Insight Into the Human Psyche

Writing

ugh

writing

im writing now

are you happy?

Does this please you?

Fuck you

and fuck you too autocorrect dont capitalize new sentences just cause they’re no sentences

FUCKING NO I DONT WANT TO UPDATE MY COMPUTER NOW will you stop asking please??

where am I?

Im on a bus right now

is this free form

is this art

just pass the time, pass the time with your fingers

dont stop

thats the game, odnt stop and dont let yor fingers top moving

dont go back and delete that sentence and edit

you cant

illegal

sorry

but keeep writing now distract the mind

your phone died so youu cant listen to music so this is the game now

how do you feel jake

to be honest not that well jake

thanks for asking

I feel like a crazy person but this is so much fun to do

not really

I guess it is

see theres your fucking problem jake you keep flip flopping

you have no real strong feelings on it

you cant even tell if youre having fun or not

you should know

thats like, super basic

thats a very necessary human emotion

why do you question so much

why do

oh fuck there you are questioning again

life isnt fucking poetyr jake

uts not art weither

im not even drunk

just committed to the game

where am I?

Im at a crossroads

not metaphorically you fool

im literally in a bus sitting at a cross roads now

theres a verizon and a bank pf america

and a neat place that had a dog on the cover but I could nt read what the sign says

at least I feel productive

this is kind of like pretending to do work

jesus

I mean, thats the worst

knowing that everything is my own faulkt

knowing I could be doing so much better

hey where are you working this summer?

Oh sorry I never turnd in my application

hey where are you living this summer

oh sorry I never turned in my application

hey what happened to your finger

oh sorry I never started my physical therapy so it got damaged permenantly

hey why are you alone right now

oh sorry I stopped talking to a bunch of my friends and now I think they dont like me anymore

why did you stop talking to them

I dont know

they stopped talking to me too

but I allowed the candle to die

ive been given second chance after second chance

and I cointinue to fuck uo

and I continue to write bullshit poetry and complain and talk to discuss it

thats the problem

everything is discussion

I talk I complain I handle everything logically at a distant

I know what my problem is

I’ve known what my problem has been for years

and I continue not to act or to solve it

and thats the fucking problem

oh goodness now im spiraling

you see where this goes

you see what happens when I free my ego

let the ouji board of the keyboard take over

that dumb fucking ghost of the subconcious

where does this come from

are you angry

its not even anger

its not eeven sadness

I think its just being

I think its being a human

I think everyone is this and evetyone has these moments

its not permenant

they never are

I just feel so bad right now

I hate the way I treat people

I hate the way I act in public

I hate the way I treat my family

im ashamed of things I shouldnt even be ashamed abputt

im gay but I dont even know if im capable of love

the only love that I feel is rational

have I ever fwlt it before?

Maybe

definitlye

I doubt it

stop fucking changing your mind, hands

stop typing all this buklshit stream of concious

but its better than being alone with my thoughts

staring out the window in silent selfloathing like I was before

fucking plays, man

thats the onus of all this

I saw a play

and it was so fucking good but now I feel so shitty

it tPped so true into the human condition

it was like watching myself on stage

and I realized that I hate myself

I sqaw so clearly the motivation of eveyr character and still kept my judgments for them

and I was judging myself

and every way I felt about those characters people feel about me

if they even do feel about me

I doubt it

I dont feel about people

im selfish and self involved

those are the same concepts byut I already typed them so I cant delete it

this is getting really depressing

but its cool to see how thought evolves like this

I literally ahvent stopped pressing keys

its been

I dont know how long its been

but its been loike 4 stops on this bus

lyons should be coming up soon

I like lyons

its a good train station

my parents always leave me the car when I come home

and they leave me the good car

so I can charge my phone and play my music

I love to play my music through the car speakers

and sing along

and dance in my seat

its like my own personal concert

and when im alone

truly alone, not like being alone in public like I am now

and im able to love myself

and have fun

its a kind of feeling that I just wish so desperatelky I could emulate with another human being

