{the ways of was.}

everything will be okay. a stranger to myself. afraid all the time. heaping the coals on top of me every time i fuck up. every time i am afraid. let this day deal with its own worries. i am trying so hard. constantly consuming. i need to sleep now. let me be okay. no. i can't deal.

the terrified and lonely
ones-
like last autumn's rotten
leaves
that cling to now naked
trees
and the ways of
was.

{the blood sucking thought patterns.}

it doesn't matter how i sing it. only i can hear my fearfulness. only i can hear my peace. and i suppose i could maybe say it is such a specific enough way, that the muffled melody i'm playing might be picked up. vaguely. very faintly. but it's all within me. and it drives me to drinking. and it makes me to sleeping for hours. every emotion creeps up on padded feet. sometimes softly touching me. mostly stabbing in the back. but i rarely turn to confront it. i might face it, but its eyes are more intimidating than mine. and its teeth are always gnashing. it is a vampiric. and makes my skin feel restless. i'm sure it wouldn't be so bad. if i could rebuke it. but when one is in a fearful state, it's hard enough to breath. to do anything to save yourself. and this is ridiculous. and where do these thoughts come from. they are spoken to me, from behind me left ear, i have to you a few times before. they come to me again and again. i am not strong enough. they reinvent themselves. they are silvery shape shifters, and they know how to pull me under. and they know that they are good at it. i am stupid human. i am susceptible to the secret lies that pour into me. i'm begging you for help. i am debilitated. catatonic. immobilized. all there is is sleeping and intoxication. my eyes are heavy. i am not meant for this world. desperately i try to avoid it, and am even bad at that. i've fallen right into lukewarm water. i create my own death daily. i am bruised and beaten down by my own thoughts and actions. how can one live freely when it seems that what they are is what is killing them. i am being melodramatic, but serious. i cannot live like this. i am tired. and hungry. and in need of refuge.

{startling starling.}

{mzunga.}

we sat in a large but mostly empty apartment on the west side. the fourth story. there were seven of us. and half were visitors from out of town. i smoked out the window, while biz markie played for the room of white folks behind me. to the right of me. apart from the music it was mostly quiet. soft spoken, slurred speech. everyone seemed considerably more intoxicated than myself. glassy-eyed and lackadaisical. but i was a bit tottied up myself. i probably should not have driven. but i did so there's no excuses now. just luck. i wore a black dress with little polka dots. once again not in the mood for much of anything except my own thoughts. or maybe dealing with this social interaction in a different way than the rest. maybe just tired. still wearing my apron and work shirt.

in my left ear are disintegration loops. in the right is a voice that i had saved about a week ago in order to listen to later. because i thought it might be nice to hear again. if i felt so inclined. which i do. this make me feel silly, and kind of stupid. i worry. i worry about these thoughts that i have. and those distractions. i've been told it's alright to be distracted, to focus attention of other things. otherwise, what would life be, without these distractions. we would probably just think we were dying all the time. (as my tongue shifts in my mouth, presenting me with some strange obtrusion, which is probably just my jaw bone, but of course i have to look at it in the mirror and see if i can determine whether or not it has tumoristic [not a word] properties. as though i would know.) but i worry. it's what i do. and i would like to quit. be careful. full of care.

i am sitting in the coffee shop, which i enjoy. they give me apples, oranges, cookies, and dried mango bits for free every time i leave. i don't talk with anyone. they must just like me for some reason. or they are simply kind. i come here almost everyday. the man behind the counter must be cooking onions, because my eyes are beginning to burn a little. the windows are fogged. i look forward to sitting here in summer time. when the windows are open and the air is more substantial. thick and humid. in a sundress, i will be glazed in pleasant sweat. and enjoy the cool, nightly showers before bed. falling asleep with the windows open. waking to the ruckus of the bright day. riding my bike.

