Dear Diary

Dear Kumachan (from TEDDY BEAR),

I found a dusty, old moleskin journal poking out of a box while cleaning out my bookshelf; I was ridding it of the random envelopes and old collages sandwiched in between books. My sneeze managed to knock over the undersized lamp shade- the one that all my friends tell me to replace because it "doesn't fit". I flung open its pages, eager to figure out who it belonged to. In it read tales of a troubled youth who seemed to be gripping with unraveled layers of what it is to be human. I couldn't believe the writings of adolescent me as I cozied onto the carpet to flip through its pages. Though slightly disturbing and at parts, unrecognizable, I really missed that person who didn't know exactly what they were writing but somehow always managed to be writing.

It ignited a passion of sorts to pick up the pen again. Though I am still dealing with similar grippings, I can’t write about that stuff! Because surely by now I should have come to terms with what it means to be human right?

Writing down whatever jumble of thoughts came to mind worked in a therapeutic sense, but now I’m really interested in writing to an audience. I’d be lying If I said I wasn’t terrified.

What if I'm too pretentious in my writings or no one can relate? What if I’m not actually a writer? Even worse, what if people actually read my writings?


       Scared Shitlessly,
         Teddy Bear


***


Dear Teddy Bear,

I’d like to let you in on a little secret. There is only one way to get over the fear of a blank page. It may behoove you to examine what you’d like to achieve in your writing. If your plan is to become the next Rowling then you may remain with an empty page forever. If your goal is simply to begin writing then make it easy on yourself and just begin there.

Evaluate your expectations and try to remain within those parameters. Rid yourself of the idea that good writers began that way and through discipline, practice, and humility, work towards the ability to create pieces that you are actually proud of. Most of all, allow yourself to enjoy the process and forget about the destination this early on. Failure was a concept philosopher Emil Cioron embraced well into his success as a writer. He deemed it a more authentic representation of the human experience.

What I’m about to tell you next is much less of a secret. Everyone, everywhere, everyday, is gripping with what it means to be human. Dare not to make the mistake of striving to be what you believe you ought to be. Allow your oddities and confusions to prompt deeper explorations within your writings. After all, this is what creating writing is all about. There is no right or wrong here.

Writing is a place to let your creativity run wild and really explore. Doing so will be much more difficult with mental gymnastics standing in the way.

The only people who aren’t writers are people who do not write.


     Yours Always,
           Kumachan

Two notions now keep us from the acceptability of rational criticism of religion after discovering its utilization in the early precepts of establishing civilization and from then on, serving the interests of its many contributors in the name of the abyss. The first being the belief that good things come from this sort of indoctrination such as community, civility, and social contract that may not be derived elsewhere which is false and the work of the humanist to dispel such myth by not deploring the civility that was fostered by this but reestablishing and further asserting these notions to a rational and secular application for the betterment and benefit of humanity beyond deism and organized religion- reserved only for those who adhere and believe. The second and most detrimental myth standing in the way of exoneration is the belief that we are reduced to base inhibitions such as anger, greed, hatred, and it is only which religious structure can we suppress and keep in order such instincts. “We must recognize the price we are paying as a society in upkeeping the iconography of our ignorance.”

i've managed quite the temper over the course of adolescence that has managed to follow me into adulthood in sporadic and unpredictable bursts. the last couple of years i've seen exponential growth however and for the first time in my life I feel that I actually have a grip on my emotions.

She needed more. She piled the expensive wagyu toppings on her piping hot bowl of pho while ordering her fourth cocktail. The servers congregated a table down to gossip of her gluttony but it only made her bang on the table to demand more. For dessert she insatiably puffed her fifth cigarette while arranging her sixth date of the night. She needed more. More tattoos that numb the voices that scream to her at night and float around the room in chalk white ghostly cloaks of terror. More screaming, more ghosting, more shrieking fiery terror. She collects the blood of her scars to use as blush and paints herself into streaks of panic when chaos doesn’t properly ensue her neverending drama. It was the only way she knew to exist about in a world that could never seem to offer her enough. She knew where to take from. If it wasn’t stuffing little perfumes into her pocket in the far isle of Ross, it was poking at the pockets of the men she used for sex.

