Stationary Unicycle

As a long term depressed person, the most compelling material I have is not exactly compelling. I don't get out much and I don't do anything when I stay in. This lifestyle does not make for scintillating content. So I did a simple Google search for blog ideas, and I pilfered. Top 10 lists are big, beauty and fashion blogs are big, these are not my personal go-tos for material, but I found myself oddly inspired. Even when I'm feeling well, the topic of beauty and personal grooming doesn't come up. When people think of me, which, you know, is not exactly often, but if I do cross a mind, I'm pretty sure the first thought isn't, "My, that woman is well groomed and so well put together." Pretty sure. Pretty damn sure. Beauty secrets of the chronically depressed : There is no beauty going on here people, unless you call 16 hours of heavy mouth breathing drool sleep a day "beauty sleep", then there's that. Here's a tip: Shower someti...

You know when life is sort of shitty and most things really aren't going your way, and I don't mean just the little things, but the big things, things having to do with keeping the roof over your head, things having to do with food on the table, those sorts of big things, when those things are shitty, you know, that's when I want to throw everything real aside and sink into my own personal fantasy land.  By personal fantasy land I mean sleep.  When everything has turned to shit, I want to go to bed.  I think that's what I'm trying to say.  I start to wonder, am I ever EVER going to get my shit together?  At this point I don't need a Magic Eight Ball to tell me, all signs point to NO.  And then I have to wonder, does it matter? I'm getting old people. 

To the white cat sleeping on the chair yellow eyed beauty your purpose in this world to be lovely you sleep on the chair spread across the seat, like you were poured there the dog, tiny thing I can pick up in one hand, but you I can barely lift with two as though you double your weight just to make the task more difficult the chair you occupy is mine overstuffed and tucked between the book shelves I scoop at you and push you and you move begrudgingly with palpable disdain as I lower myself into my seat with my book you jump back quicker than a creature of your luxury should be able you spread yourself thick and languid, as though you'd never moved you are certain the laws of gravity will bend to your will you are ready to take your chances certain I will catch myself before causing you harm I gyrate and scramble slapstick  to prevent my awkward bulk from crushing you I concede the chair to the sup...

In his collection of poems, New Addresses: Poems,  Kenneth Koch has written poems in praise of everything from mundane objects to profound states of being:  To Life , To Some Buckets , To Old Age.  The reason I don't read more poetry is that I worry about copying voice or content from others. When I let go of that fear a little and I read some poetry, I realize other people's work can be pretty inspiring and I don't feel nearly as concerned about inadvertent theft. It just occurs to me that these poems are odes (which I keep trying to spell "oads"...because rhymes with toads) which is kind of nice, odes are kind of nice. Since it's a pretty common sort of poem, I thought maybe I'd write some odes myself. I won't steal from good old Kenneth but I will gladly help myself to the ode, because the world is full of things to praise. Poetry isn't for everybody, I get that, I mean, I actually don't get that. But I hear it and I try to accept it. ...

Honest Question Why is poetry monopolized by academic fuckers who make their poems mercury elusive or slick like a noodle you can't pierce with your fork? Reading Koch and Kenyon in the past, I was  afraid to read other poets for fear of inadvertent thievery and lately lately not an idea in my head just my bland life,  And then to read of the bland lives of others, buckets, full and empty,  insects crawling in a book I remember  the big secret everything  every fucking thing is a poem Critique I wander the house  foul bored dissatisfied there is nothing to say I have  nothing  to say "My mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing..." ee cummings wandering my barren internal landscape,  with that lamment "My mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing..." but the shadow of my  arrogant self hiding behind  a tree of charcoal and soot says  ...

I wrote personal essays, I really enjoyed writing them, too. I mean, I still do write personal essays, but it doesn't give me the same pleasure to write them, and frankly, I find myself at a loss for material or bored as fuck. I wonder who really wants to know about what I find funny, frustrating, or sad? I know I personally have a hell of a time reading personal essays. There are people I love to read and I could read their stories every day, David Sedaris comes to mind first and shows like This American Life beguile me. I almost didn't use the word beguile...it was the first word that came to mind and then I was like, "nah, beguile? Really? Isn't that a bit much?" and I realized, no. These stories beguile me. Then there are the personal stories of people I love, and I love to read those too. But then I'll read some other stuff, and I'm bored shitless, and I think to myself, why the fuck should I care? For example, I'll be looking for a ...

I have written about mental health issues in this post and if you're feeling low, you may not want to read any further.  If you are considering suicide or if you are in any kind of mental health crisis, please call the Suicide Prevention Hotline:  1-800-273-8255 or head to your local emergency room. Please reach out and get help. I've been sick for months, too sick to work, too sick to do much of anything.  I've slept a lot like one does when one is ill.  It's embarrassing, because when I say I've been ill what I mean is, I've been depressed. As far as I'm concerned, mental illness is a real thing, and those suffering are actually ill, but there are still folks around who don't think depression is a life threatening disease, or a disease at all, and that those of us afflicted are merely lazy whiny "snowflakes" who'd rather lie around and do nothing than make an honest living.  I am certain I internalized that negative appraisa...