Book 01 Chapter 08

“Stir Crazy (Procedural Memory)”

I don't know.
I just don't know.
That's the problem.
I'm putting pieces together into giant supernovas of thought
but I can't seem to hold two thoughts in my head at the same time.
Or generate new ones anymore.
I keep stuffing other people's idea into my head.
Violently. Voraciously. Viciously.
Looking for sparks to ignite the gray kindling in my mind.
But nothing catches.
The thoughts catch… on a funk loop as it ends.
And starts again.
But I'm just lost.
Adrift.
No idea what the fuck is going on.
Or where I'm going or what I'm supposed to think or say.
The world keeps telling me what I'm supposed to think and say.
But they're wrong.
They've always been wrong.
For as long as my father's been lying when he ran out of answers.
For as long as the world has been telling women how to wear their hair.
For as long as…
Fuck anaphora.
Fuck memory, procedural or otherwise.
Fuck Sting and Russians and the Cold War and the USSR
And the deep fissure in my psyche that's ticking like the atomic clock
Fuck the growing feeling of hysteria
Fuck! I'm doing it again.

Because I'm stuck.
I'm lost.
In a haze of "what in the ever-loving goat-shitting fuck are we doing?"
Why am I burying myself in my own psychosis
Stuck indoors while the worlds breathes heavily onto each other's mouths
I mean, I don't want to damage my heart any more than I already have
But why am I bothering to care about any of you greedy bastards?
You know life isn't fucking fair when the King of Wakanda dies on arrival
But Karen's everywhere are gonna be just fine
I have enough money to stay in doors
I have enough money to wonder why I'm helping you all
That's the privilege
We've named that thing now
It's a luxury not all of us are afforded.

But is it a luxury? Is it really a privilege?
Sitting here pondering my own thoughts certainly feels luxurious
But is it really luxury or is it need?
The argument with privilege
(and I'm not arguing against it I'm trying to make a point everyone might see)
Is that, when compared to me,
someone with unequal access or access to fewer resources
would not necessarily have the spare time I have.
If they have no transportation for themselves, public transit consumes time.
If they have fewer jobs locally or less food they may commute longer for basic needs.
All these studies that talk about the productivity of our time,
but never the content of our minds.
So many brilliant black women wrote their stories any place, any time they could find.

We think everywhere.
We feel and bleed everywhere.
We can create art and record our thoughts everywhere.
That's not privilege.
That's need.
We need to think.
We also need time and we need space.
And there's the privilege.
Not a privilege to think or feel or record.
The privilege of time and space to work through it.

Fire needs oxygen to breath.
I'm suffocating, and the kindling won't catch.

Tick. Tick. Tick.
Noise.

I've been filling my days with noise.
I can't remember the last time I sat in silence.
…
What am I afraid I'll hear?
What am I afraid I'll say, really?
My poor brother asleep in the next room and I can't stand the fucking silence.
I have to fill it.
I have to figure it out.
What the fuck is rattling around in this mind.
I can't keep playing with the attachments.
There are only so many ides that fit into my head before synthesis is necessary.
Nothing is catching.
Procedural memory works slowly.
I don't know what to give myself for instant gratification that doesn't involve money or food.
I can't run because you fuckers are viral bombs waiting to kill me.
I can't go somewhere because…
You get my point.
I'm trying to interrupt my anger but maybe I just need to let it all out.

Where?
Where?
There's nowhere to fucking go.
I think I've hit my breaking point.
Nine months of solitude is my limit.
I can only rearrange my room so many times.
I make plans to help address my anxiety.
I solve problems.
I like puzzles.
Maybe I'll buy some puzzles and those will be my rewards.
Something small.
Where the fuck would I put one.
There are no flat surfaces.
FUCK MY LIFE.

Oh this pity party got stupid.
But I'm smiling. Which is always good.
I'd forgotten how cathartic this was.
I always swing around to something happy in the end.
That puzzle thing has merit.
Maybe after I rearrange the living room.

I'm doing it again.
I'm organizing.
Last summer I was so paralyzed I couldn't even organize.
I feel that lost again.
Like I can't control my moods anymore.
Like I can't even relate to people in the way I used to.
I think my anxiety is over 9000
I keep wondering about things that are crazy
I need to stop doing that.
I need to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.
I need to stop using anaphora so much.
It's really fucking annoying now.
I don't know.
I just don't fucking know right now.

What do I know?
Darren Korb and Drop Electric are amazing
I need a change bigger than a room re-arranging
I need to take a second look at Wendy Wood
I need nicotine
Instead I'm going to eat something
Wish me luck