someone I could truly feel alone with

but I feel their eyes

piercing, judging, predatory

even the people who love me

and the people who I love

fill me with terror

I feel like a meal

like porey, waiting to be devoured by the uncaring hyuman populace

I see it in their eyes

even when its not their

I feel them listening to me

criticizing me

I feel them watching me

hating me

all nthe while never having a thought about me

just living their own lives

not that anyone should have a thought about me

but it drives me crZY

sometimes I cant take it

and I want to crawl into a ball and disappear within the confines of my own self

noises noises noises

even the air is hard to breathe sometimes

it chokes me

and I feel like I cant be me

and I feel like I cant be

and thats also super depressing

I dont know why I keep spiraling

its pathetic

because it seems so obvious that any self loatinhg is a cryu for help

like im some idiot high schooler ouring his irrelevant heart into his journal

and now im different

im grown

and now im some idiot college student pouring his irrelevant into this computer

as if I was better now

as if I could ever ve better

if anything im only getting worse

remember being 6

everyone loved me when I was 6

even if they hated me they had to reconcile that with the fact that I was 6

now I have no excuses

thats the thing

no excuses

the only difference between childhood and adulthood is responsibility

and for some people that difference changes everything about them

and for others they stay exactly the same

and its been raining like crazy, and I think that compounds the current mood

but its really cathartic to type get this out

maybe I should send this to someone

it would be cool for someonw to have this glimpse into me

but to know that this is no indication of my fuller person

and I know that this is just a random branch off of my subconcious that I chose to leap onto

none of this is real

ill wake up tomorrow, read this, be disgusted, be happy, move on

then ill feel shitty

and ill do something loike this again

then ill hate and feel happy

and feel guilt for ever even not being happy

and maybe ill spiral again

but that sounds bad

but its not bad

its pretty good, I think

some people have it way worse

some people think their depression is forever

but just because im always going to be sad doesnt mean im never going to be happy

im happy and sad in equal measures

I think everyone is

come to think about it I think everyone has to be

if when youre ont sad youre happy and when youre not happy youre sad then it kind of balances out

just by concept

that was one sentence

but it took up two lines

thats interesing.

Not really

but im losing it

and im just tapping keys to pass the time

I wish my phone didnt die

I wish a lot of things

this town is cute

im in millingont!

That means lyons is coming up and I can leave you alone

and listen to my music

and party

I have a had ache

I never used to get head aches

but now it seems like I always have a headache

like not a bad one

but constant

and I always feel like im just a couple of inches off from myself

and a dull pain ringing slowly, bothering me only slightly throughout the day

maybe its a cafeine thing

maybe its a sleep thing

maybe its a result of living the lifestlye that I live

but I always come up eith one excuse

and I spend the rest of that day following it

oh its just a caffeine thing, let me get some coffee

let me just go to bed

itll be gone in the morning

it usually isnt

but its nice to hope

and evey day I feel closer

even if im not

I feel like im builidng myself

like im imcomplete

but I feel like one of those shapes on the graph from high school math that approaches the axis but

never reaches it

it had something to do with the word Asymptote

I dont know what that word means any more

holy shit I forgot all my math

thats weird

thats so weird to me

I used to be like, the smart guy

that was my thing, being smart

I knew math and science and all that shit

and I based my personality around being nerdy and “intelligent”

and now im not

im kind of an idiot

what have I done with my life?

Its a pretty good life though

if I do say so myself

ive done a lot of cool shit

but life is more than a connect the dots of cool shit youve done

and I think thats a lesson everyone needs to learn

and I feel lucky for having learned it now

im here now

im at the station

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Somewhere That Ain’t Here

I’m not sure how long I drove for. Was it three hours? Five? More?

Shit.

Look, I don’t know how this happened. It’s still surreal, like a dream that keeps looping like a broken CD that doesn’t know when to stop skipping.

It wasn’t supposed to end up like this. Not with me driving a beat up ’97 F-150 across five states with nothing but some country CDs, a half-empty bottle of watered-down whiskey, some potato chips, and my best friend in the trunk.

This truck is now my sole living companion. Unlike people, trucks can be resuscitated—filled up with energy and running like new. Which is I’ve stopped at a gas station at 3 in the morning in Whothefuckcaresville, Tennessee.

