Ya Know What I Was Thinking?

A Pen-ful of Leeches

I have several journals and notebooks: my daily OneNote notebook at work; also my daily scratch notes in a steno pad; my writing journal, which is so disorganized at this point I'm going to need Magnum P.I. to find a story I just wrote two months ago; my drawing journal consisting mostly of abstracts; and my freewrites. Oh, and now a blog. Sometimes I think I'm a schizophrenic in training.

Of all of these, my freewrite notebook is probably the most interesting to me. The writing journal winds up with solid ideas for finished pieces. But the notebook contains wild and random thoughts. When I write in my freewrite notebook, I write whatever comes to mind without editing in the moment. It could be word by word, and it could come out completely random and nonsensical; or an entire story could pour out unexpectedly.

But one thing that I've noticed about my freewrite journal is that it always tends toward the dark. There are some rather disturbing entries. Here's some entries from around this time for the past few years:

10/25/17 ▼

What is it I felt compelled to say, in the dark before sleep consumed me? I don't remember. Like most nights, I will sit here trying to recall what it is I felt I must write. The sweat will bead on my forehead, and I will grip my pen so hard I fear it will break. I might even cry a little. Some nights I'm sure I must have sweat blood from concentrating so hard, because the paper is printed with smears of it. Last night was the worst. I sat in the dark trying to remember, trying wrench the memory from my brain. But there was nothing there, nothing to write, nothing to confess, nothing to illuminate. I staggered back to my bedroom with my head throbbing, and my hands slick. This morning there were bloody smudges along the wall. I almost remembered, but the image of the judge's face imposed itself in my mind, as usual, and there was nothing. So here I am with pen in hand again, clutched like a dagger. What is it that I cannot bear to remember? Until I can pull that from my reluctant mind, I cannot finish my final note. I feel...

----------

Behind each word I randomly scatter in the sky like stars is a heart full of nails and stench that yearns for greener pastures.

12/8/19 ▼

The glass has turned cold I stare through the pane; I remember the nights when I would run my fingers through her hair. there's nothing that's the same.

the lights from the city sparkle from across the river but the bridge doesn't reach so far. I don't know why it's empty here; I don't know why I'm empty here. I don't even know what full is anymore.

the fingers are tight over my eyes. the shades are drawn, but they won't block out the light. they won't block out the light.

-------

I don't really know what the point is of taking notes I remember walking along the seawall as a child the metal railing leading down the steps into the sea didn't understand why people would walk down the steps into the sea I didn't understand why people would take a direct route to drown themselves makes more sense now.

10/6/20 ▼

I don't know if I'll ever be here again. Butch didn't think he would be either. But he's still here. That rock over there tells me where he is. No... Maybe it's that rock. Or that one? Hmmmm... I don't know if I should ever come here again. It's gotten kind of crowded.

11/2/21 ▼

So what if it hurts. it's only small no matter how big it is. So what if we bleed. So what if the street cries oily tears of joy when we break down in the gutters. So what if the mountains ring with the memories of other climes. So what if all we know is how much we wish we could be what we think we were. And when the warm summer nights and cold autumn rains sting our memories, so what if it hurts.

------

Tramp stamp
The damn ants
Trip trap trip trap
In and out of the black plants
Don't blink
Watch the ink
Trip trap trip trap
Around and down the black pipes
Of the sink

10/10/22 ▼

The essence of protection is isolation. You cannot share your crimes of passion when the prying ears of the only listeners are the walls and the wind. You have nothing to cry for if you hoard neither joy nor anger. There is nothing to fear in the dark or the light, in a dark sky or a bright eye. So don't go back. The shore is too far anyway. I don't want to go outside today.

11/30/23 ▼

The worst part of deja vu, thought Danny, was the feeling that you even had the deja vu itself before. So it felt like he remembered remembering killing Davenport even as he stabbed him in real time. Maybe I'm starting to like killing this guy, he thought, chuckling in a high-pitched little titter that was part nerves and part hysteria. Maybe I should start killing other people. You know, play the field. Stop murdering the same poor schmuck over and over. He tittered again, and Davenport's eyes glazed over in death. Just like last time, Danny thought.

-------

Just like last time is just like this time. Circles and cycles and psychos and mothers. I guess that's the way we have it when times change the way they have. Is it commentary or propaganda? The hype is third-page drivel, at this point.

------

I guess there's nothing else here, even though I feel it near--something I can almost hear, in words that aren't completely clear. But I guess, according to the medicine, there's really nothing here.

11/21/24 ▼

The nightly evening news. Back on the couch, back in sack, back in the hood, back on the block. Henley says you can never go back, but that's not true. You just probably shouldn't.

Everybody always wants to go back so they remember what it was like to want to get out. I remember the feeling when I tried to go back. The old roads didn't seem to go where they used to; the paths felt wrong underfoot. The old places we used to hang our oh-so-rebellious leather jackets and kick our feet up for a beer didn't fit right anymore. Had I outgrown the place, or had I just gotten overinflated myself? I didn't like thinking that way, but I better write it down to get it out. The longer it stays in, the more tangled it gets.

The past wasn't just sitting there waiting for me to come back to it so it could start up again. Life was living itself while I was away, and the girls and guys and cops and pushers I knew before I left were gone. And guys they liked, and the girls they lied about laying, and the creeps they were closing in on and the losers that followed them around for free pills sometimes were all gone, too. The people were all different, the places skewed and smaller.

All of it had moved on, and I didn't understand the place anymore. All give and moved on... Except old Mr. Take over at the Mercantile Center and Sundry Store. Sitting in that old cane rocker, looking at everyone, apparently seeing nothing. He was just a part of the furniture on the building's dark, cool porch. So it's understandable how badly startled I was when I heard him speak, directly behind me, after I passed him on the way to pick up a pack of undershirts.

His voice was wheezy and crackly, like an old radio, but underneath it was still powerful. "You' be understandin' soon now son. Better leave this place before you DO. And DON'T come back this time."

As he walked away, I looked around, but somehow he was down the block and out of sight by the time I finished turning around.

So many of them are weird and dark, strange and wandering. In many of them I ask myself, in one way or another, why they are so strange. But I've come to understand them: these are the random cuts that I make with my pen to let out the bad blood, bleed by bad brains clean again.

Everybody wants to let the dog off the leash sometimes, let it run and see what kind of damage it can do. But we stifle it throughout the day—good lord, we have to, unless we want to go to prison. But we, as writers, have a way to get it out, don't we? Do you do it, too? Do you just let the pen lead you through the roses or the thorns, whichever it chooses at the moment?

If so, perhaps you'll share some of the odd windings and wanderings of your bloody-bodied thoughts, distracted dreams, and frustrated frustrations. Or perhaps not; sometimes it's better to scream in the dark where no one knows if you're in pain or if you're a banshee.

Not the usual blog entry this one, I reckon. But I have to go now.

It's time for another bleedwrite freewrite.