sometimes people have loud personal conversations in quiet public places. i always wonder why they do that. lately i've been especially quiet during day and night. i don't much feel like talking. i don't have much to say. it's hard for me to tell whether or not this is a wise venture. i tend to become so consumed by my own thoughts. i get very unnerved. for as long as i can remember my mother has said to me, "you think too much." before, i had thought that this was a good thing. that it made me more an intellectual. more a thinker and therefor more inclined to make great things and be interesting. i don't think like that anymore. and anyway, i am far more a feeler than a thinker anyway. and for as long as i can remember my dad would say to me, "get a hold of your emotions. don't let them drag you all around." and i would think to myself that being emotional was good because it made me aware of myself and where i stood in certain situations. it helped make life more definitive, in a sense. i was a more passionate person if i became very emotional about things. i don't think like that anymore. i'm all caught up. i've snagged so many parts of myself on everything, to the point were i am pretty tattered. there's no elastic in me. i am one hundred percent cotton. but i was given a sewing machine for christmas. and have been doing quite a bit of mending. sometimes the pockets still fall out, from me shoving my fists into them, when it gets too cold out here in ohio.

i sat outside again. in the soft grey, muted light and evening air, smoking a cigarette. listening to william basinski. a young, asian man walks down the sidewalk toward me. he is wearing a grey t-shirt, and walks briskly. his coat is draped across his left arm, and the right arm waves gracefully to-and-fro as he approaches, as though he is playing the violin. his fingers pinched, gripping an imaginary bow. his head tilted slightly back. maybe he is practicing, i think. but his dancing arm glides perfectly in tune with what i hear in my headphones. the woman across the street, parallel to him, stares at his aloof gestures. i stare at him. and as he passes, i smile at him kindly, in a state of gratitude. he doesn't see me. he shouldn't see me.

{disintigration loops.}

indulgence brigs a fog. the days are better. and thoughts are more cohesive. like old friendships. i want to be a righteous woman. a good person. how many times have i sat in certain places having thoughts. nice ideas, whimsical notions, pleasant daydreams, or simply subtly muffled emotions that make my eyes glass over. and my heart heated with some kind of greater sense of self. not even solitary self, more like i'm seeping out and taking in the different shades of divinity. whatever that means to you. infectious days and personal compulsions. we have set ourselves aside. in recognition that everyone experiences pretty much the same things. but how you deal with it defines you.

{the world just screams and falls apart.}

i had a dream you were still alive.
playing Mozart records in the basement
and you whistle like you always did
when it hit your favourite part.

i had a dream you were still alive.
like i could feel your stubble on
my face when you kiss me
and we do our special signals together.

i had a dream you were still alive.
wearing your brown plaid shirts.
wearing your brown plaid shirts.
wearing your brown plaid shirts.

cloud destruction experiments.
orgone energy. yeah.
Ether, God and Devil.
Charles R. Kelley.

+

at any rate. that image as a whole is visually gratifying to me. i don't know about all this "orgone energy" or "life force", but it's all pretty interesting to read about if you have nothing better to do than waste time and not drink.

what to do.. treat my days well. and use them wisely. i have a hard time being productive at my house. and writing about it now, as in, the simple act of writing about my inactivity or inabilities, makes me feel right lame. i'm not a fan of excuses, and i feel like i'm making them. justification is a joke. a joke. but seriously. i don't like being at home. except for when it's time to sleep. someday i will live alone. it will be best that way. but what do i do now? every time i have asked someone where i should go to college, they always say "how about Puppy University?" or "Dog College." who are these people? and why is it that every time i ask that question there is an canine around, stealing attention, to such an extent, that people make up fake colleges somehow affiliated with puppies/dogs. am i hungry or sick. i can't tell anymore. i feel discomfort. let's lay down my needs:

megan elizabeth henry needs:

- save money.
- to live alone.
- to finish college.
- to decide.

i don't even know what i want to do. film? or writing? or both... yeah. cigarette. d dddd. hello. my name is megan. i am the embodiment of distraction. where am i going. what am i doing. in case you haven't noticed. i very rarely am one for question marks. i love boards of canada. orange. ok. there's a lot to see. and i'm still young enough to contain within myself the sense that i can do anything. and i would like to retain that mentality. bitterness is for bastards. and cynicism for suckers. feed me with a fork and fold me forty times over. the brick roads are begging. and my car is dying. christ is calling on his royal telephone. burl ives. bogdan raczynski. bangladesh. (there goes anton on his bicycle.. i just saw him in a red hat. there he go. "there it go".) what it all boils down to is where i am going. denver it seems. fake cancer. i just have to maintain my focus. i tend to not do that.. and what the hell kind of a name is "burl"?

