Re-Living the Glory Days

Or, How “writing” yourself into a resume pins you down and wraps you into a neat tied up package.

How to Not Be a Pre-Wrapped Deliverable.


RIP Resume Waywardspirit

It’s that “resume” part of jobbing I wanna elbow the hell aside, punch out then tear past whooping.

I feel myself speed out of the stupor of conformity into the real, whatever it really is.

The thought of that octupussy pandora’s trap makes my skin crawl. That squirmy zombie octopus has a super power possessing shadow side. 

It’s designing dangerous and only alive in the insidious way of all deadly systems are alive.

It’s, it’s not natural.

It’s not actually alive. And it’s not part of the beauty of the ocean. It’s a monster.  

It’s the sweet lost ghosts of distant past I grew out of. Memories. Fantoms meant to predict the future. When they don’t.

It’s the past with it’s claws dug into my future’s neck. It pins down what’s alive and chokes it into zombie hood.


Thee looming boredom of repeating the past hurts my soul’s teeth like scraping them slowly all the way down that familiar chalkboard. 

Designing my own restrictions trying to do again what I did well before takes me back to being naughty.

“No go pick me a willow to spank you with.” 


You’re seven. 

You are supposed to be choosing the stinging green willow branch to whip red marks onto the backs of your bare legs.

This ends as it begins. Like writing a resume.


 I’d rather go put on some stipper shoes. 

How Do You Define A New Life?

What’s so good?



What do I do?
Here I am updating my LinkedIn profile, and back to being twelve. 

I feel like my kid-self gushing to my kid sister:
Look what I can do!
See what I just did?

Her forehead wrinkles.
Her eyes drain.  She cocks her brow.
Her chin turns up and her mouth turns down.
She looks away. Then turns back with a disinterest and 
that tone.
Her and LinkedIn, both.

What have you been doing for the last few years?

Yes. And?
What’s so good about that?
Oh yeah?
So what?
Yeah. But, what’s so good?

LinkedIn’s haughty smug questionnaires are a different kind of third degree.
Why, only that?
That doesn’t answer the question.
From when to when, and what exactly?

How does that add up?

I’m painting myself into a corner. My instinct is to back away from these intimidating forms trying to get me to trim myself down into a formula.

What are your accomplishments?

Even if I had been working at a conventional job for the past few years, I still wouldn’t up-sale my heroic accomplishments like most guys would.
I’d still be down-playing my worth and value like as many woman do.

What have you been doing for the last few years?

Do you really wanna know?

I didn’t think so.


Walk The Line


Experienceing the line between reality and fiction tastes indescribable, feels reality bending.
Reality, sometimes fluid often pliable can be the original awsome, even creepy, depending on the cultural vocabulary of images you can reach for when you attempt to describe what the hell just happend, or didn’t, either way, to yourself.
The universe isn’t so dull, is it, that each experiancer, always gets the same “unimaginable” experiance, always clearly describable in no uncertain terms, predictable, always positive or always negative or always neutral?
The boring-est movie ever is just like that. Zero ratings is just like the way I notice expecting my reality to behave: bland, unsurprising, predicable, all done before then institutionalized in some Bible or other. The terms, the code rules my experience snuggles under, folds into and creates itself by must be wearing a mass uniform.
My expectations must be so I can pass the boring enough test,  sane enough test, scientific enough test, has it happened before enough test.
Then, if it happens to pass those tests, these ones will weed it out: The is it possible? imaginable? repeatable? duplicatable? Even the just credible tests I lay on myself cuz I sorta want to fit in turn my world pink and elephantine.
Does my world exsist?
Squishing this me into a tiny cell I give myself as a sanity challenge doesn’t only look weird.

Squashes brain, constricts heart, deflates lungs, feet and hands cramp and tingle, tucked in tight.

I am gonna fit in. I wanna live in the world.
To live in here, is to fit in here.

Toes can’t even wiggle.

Wooooot! I am sane!

That and love began to exist the precise instant science figured out how to prove it does.
Before that, it didn’t exsist.

Inner Beings Outer Beings  Artfully Sync