—–

Seeing as there’s fuck all to talk to except you, I should probably explain how my best friend got in my trunk.

We were two people who knew each other from the moment our mamas put us in the same Pre-K class. Or maybe earlier.

Anyhow, the point I’m trying to make is that we go way back. Or rather, went.

But I digress.

—–

We shared everything growing up—football, classes, colleges, even down to the philosophical bullshit we muttered to the stars in a field full of tipped cows.

So I’m guessing it was only natural to him that he thought he could share my wife.

Now, when someone is a faithful wife that’s kind and smart and funny, that’s something to behold. But when someone unlocks the key to your soul and sees what lies underneath and still chooses to love you all the same—that’s beyond incredible. Beyond stupendous. She’s practically a gift from God.

So you can imagine my surprise when I find the woman who saved me from myself being plowed spread-eagle in my bedroom last night.

Now, crimes of passion are common in this country—no surprise considering what a country this is. But when a man that you trust comes into your home and violates the most sacred person in your life, that’s beyond reprehensible.

You see red. Nothing but shades of furious red. You see red even when you fight him and she screams for us to stop and you take his pistol and cock it and pull the trigger.

—–

This gas station is fucking pathetic. Nothing here but a closed-down restaurant from a local fast food chain, a shuttered souvenir store, and some crappers. Unimpressed, I answer nature’s call and head back to my car.

—–
One more anecdote before I call it a night on the side of a country road just off the freeway:

I saw a sign in one of the stalls while I did my business. It said, “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here”.

Tempting. But not just yet. When the morning comes and everyone else resumes their lives and commutes, I’ll silently slip into their masses.

And as for me?

I’ll drive until I can call somewhere home again.

Untitled Pc. 1

there was a certain silence.the kind you only find when two people know each other exceptionally well.and it was dark. but i could still see small traces of betrayal forming in every word he said.it’s not that i wasn’t listening, i was.ever so carefully. but i had half a mind to forget he was even still standing there, walk away, and leave him and his lies at my doorstep.but i didn’t.instead, i listened to the silence, growing thicker as the seconds passed. our voices empty and void of meaning. his presence cold, and mine skeptical. i was waiting for words that would never come, and he was forgetting all the things he once wished he could say. we were both dying, but perfectly healthy, thriving, and very much alive. small talk always dies fast, but fire? fire burns, long and hard, before you shut the door and let him drive away.

© 2015; Keara Soller

F O M O

Open.

 

The blue bursts brilliant and bombastic into a bedroom, bubbling with the ebullience of the outside world, like hugging sunbeams when outside was the cloudiest of bleak days. He was enraptured, the boy at the screen. The electronic hum pulsed over his shoulders and disconnect fell in a shadow behind him. Everyone was at his fingertips. Loneliness was a thing of the past. His fingers clambered about the keyboard, racing his messages to the world of friends that was compartmentalized on this little glowing square. The F, the majestic and regal blue F at the farthest right corner, could have easily stood for just about anything, like ‘friendship’ or ‘flight of fancy’ or even ‘fantasy’. It was his fantasy come true, to connect with so many people without the existential ogre of emotional recognition or nonverbal cues, of interpreting the imperfect languages of mute linguistics. He couldn’t bear raising eyebrows to his own perplexed ones, watching words slither from mouths where the origin could never be seen in the darkness of the gullet, where laid the mind of voice, that threatened to swallow him whole if he dare answer the two face riddles wrong.

 

All of that was gone. If he was resented, he could block resentment. If he was defied, he could delete mutiny. If he was made to clutch his stomach in any fashion of shame, churning acid reflux chyme at the scar of a weak stomach, he could tighten his jaw and open the scar onto his enemies. They would drown in his wounds. He was detached from everyone and yet connected to their heartbeats. He felt their pulse as though they were his own. He could belong to something, to the mass consciousness of the world. He was their friend. They liked his updates. They liked him.

 

 

Refresh!