{just another shitty day in paradise.}

whatever happened to my coffee mug. i stole this picture from lisa. but it was so nice to see a picture of the Grill. the g-rill. i was brought back to so many instances. like closing on sundays, and hiding my bottle of gin in booth one. or playing biscuit baseball. or larry being a drunken asshole who made me cry. i miss it. i think it was probably my favourite job. larry aside. when leo was there, and traviss, who i rarely got to see, but was always happy to see, because i never saw him ever, and lisa, who at this point i don't even recall whether she was working there when i worked there, or was, or just hung out all the time, and cooked. and helped me wrap tatter boys. mmm. i'm getting intestinal cramps just thinking about home fries. with green peppers. and onions. and spiciness. and dan-o. and e-bar. that was short lived. peter. lauren?! i almost forgot. that bitch. her grama made her cool waitress dresses. and she didn't even ask me. i suppose we weren't talking a lot at the time. that's definitely the place that got me to drankin. i only had one beer tonight.


i just drank milk. because i'm stupid. also. i can't sleep. because i ate a lot of chocolate covered espresso beans. because i'm still stupid.

{is it an android you are? or are you a quasar?}

preface: these words are nothing of consequence. or are they....


i have a serious bone to pick when individuals make beautiful things and are themselves beautiful. in the face. that is. mileece, is an example of this phenomena. i just got a lot of titillating music. my mouth waters. also, i think i may need to be medicated. what's the cure for hypochondria? were i ever to make an album, i might call it "mouth sore", but probably not. maybe i'd call it "fake cancer". hah. that's funny to me. does anyone remember "fake carl the cat"? probably not. i had forgotten until about fifteen minutes ago that green tea is awesome. Automaton.

"once upon a midnight, in the planet land of X, a young boy being lay dreaming."

i've taken my things, and come to the algebra tea house. there is something very specifically different about writing outside your own home. and despite the fact that i have nothing dire to say, this feels very pleasant, and i needed to do it.

"an electric blue glow seemed to fill his heart like star light. not moving. not wanting to destroy the moment."

when i was in mississippi, i did this every day for months. i feel like i used to have something to say. presently, i feel very cluttered. like a junk drawer. i'm sure there's some really useful or at least interesting things inside me, but i can't find them. they're hidden under lots of confusion and fear probably. i never saw myself as a fearful person before, but i do now. that's kind of sad. we will have to do something about that, shan't we. cigarette. the amazing sound of orgy. i love it when that bass hits.

"nothing made any sense. what did it mean? it's important. it has a meaning!"

tiredness creeps on masculine feet. and grabs a hold with heavy hands. of course i might think to myself that lethargy and death might be the same thing. of course. there will always be a day of reckoning. eventually if not today. it seems that on another hand i sleep in order to avoid thought, and therein ignore death and reckoning. my penance. my self-imposed earthly purgatory. the days are days are days. and it is always what it is, nothing more, only speculation. i am fine. and if not, will be.

"for that was the young boys name. end."

it's time for a thunderstorm, children.

{approaching anniversaries.}

mostly when i have to go i do. but not now yet. it kills me slightly. and draws me to my limits. listlessly listening. i have reached a fickle Fahrenheit. the desire to collect the ways in which i gauge my own illnesses is obsolete it seems. as i gather my worldly treasures in my lap, my heart. and wait to die alone with them. there is always the voice i come crawling back to. with all the best pitiful pleas. that's just like me. i can tell you that i don't wish to sleep tonight or ever. but inevitably, i will.