I have done a few things lately but have not felt like writing about them or uploading pictures. A few antler buttons, a hat prototype. I sank into deep depression for maybe a month and didn’t gain any ground. For a while now I’ve considered moving more toward videos to express my ideas. Video just captures some things better in my opinion than text and a few pictures. But of course I actually have to DO something worth filming.


I heard about a poet who just spotted a woman and professed his love for her. Not in a real way, no: through a poem. Think of how much he fancied over the years that did not really exist. The lost one he never knew. The pure speculation that inspired so many of the words that some of us now take to heart. I’ve succumbed to world building too. Most bright places are not mine. They are attempts to fool the brain and left for others to speculate, if anyone ever speculated on my words. But I don’t doubt my loves. Oh sure, there’s a fear to admit them, to say anything on it, but those are real. They’re not the foolish errand of a poet trying to create a few lines to fulfill the artistic mind. I believe them with some sense of reason.


Low operation

My hand’s out of sutures, so today I started drawing on a log to attempt a carving. Despite my fairly large caffeine consumption I don’t do a lot. Over the past couple of weeks I patched up the many holes in my pair of jeans and a couple in socks and sewed some of a shirt. Evidently the doctor forgot about my desire to raise the anti-depressant dose. I try not to think about much, try to drift around in a half-assed meditative state.

Split hands, not bamboo

Earlier this week I finally wandered out into the woods to split bamboo for a basket or whatever I could think of. On the first stalk I cut my hand opened instead.

Find another way of securing bamboo besides holding it with a hand down-stalk. Bamboo, like most things that split, offers spots of resistance and ease. In this case it started out tough, so I applied pressure; then the split eased before I could dial down and drove the knife into my palm. You also don’t need that sharp of a knife, perhaps not even a knife and just wedged hardwood.

I wrapped my arm in my shirt and ran out of the woods and onto a road where everyone passed by. Fortunately I know my way around and ended up in a neighborhood where I asked a guy to call an ambulance, turned out we knew each other from elementary school, so yeah.

They want me to consult a surgeon though the knife did not hit tendon or muscle, just a nerve evidently because my hand’s numb on the outside. As long as the little finger works I am ok with the numbness, however.


I looked back through posts. Upped the dose of Viibryd to 40mg in July, so this lasted a little longer than I thought. However, I sent a message to the psychiatrist saying I will up the dose to 60mg tomorrow. I am back to collapsing, sleeping too much, not being able to do much of anything. I may have to venture into experimental treatment which I hate the idea of because it requires monitoring, sometimes hospitalization, at least from what I’ve heard. The thought of it just sounds soul sucking, so I’ve tried to push myself to be productive enough and healthy enough to not appear totally dead inside and thus not in need of such bullcrap. But I’ve been incapable of hiding the worst of this for years now.

This non-poet’s dead

Scrounging and nothing. Writing the old, worsening on the best. words

relocating                      grammar failing, falling


no snaps emphatic whispers

literal                                                                                   complicated, yet I still do it

to no                                                                         who deciphers?

pleading for help

in words, self words. they never do.

with others–rare

(I’m not really dead)