 

 

Scene change. The boy, maybe a man but certainly head tilted like a boy, stands amidst the red solo cup homogeny of a party, solo blue-minded. He makes the rounds, nursing a Budweiser filled to the brim with flat flavor and making fake conversation, trilling topics in flat notes so as to spare the sensitive ear of his listeners. They all sing flat lines in a rhapsody to their disharmony. Yet, they belong, do they not? The boy never sips, never tips, always services with lip, and never ever dips into the raucous discontent inside of him. He lauds a thousand theories but would never publish a one to the transcript of his ideology; they are drunken half thoughts that are plucked and picked from the half-understood half pages of half-assed courses dedicated to full thinkers. He thinks he knows this, but he lauds a Buzzfeed philosophy dissertation where half the footnotes are discrediting Buzzfeed.

He thinks he’s missing out still. He is frantically trying to leave to his next party, but can never surmise the audacity to bid adieu to the memories that could be made in this banal cove. But if he doesn’t leave and head to that one Liz’s party- not the one with the lips, the one with the books and yet not the one with the Nietzsche books who has the nice butt, the one with the Sanskrit books and has the septum piercing that looks particularly painful, more so than others- he will miss out on those memories. Perhaps he gets lucky and lands his passion onto her bed. Maybe he lands his passion with her perhaps-boyfriend.

 

What does he want?

 

Refresh!

 

He actually opted for none of those options. He left early in a collision chamber of decision anxiety and is collecting false experiences on his computer screen. The blue hum sinks onto his clothes and presses against his eye until they are imploding and cracking from the pressure. Tears escape the fissures of his vulnerable mind, releasing sediments of sentiment ores, of the missing out that he is experiencing.

 

Refresh!

 

In the blink of an eye, a thousand experiences roll down the consciousness of the screen’s wall, forever here and forever gone, like photographs in the museum of his fears. He reaches out to grab them, latching for the bygone opportunities to connect to his fellow man, the opportunity to find the immaculate other of his split personhood, the opportunity to be.

 

Refresh!

 

The blue, it bombs belligerently onto the belabored brain, breaking and burning with the byzantine of belonging. Boy, you are a far ways from the world in your bedroom. You are a far ways from your bedroom on the square screen that captures you in its disgusting maw of artificial stories; they are picked and plucked moments of half-anxious lives carried by half-developed people, telling half-truth stories via the lexicon of half-muddled philosophies.

 

Backspace.

 

The blue F, daunting and hypnotizing like the world of a puppeteer, is at the cross section of his eyes, and it could stand for anything, like ‘fear’ or ‘facetiousness’ or even ‘fantasy’. Only 5% of the people who hold the title ‘friend’ are actually considered his friend. The five percent of friends he has, they wield weapons at his side, for they are forever in love with the humanity that is trapped inside the world that lures him with the promise of belonging. They tremor and erupt at his defense and they clutch at the back of his throat when he departs and plunges himself into the deep end of social schizophrenia.

 

Close.

 

He doesn’t need to belong. There is nothing to belong to but the shifting consciousness of false smiles appeasing the transience of everyone. He doesn’t need to care. The burning ‘x’ at the top of screen, sputtering prophecies of holy peace, beckons to him. He can live within the world. He can depart the ubiquitous eyes that roll in confusion at everything, but move so quickly that they never seem to leave him. He can run, because it won’t see him. He fails to realize, we all think we believe but never actual do believe, that this fear, that omnipresence is the greatest loneliness of all and that missing out is the unbearable pain of the modern age, is a fallacy.

 

Shut down.

 

Reboot.

 

 

He closes his computer. He leaves the party. He says goodbye to the people. He walks out the door. He enters the streets of the downtown area. He’s in a city, he realizes. Or he’s next to the library. Or he’s at the theater. He’s at a gallery. He’s at the gazebo in the middle of the park. He’s somewhere where he can hear his heart call out to him, longing and loving. He doesn’t escape from himself, he heeds to it, and in it, this sanctuary that runs sanguine with the drapes or the curtain or the painted town that is his absolute being, he transcends into what he was missing out on all along.

 

 

 

Refresh.

