posted by Dan Mundy ∞
Every once in a while — often when we least expect it — we encounter someone more courageous, someone who choose to strive for that which (to us) seemed unrealistically unattainable, even elusive. And we marvel. We swoon. We gape. Often , we are in awe. I think we look at these people as lucky, when in fact, luck has nothing to do with it. It is really about the strength of their imagination; it is about how they constructed the possibilities for their Life. In short, unlike me, they didn’t determine what was impossible before it was even possible.
I am not going to have a shitty day today. I am not going to have a shitty day today. I am not going to have a shitty day today.
Part of this is that productivity, the currency of new media, isn’t her strong suit (nor is quality, it is strongly implied).
Be regular and orderly in your life like a bourgeois, so that you may be violent and original in your work.
— Gustave Flaubert
Global suds (at TCNJ - Art & Interactive Multimedia Building)
This wide slow sleepiness engulfs me
overnight as I partially recharge.
Human battery chemistry is even more complex than the real thing.
We take so long to charge, and with such fragile contacts.
I awake a little bit soft, not quite fresh.
The impact of yesterday’s exhaustion
leaves the imprint of a mushy bruise on my otherwise sweet flesh.
“Cut it off and eat the rest,” my Dad would say.
They say fruit contains an electric charge.
A double shot of coffee bumps
me up into the realm of cruising & humming,
rescuing my indifferent body from
the limp land of lacking sleep
and injecting solenoids into my joints
so that I may push on well enough.
Sometimes I need scaffolding
in order to get through the day,
because today is a building day,
a day in which another story is written.
And perhaps I just need to take a story off the story stack I’m building
and crumble it up and toss the crumbs into the wastebasket
and empty the fucking wastebasket,
because it wasn’t that good of a day.
But now today is an exploring day.
Time to get away from the city and
see other things, for once, than
the view atop my story stack.
Today, I just need to get off the roof
and sleep all day on the third or fifth floor
in an inner room without windows,
or characters, who move on without me.
Sometimes I am so happy that
I forget I have depression
and in my brightest hour
a sense of impending doom
sneaks up uninvited
like Ravel’s Bolero, which I recall
was made possible by a degenerative disease of the mind—————
but Bolero makes me feel so good
and depression is once again momentarily forgotten