My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

Nothing ever happens on a Sunday… except that time the world collapsed on a Sunday morning… those creatures jumped the barricades and headed for the sea…

There was a little more to it, I’m just paraphrasing a firsthand account, but yeah, THAT was a crazy Sunday.

Dear Alanis,

Could you please stop sucking? We really miss you.

Love,

Us

I am creative.

I am smart.

I am a writer.

I am dark.

I am damaged.

I am haunted.

I am fun.

I am sad.

I am a good person who has done bad things.

I am loving.

I am kind.

I am alone.

I am better than breaking.

I’m still working on this…

There was once, many years ago, this turtle named, Kurt. Kurt was very slow, and very melancholy. He was the slowest, most melancholy turtle in all of Turtleeville. Turtleville being the largest settlement of turtle-folk for a thousand miles in any direction.

The story goes that a group of turtles, just ten friends, five ladies and five fellows, decided they’d leave home and walk to The Edge of the World. They were, of course, mocked, as no such place could possibly exist. Every turtle knew that the world went on forever, forever and ever. These ten turtles, however, insisted that, if they just walked long enough, and far enough, they’d reach the much laughed at, Edge of the World.

So, they said their goodbyes, some called them the stupidest turtle-folk ever to be hatched, others called them whimsical adventurers, brave enough to follow their hearts, and with such chatter at their backs, they walked. They walked for what felt like a century, they lost count of how many starry night-skies they slept underneath, and how many orangey sunrises they woke to. They just walked, and walked, and kept walking, determined to prove that they were whimsically brave, not stupid.

Being turtles, nothing particularly exciting happened, as nothing particularly exciting ever happens to turtle-folk. They just walked, and walked, and walked a little more. I say a little, not because they did, at very long last, reach the Edge of the World, but rather, they just stopped walking.

One day, they stopped to graze on the green grass under the shade of a majestic oak tree, the largest, most magnificent oak they’d ever laid eyes on. After their lunch, which was delicious, they went for a drink from a nearby lazy stream, the slowest stream with the clearest water they’d ever so seen. This stream was so clear, the turtles could plainly see, and have conversation with, the stream’s resident fish. The fish, who all spoke in unison as is the way fish speak to air-breathers, invited the turtles to stay and relax, just for another night. “Stay!,” they said. “You look tired!,” they said. “Rest!,” they said. The turtles were tired, and they did want to rest, so they stayed. Just the night, they agreed with each other. Except, it wasn’t just the one night. The turtles would wake for breakfast, the green grass under that gorgeous oak. They’d go for a drink from that crystal clear stream, walk along its bank, talk with the unfamiliar fishes. This could take half a day, maybe more. After all, turtles are turtles. After the breakfast and the libation and the walking with the talking, the fishes always repeated the same three statements. “Stay!,” they said. “You look tired!,” they said. “Rest!,” they said. This went on in the same way for two weeks, until the turtles all realized something. They realized that they enjoyed the grass and the giant shady oak and that stream of water like glass, and talking with the now familiar fishes. They were happy there, finding the Edge of the World didn’t seem any better than staying right where they were. They walked enough. They stayed. They stayed, fell in love, built little turtle homes, started little turtle families. Their journey to find someplace very old ended up creating so much that was new, particularly, Turtleville, and eventually, a turtle named, Kurt. This story really is about him, after all.

Do I bother finishing it?

Tomorrow, tomorrow I will focus and write something real.

So, I’m still struggling with writing, with a lot. I’m working on it.

I have too many thoughts in my head, it’s a mess, crowded and cluttered. The solitude, my big, showy, digital self-banishment, that hasn’t helped. Not that it would, not that it could. I mean, my being broken inside, my not being able to write or focus, or feel anything good, none of that has anything to  do with IMs or Tweets. I’ve done a lot of thinking recently, mostly when it’s dark and quiet, and I’m alone, wrapped in lonely. I just have to take what’s really weighing me down, and get free of that weight. I’m carrying too much, my backpack is too heavy. I’m exhausted. I’ve felt this way two Halloweens in a row, it’s so… my fault.

Is it 2008, again? Sitting in a room, my room, some room, any room, alone, wanting to be someplace else. This isn’t my room, at least, not the room in my head. That room, it’s so different.

Watching movies alone, wanting to be someplace else. Not any place else, not, “Oh, God, anywhere but here,” but someplace. Someplace nice, someplace I’ve been, but can’t seem to stay. Writing without writing, or not writing, not there’s much difference. Though, the writing without writing, that’s really more of a 2005 kind of thing. I’m so 2008, or 2005, or early 2007, or even the latter half of 2009, not that it matters. They’re all pretty much the same place.

Oh, Peter Smith-Kingsley, where are you?

I don’t have anything spectacular to write at the moment, it’s been a long day. So for now, I leave you with this…