Sanguine Stockholm

There was a young man, let us call him “Notme”, who is staring at a mirror. It was a mirror born out of squalor, the kind found on the street with detritus of civilization shuffling about it. It was the kind with little chips in it and the framing has a plumage of splinters waiting for you to make a stupid move so it could draw your blood and laugh at you about it. That kind of mirror.

And behind this young man was a monster. Not the Grimm fairy tale or the televised pop culture Del Toro “still manageable enough to enjoy some popcorn to”. It was a wretched audacious affront to all creation. It was a shadowy and floating recluse. It had a world of eyes about it, protruding and ever so intruding, staring down the infinitesimal scope inside Notme’s earholes into his eardrums banging out war rhythms and dirges and all sorts of melancholy affairs. These eyes were crack addicts, as in they were addicted to the cracks in them, never sleeping and never blinking and they loved that they were constantly fixated on this one person. It had teeth, what awful circulating saw jagged monstrous teeth it had on the back of its front. He couldn’t hear or see the mouth speaking, but it was there and if Notme were to claim “aha, I see you!” he would be snatched up and eaten by it. It wanted to eat him. It wanted to eat him whole. The front mouth, the small demure motherfucker mouth, it fed him little lies. Regurgitating like a motherbird to its twisted dying child, trying to console it that, no, it wasn’t twisted at all. And then there were the appendages, these lengthy lashing large livid lacerating things I guess we could tentacles with little hooks on the end.

The monster hated him. Notme hated the monster. The monster wanted to eat him. Notme wanted the monster to die.

But he didn’t how to kill the monster, because he only saw it when he saw himself.

So, maybe, he needed to break this mirror. Maybe he needed to bleed and curse the monster. He shoots for the mirror with his fist, badly made, and shatters a piece of it. He screams at it

“MOTHERFUCKERMOTHERFUCKERMOTHERMOTHERFUCKERFUCKFUCKGOD!”

Tears like god-damned pouring showers, as the monsters grabs his arms and crashes them into his head.

CRASH! into the temple! It’s blue now! He’s dizzy! He doesn’t stop! It goes again, and again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again-GODDAMIT!!- and it won’t stop until he’s on the floor gasping for consciousness and trying to stay sober-teared. Sober-minded of a temple that had been desecrated by the death wish of a child with a monster following him everywhere.

Do you see this thing?!                                                                It’s so fucking ugly!

It scares him. It scares other people when he describes it to them, and they turn away and say they can’t help him with that, that he has to stop it himself. Did you see when it grabbed his hand and made beautiful artsy expressionist etchings on his stomach with a knife, how edgy!

The monster says to him, “let’s take your hands and make dirges and symphonies of your hands smashing on the keys and call it ‘pain’ and then write your name ‘genius’. Let’s make a Jackson Pollock out of the blood you’re shedding from yourself, and then the tears will give it chiaroscuro and it becomes Rembrandt and then you faint and fall face first and now it’s post-modern!”

Then the monster, when he’s on the floor, crying and gasping for consciousness, will hug him. He will embrace him. Because he can’t let him die. He wants him so badly. He is so jealous that he tells him that he’s too good for everyone, that no one loves him. That only he loves him. This beautiful monster, cooing and hushing the crying Notme.

Notme only knows how to be intimate with the monster that follows him everywhere but only appears in the mirror that he found among the detritus of a sad society. The fucking mirror is broken, because he was a fuck that tried to break it and his hands are useless now. He only sees pieces of himself now.

A Brief Musing on Loneliness

(Written in 2011)

There is an inarticulate feeling that corrupts. It is a feeling that does not know how to present itself in words, or why it exists. Yet, it is a poignant state of being, one that clenches at the very essence of your fears of which holds you back from the world and rockets you into it at the same time. The madness eats you from the inside, the insecurity of it all gnawing away until there’s no more. It makes you beg the question as to why you are not that particular person which the people you so desire to be adored by, to be in the company of, all flock to be with. This insecurity plants the delusional thought in your mind that they possess something you don’t, a godly trait that fixes them upon the highest pedestal of the social order, adored and cared for in the smallest of concerns. All the while, yours cripples you into a debilitating sadness every breathing moment you gaze on this scene. When your world is succumbed into darkness, this delusion perpetuates the reality that no one is there, and no one can comfort you, and it’s your fault.

