one nation, under corporate rule

floating? falling?

1. Fear of trapped.
2. Fear of future.
3. Fear of loneliness.
4. Fear of failure.
5. Fear of unconsummated talent.
6. Fear of too much.
7. Fear of not enough.
8. Fear of boxes.
9. Fear of being ripped from boxes.
10. Fear of language.
11. Fear of finality.
12. Fear of change.
13. Fear of rejection.
14. Fear of never-ending tiredness.
15. Fear of peaking.
16. And slipping.
17. And disappointing.
18. And disappearing.
19. Fear of forgetfulness.
20. Fear of losing perspective.
    
21. (Fear of unaware irony).
22. Fear of money.
23. Fear of apocalypse.
24. Fear of mindlessness.
25. Fear of rabbit holes.
    
26. Fear of being too afraid to jump them.
27. Fear of losing agency.
28. Fear of history repeating.
29. Fear of arbitrariness.
30. Fear of being too small.

veiling.

Jordan laughed at me over bubble tea; my depiction of the plateau was pretty bleak. And he had a point: jumping off is futile, unless you have a damned good pogo stick, and even then, you're still going down. Better to propel up, he said. Now I've gotta go invest in an ice pick. Or I could just grow some intense cat claws. Kidding.
(I've gotta stop with the cat jokes/references; people are gonna start thinking I'm serious).

Old-school Southeast Engine's on repeat and everything's still. Nattada and I feasted on steamed, local spaghetti squash tonight. I don't think I've ever made a better marinara sauce--chocked full of amaranth. We had peas, too. I love peas.

Food is funny. When shared communally, or consumed with gratitude, there is almost something sacred to it. And there is nothing more rewarding--nothing that requires more patience--than growing your own. Sometimes I get lost in looking at my own hands, in imagining my skin--the creases at the knuckles--shaping and shedding and replacing with each new amino acid I swallow.

I should make a self-rule to focus on my hands more--to take time to consciously imagine my food converting to energy--my breath to spirit--within the confines of my own body. Because sometimes I get caught up reading old words and staring at old photographs until I can't recognize my own voice--my own face--in them. And I think it's a loss but it's a pseudo-loss; I'm rendered a fool by my own veiling.

I won't know the difference until I begin to honor stillness. Sometimes contentment is a euphemism for apathy, but not always. Sometimes contentment is just as imperative as the discontentment sparking revolutions--both internal and external. Yes, contentment, too, can be revolutionary. Stillness can be revolutionary.

And in recognizing this, I can stop worrying altogether about how to get off the damned plateau: by laying on my back and being flat--watching the scenery around me shuffle, as I stay motionless.

veiling. by Leslie Albanese is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

relinquishing control.

(when I can't control)


And being brave enough to act when I have agency.
Even when it's uncomfortable.
(Especially when it's uncomfortable).

relinquishing control (text) by Leslie Albanese is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. Video "Don't Do It," featuring Sharon Van Etten. Powered by youtube.

"if I could go back-ways" get you no-ways fast.

Sometimes, funny things haunt me--like shoe strings; sometimes shoe strings haunt me. Like Cat Steven's Trouble haunts me. Like Gumby and putt-putt golfing haunt me.

Sometimes, I am afraid of losing faces. Other people's faces. I can always recognize them. I never forget. But I can't close my eyes and create the isolated image. And somehow I feel like this is losing. This is losing faces.

Sometimes I remember belonging to the Communion of Saints. Before my experience of agency complicated my understanding of fatalism. Before the two became incongruous. I remember when doubt was more consolable. When faith was easier. And sometimes I swear I still do belong. Sometimes, when I think or feel or love strongly enough, I swear I hear echos from all around that are not my own. And I know. I know it's the Community of Saints.

Sometimes poetry is laughable. And sometimes poetry is laughing at me. (For not believing in masks// For self sacrifice// For causes).

Sometimes I laugh at myself.

Sometimes oatmeal makes everything better.

But most of the time it takes more. More than oatmeal. More than peppermint and honey. More than immersion in a safe place with safe things-- until contentment and discontentment become simultaneously and increasingly necessary; the former at an immediate, personal level; the latter at a macro-political level.

"No amount of 'if-I-could-go-back-ways' gets you back-ways," they say.
And I say: Oh, God, where are my boxes?



no-ways fast. by Leslie Albanese is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

diving for lobsters

relentlessly.
every time.

(Will I ever stop taking myself so seriously?)

photo by Leslie Albanese is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

"sleeping with the enemy"

I couldn't sleep last night (a combination of the coffee-milkshake I drank with my Panera dinner--a bad idea that left me jived--, the looming "wherethehelldoIgofromhere" anxiety that I've been effectively--or maybe last night proved not-so-effectively--avoiding, and, at the risk of hyperbole, some "emotional turmoil" from supposedly caring too damn much). Is that even possible? To care too damn much, I mean? It's like being in some lonely camp all by myself: the caring corner. And it just feels like no one else gives a damn and they all just look at me and say, "give it up, Les," but how can I? Why are there not more people caring? And why are the apathetic always making me feel like an isolationist?

[I'm not usually this sinister, but being stuck in Central Ohio is making me go loony (no pun intended this time)]. And I don't want to live a mental separatism. So what do I do? I write about it. But inevitably my writing becomes all cryptic and abstract until it, too, becomes its own separatism--my own linguistic world that no one else can fully reside in, that no one can truly enter. A defense mechanism, maybe. And a subconscious one, at that. I'm not one for dishonesty. I couldn't live a double life if I tried (though I'd never try). And yet I feel torn between two wholly contrasting feelings separating my being. I love people. I do. I love them. And I love being with people. And I love serving people. And am shocked and shocked again by the number of people who have reciprocally blessed my life. It's humbling, really-- the number of people who care. (look how contradictory I'm being). But there's this side of me that feels totally alone, even when I'm in a room full of people who love me. Because my mind is somewhere else--some unreachable place--and because, despite my rationality, I'm ultimately moved by feeling over logic every time--and I cannot fully understand or articulate these feelings or the flashes in my mind (usually not even complete sentences) and consequently lose my ability to share (despite my hopeless earnestness) the fundamental-most part of me.

"I am the cat who walks by [her]self..."

My mind's been flashing with: gender binaries, and parasites, and lions, and "Eating from the Outside" vs "Eating from the Inside," and the social construction of "enemy camps", and how complicated they are, and Eichmann, and institutional compliance, which quickly becomes complacency, and the conjunctive relationship between interior and exterior threats-to-being, and rats, and bodies, and violence against said bodies--sometimes using rats, and bullying, and the way the new Sufjan song made me feel all angsty like the sleigh-bells were saying "consumerismconsumerismconsumerism," and my own inability to let go...

All-the-while flashing with: my parents' good natures, and The Christopher Spirit, and milk-crates, and this Pitchfork interview with Jeff Mangum, and the farm, and community, and collective identity, and the way it can be a positive thing with conscious participation, and Cornel West, and language, and what that really means, and whether or not art really can be the ultimate revolution, and knowing that love really does exist, and...

And this is all occurring while my white middle class privilege comfortably manifests: in my friend's apartment, eating chocolate chip cookies, drinking orange juice, and watching The Office (season 3). If this were satire, I could appreciate the irony like a good ugly sweater party. And maybe this is satire after all. Maybe I've got you (and myself) fooled, and I'm living "Behind Enemy Lines." Maybe I'm taking myself too seriously. And maybe I'm becoming an ego-maniac. Maybe I'm not.

"sleeping with the enemy" by Leslie Albanese is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.