There is no exploration—
sad tolerance well sad.
Everything is perfectly orderly
there is no unknown
there is no pressure
there is no relationship
all words for work
all winds blow from there to there
Tag Archives: sadness
The Lord of Sad,
the King of Sad,
Sir Sad-a-lot.
The Count.
The Duke.
The Partner, the PIC,
the BUPIC, the BUP,
the Rump, the Frump,
GRiMS.
Low endorphins. Not excited. Sad.
I am sad. Little girl with pastry, mother talking on the cellphone. Unsweetened. Men doing crosswords with raised eyebrows.
What is it? Questions. Answers. Paralysis. This is a point. This is a letter. This is a word. This is a story.
She is sad and discouraged, head resting in her hand. Head in hands. Objectionable behavior. Pressed into a diagram.
This is the geometry. This is the measurement of her. This is the slippery slope, the slide. This is the choppiness of commas. This is the desire to relax. This is hunting. Hunting for badgers. Hunting in puddles. Hunting under the microscope.
This is looking. This is devising. This is an insult. This is non-allusiveness. Allusion, illusion. Protrusion, contusion. This is desperate. Separate. Disparate. Apparent. This is desparent. This is disappearance.
Not a damn thing prepares you for the Albrecht Dürer rabbit made of bronze.
Or the sadness of chipped paint on windowsills.
There’s all this lifting eyes up, all this lifting eyes up necessary.
And this from someone not a particle religious.
I don’t know where I want to go.
She is sad and lonely, after all.
She lives without a purpose, fed on grandiosity; it’s not nutritious.
So behind the scenes.
My boyfriend doesn’t sleep with me.
Sad. Feeling tone—is pleasant. The feeling tone of sad is pleasant. Make it more.
Turn up the heat on all of your endeavours. Try to rest, relax. Do scar massage. How painful waking up, how painful email. How to do it. Not sure movies or a sleeping mate is something skillful. Sad. There is chocolate and dried fruit. It might be wisest at this point to clean.
there are crumbs on my page
small blueberry stain on my thumb
my eyes are slightly sore from crying
yoga this morning—touched a fault line, a fault line in the striving earthcrust. I felt it, almost like a pop, like my back or neck went out, but maybe this time it was my will. A trickle of sadness like defeat (Step 1).
Inconclusive, in conclusion.
Abusive, people under pressure.
Sometimes I can take it.
Other times I start to have a breakdown.
Sadly.
Sometimes—no, not sometimes. Why vagueness?
It’s better to be March.
It’s better to be rain and snow in March.
It’s better to be best in class.
Restful inconsistencies
emerald generalities
tawdry perpetuities
garbanzo beans and
phony etymologies
a bunch of garbage
Failure rate;
how to increase it
Shake it out the funny duck
the incompetent
with hair of feathers
Fragile—something
she cannot avoid
Secret secret sad sad secret
secretions
I could write some Kerouac-like bluesy pieces, they would be about the past they would be about woman the wife the mother at home they would be the Al-Anon version of the blues, something tells me it would be awfully hard to write these blues honestly
december 19 mild sunny
Thoughts—no use thinking thoughts
Listening to the space between the thoughts
times of meditation in the sad café
I read it again and again and I still have no idea what he’s talking about. Just seems sad to me, but is that my idea or his?
I love my in-laws. I felt so sad that I won’t see them this weekend.
november 9
Still sad. Sadder than ever today. I want to throw myself on your mercy. To wander into your crowd full of people I don’t know. I set up a conflict with people around me. I don’t stake my claim.
I don’t taste my own sauce. I guess I’ll leave here now.
I learn to mourn
I yearn to mourn
I learn to yearn
I mourn to learn
I mourn to learn how
I heard something on the radio yesterday about supermarkets and the vast surplus of food/calories we produce here in the US. The radio voices said—No wonder we are confused—due to the pressure of food marketing. I am immune to food marketing.
I close my eyes to it. I used to get overwhelmed in the supermarket, until I blinded myself. Every year, I buy fewer and fewer packaged goods. No meat. Less and less fish. Ordering herbs and tea in bulk, online. This is a project full of pleasure.
A possible sadness antidote.
Still sad. Last night I had an apple and a few chunks of parmesan cheese for dinner, and watched an Italian movie “I’m Not Scared.” Intense. I was distracted from sadness by my awareness of what was going on inside Michele, the 10-year-old boy. Empathy, I guess. I also felt the heat of the sun and the joy of running in the wheatfields. I played and ran in fields. Corn fields. Forests. Meadows. I played in brambles and thickets, streams, streets.
I had to miss the poetry class on Halloween. This was disturbing. I should have tried to go. I could have made it. No use trying to reinvent the past. I had to miss out. I hate to miss out. I am easily disappointed.
Sad girls are responsible. They take on the tedious tasks no one else wants to do.
If I’m very busy writing, I won’t have time for tedious tasks.
But something’s wrong with my invention. My imagination is broken. I don’t get out much.
november 2
Appropriately, raining. Wet leaves scattered everywhere. Sad place in my solar plexus, deep hole of mourning. Or rather, not so deep, shallow and sheltered. Impressionable as a child.
Do eccentrics have this sadness? Do hermits? Do religious believers? I would like to know. But there are things I can’t change about myself, things I have to accept.
One of those is tears springing to my eyes. I am a frequent cryer at any little adversity.
It’s familiar to shame I felt as a child. It’s a familiar syndrome.
Returning to the sadness, the persistent sadness. The sadness of short sentences. The sadness of employees. The sadness of elderly eyebrows. The sadness of muted achievements. Of not knowing your place. The bewilderment of multiple remotes.
The fear of not ever having a home. Not at home here.
Writing in ruts.
I would like to decipher this sadness.
Does it relate to the personality? The philosophical outlook? the biochemistry? the inability to get on the network?