And, quite frankly, it is your fault, but only for allowing the rotten seed to fester. The seed makes itself seem indomitable, incurable, and invincible to your efforts. When you try and reach for the roots burrowing into your troubled mind, the ones that also stab holes into your tear ducts and make you cry, to try and yank it out, it pulls back viciously. The hand that reaches for help, a human companion of affection or care or tender warmth amidst a frozen world, is smashed into the ground in frustration, for it simply cannot do so. The delusion, the disease of which we call loneliness, has attended to its own survival by perpetuating in the minds of its victims that it is them that are at fault, that it is them that are inadequate to be rid of loneliness. It deludes them to believe that they should fear to try, that they should fear people and fear rejection. It does this by encumbering their minds and their actions with the gnawing roots of insecurity. That is how it survives: it feeds off you, and it distorts your reality into the paranoia of unheard rumors, feigned smiles, and unsympathetic ears. Although, in reality, they are every bit as great as they wish they were.

It encourages the disease when others gave you a glimmer of some justice in your life, who feigned smiles or gave false testimony to some virtue you were deceived into believing existed. The cruel dishonesty pierces the heart more brutally than any blade, and when you call upon the gleam of light, you see it’s merely a light bulb with a switch, switching on and off at the whim of its own vanity. Their vanity, however, is but a constituent to the delusion, a tool, but it works so perfectly, because it is the carrier of this delusion that feels crushed.

This disease is not entirely their faults, the lonely. The reason is because they’ll try with all their might to fix it, to ease their loneliness and seek happiness. Yet, the best they can do is search for outreached hands or affection or care. If they are denied this, if they are left to their solitude forever and no one calls upon them for their company, they will wither into darkness. It is one thing to work for that affection, a grueling affair that usually leads to disappointment. It is painful. People take their company for granted; they treat people incorrectly, when those who don’t have anyone would do anything to be in someone’s company, to feel warmth. Listen with your hearts, for the masks of the lonely bear the same fakeness of those who are tended to, for they wish to be like them, and reach out. Sometimes it’ll make all the difference in someone’s life to shine some light in the darkness of someone’s loneliness. Let them realize that they are, in fact, quality people

Copyright 2014

The ‘Why’ of GPA: “The Prequel to the Manifesto”

In a distant past of three weeks ago, I was someone who wasn’t drawn to or even remotely interested in having any sort of web presence, particularly for the vast amount of written work I was composing. My reasons aren’t necessarily relevant, as it revolves around my disinterest in the predominant culture presented to be ‘social media & blogging’. There was something grating about the personas thrown about, a virtual cafeteria food fight of pettifoggery and one-sided dogmas. Yet, I had a journalism class this semester that wholly emphasized how tantamount web presence was becoming in our rapidly inter-connecting digital world. So I had to adapt, scrap my previous notions and swallow my pride ( a process of unhinging my jaw and inflating my esophagus whole for this beast wouldn’t down easily). I made a blog via Google to complete the assignment and because I hadn’t been doing the blog posts we were expected to do, I instead just posted my short stories. A lot of these were on Facebook, which is where I’d post them throughout high school, hoping my peers would read them and comment and provide me feedback.So, I just dumped maybe a dozen of them  onto this blog, this wretched ‘Kino-Gutai Bundle’ nonsense, and presented it to the class with the mask of ambition. I suggested that I wanted to use this format to further my writing, which wasn’t at all what I was considering. I wanted the assignment done.

I felt slightly embarrassed, though, looking at the skills and effort that went into all the other websites and then looking at mine in comparison, a drying worm to sharks. My writing, I thought, deserved better than the composite of Facebook and this wretched Kino-Gutai Bundle, for my writing was always something I cared deeply about, but never seemed to be competent enough to market properly. Nor was I willing to so easily abandon my principles to become a social media attention whore.  So I looked at my blog following the class and decided that it needed to be majorly revamped now that I finally had time to work on this, my film work and paper writing being complete. Yet, this isn’t a why. This is the meager how, that prelude which whispers on street corners with promises of fantastical trips to the vice of transcendence. This is a modest first step to an arrogance.

