your being.”
–Henry Miller, The Tropic of Capricorn
“To those human beings who are of any concern to me I wish suffering, desolation, sickness, ill-treatment, indignities—I wish that they should not remain unfamiliar with profound self-contempt, the torture of self-mistrust, the wretchedness of the vanquished: I have no pity for them, because I wish them the only thing that can prove today whether one is worth anything or not—that one endures.” –Nietzsche on Suffering
a snippet from my short essay “something dark like jazz”—
He is the bass stripped down to a dark rhythm that hums to the backdrop of city lights and black and white urban streets and alleys, somewhere foreign to me I want to get lost in. My thoughts around him read like the first time I fell in love with banned books and Henry Miller lovingly wrote “cunt.” I want to turn his pages, I want to read the forbidden words he paints in red for me. A steady and heavy cello across absurd piano strokes crash into everything I’ve judged myself on, every law I am governed by and I am intoxicated by the strangeness, drunk on this existential, loveless affair, this music. Something cold in his quiet demeanor, almost cruel–a hidden beat to his body, to his sex; a muted aggression beneath a tie. I imagine his eyes ignoring his surroundings, lost in thoughts on maybe statistics, maybe sex, maybe the structure of all things black and white, applying logic and reason and theory to the strange design of women. Or maybe he is seeing only scale and the black dots of notes and wanting only an outlet for himself, and maybe I am making this all up because I am looking for it too–somewhere to release it, choke out my tired morals, or at least to have a corner where I don’t have to hide. I feel him make a little room for me, and just the tone in his voice makes me wonder how he would feel inside me. I want to crawl into his mind, I want to be taken senseless without expectation. Just a want–a hunger. I don’t want to be so alone all the time with this appetite, this contorted rhythm in smoke. –Amy
“to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death”…HOWL, Allen Ginsberg