So, we’re here. At Gutai-Pravda Assembly. Why are we here, then? At first, yes! it was but a dumping ground for the work of myself and an old friend, Schackalackmann, and the more we poured ourselves into establishing routine, placing work for months in advance, I felt tenderness for this conscription of codes and datum. Truly, I think I poured myself into this as much as I did so as to overcome a tremendous depression and heartbreak I was recovering from. And, when things seem bleak for me socially, I try my hardest and most sincerest to displace my attention to work, like building something so loudly that the power tools overpower the whimpering inside me. It’s an act of sublimation, taking my passions to ignite flames to the decay of gnarling and constricting plants so that I may replant the garden I cultivate within me with something beautiful. But we didn’t have a mission. We were just working and throwing ideas around, the two of us, with him always reporting back to me that it was indeed my brainchild.

But, if it’s the product of my mind, why ought I ever constrain that engine of idea and emotion, and so, I realized, this blog should be as daring as I hope myself to be. I became ambitious with this, and I let the ambition wrap about me, blanketing the cold skin on me and bracing me against everything. It is so very empowering to be given this open pasture, this freedom. Also, if it’s the product of my mind, it should host its darkness.

And there we find what I want. I am not meaning to say I host harmful or deconstructive presences, as I seldom allow those within myself to begin with. I absolutely do not intend on this publication and collective to be a harbor for malevolent intention. Instead, I want it to be an agent of good. But, the darkness I speak of isn’t one of outright malice or ‘evil’, rather it speaks to anguish and pain and sufferings and disenfranchisement.

Writing, for me, was forever the podium of inarticulate coldness in my soul, made palpable in the power of language, and I cherished that power. It was also a stage for my imagination to tell stories that I could never hope to see in reality or the multiplex. It also grows arms and tendrils and caresses the wounds of others, the ability of someone who cares to write. I learned this and I wanted to pursue this collective stress ball.

Schackalackmann and I, we have a lot of ideas being thrown around. We are flirting with the minds of other creative types to perhaps join us on this adventure. We want to become something prominent and something large and something spectacular. But to what end? As I was reading advisory sites on building site traffic, I noticed a few of them discussing the mission statement of a blog, a ‘why’, and that we did’t have that. We were, firstly, a dumping ground of short stories and, secondly, a playground for our absurdist natures, which is all fair because absurdity is life-affirming. So, in the flux of getting our awareness and name through the door, I’ve taken it upon myself to establish a persona, a banner, for what Gutai-Pravda Assembly is and why it is, at least to my awareness now.

We want to be true to our name, which we’ll discuss surely, and by that I mean an “embodiment of truth”. But because that is the most obliviously abstract thing to claim, we’re very open to interpretations. I have my take and Schackalackmann has his, surely (or not…. which is fine.) I want this site to be an open haven to madness and creative ricochets and sadness and a place where the taboo of being oneself is cast away in a violent coup. To grow up under the scrutiny and persecution of stigmas shouldn’t break us. We are broken by these chains of words, how language binds us and how people hurt us. Yet, we should strive to use language to empower us and to love people. Not even language of word, but language of reality, of our reality and how we perceive it and how we interpret the beauty of our worlds, respectively. I want that, I want people to come alive, I want the sexual and intellectual energy of existence to shoot supernova from what we do.

Will we  succeed? I don’t know. I’ve never really known much. I’ve been forever playing it by the ear, I suppose, and really most of us kind of are in this unfamiliar era where our thoughts, like this nonsense blog post, can reach millions of consciousnesses in a matter of seconds. This is the bravest of new worlds and we are its conquistadors, so let’s embrace that unknown. I want, ultimately, a better attempt at understanding, for to understand fully is to fight every issue at the root of its existence. And to be understood. As do you. And you should.

I have a good feeling about this, so we’re gonna do our best to be entertaining, thought-provoking and brutally transparent with you, for we all deserve something like that.

Love,

Gaucho