“Slow down kitty,” one of them told her. “There’s enough to go around.”

“Feed me now,” she cried. “ Please don’t let me go empty.”

Until the last one ran off with her crown and left her in a bathtub of despair . Alone, empty, broken. She stayed there for months and moved only to dump piles of her belongings into the neighborhood garbage disposal. Every high heel, every phone book, every scream and fight and want that she could dispose of. Until she forgot what it felt to want. There in a vacant room she was. Abandoned, alone, full.

i've managed quite the temper over the course of adolescence that has managed to follow me into adulthood in sporadic and unpredictable bursts. the last couple of years i've seen exponential growth however and for the first time in my life I feel that I actually have a grip on my emotions.

i've managed quite the temper over the course of adolescence that has managed to follow me into adulthood in sporadic and unpredictable bursts. the last couple of years i've seen exponential growth however and for the first time in my life I feel that I actually have a grip on my emotions.

i've managed quite the temper over the course of adolescence that has managed to follow me into adulthood in sporadic and unpredictable bursts. the last couple of years i've seen exponential growth however and for the first time in my life I feel that I actually have a grip on my emotions.

i've managed quite the temper over the course of adolescence that has managed to follow me into adulthood in sporadic and unpredictable bursts. the last couple of years i've seen exponential growth however and for the first time in my life I feel that I actually have a grip on my emotions.

i've managed quite the temper over the course of adolescence that has managed to follow me into adulthood in sporadic and unpredictable bursts. the last couple of years i've seen exponential growth however and for the first time in my life I feel that I actually have a grip on my emotions.

I lost my beloved Penelope yesterday and stayed up until 2am looking for her. I am now mourning a stuffed animal. I keep looking under and between things with hope that she’ll show up but I think she’s actually gone forever. Yeah there are worse things happening to people in the world right now but a huge part of my healing has been resorting back to a childlike state so yeah I’m sitting here crying over a plushie but there was once a time I was foaming at the mouth in a ditch at 3am because my mom threw a bunch of knives at me so, whatever. I keep thinking back to Kafka's letter to the little girl from her stuffie that is off to see the world. Or Mr. Lipsky’s puppet show of the girl who doesn’t yet have an ending but is off to find one and I feel a little better. Part of it is she went everywhere with me and there was an emotional bond that I am only now realizing. In a way she was me. A lot of my social experiences in life growing up included being hypersexualized by creepy men and mean girls who were intimidated by me and therefore mean so having Penelope hang from my bag, for the most part, helped me mitigate a lot of that. I felt that she brought me back down to Earth and humanized me not only to myself but to the people I described above. It was all for a stupid lamp on facebook marketplace that I went out for because even though I already have 3 in my very tiny studio (not a fan of overhead lighting), they are not sufficient in lighting my vanity space that I’d like to spend more time at. My only hope is that a little girl found her and that she now feels as safe as I always did with Penelope.

When it comes to breaking free from addiction which I have now done a few times in my life, the mourning comes from letting go of a life and persona that you believed was you. The problem is that maybe you didn’t actually have a you and so hiding behind the curtains and masquing with addiction became that. I have dealt with identity crisis more times than I can count and when people look confused when I am unable to recall certain details from my childhood/past, and hardly recognize who I was even 8 years ago, it is because I am accustomed to shedding many different skins. Skins that were sewn with misogyny, indoctrination, poverty, racism, sexual assault, isolation, homelessness, etc…

I’ve tried to fit into so many molds that it is only now, at the ripe age of 24, that I can say for the first time in my life, that I feel any semblance of who I actually am. Though very lonely at times, living alone was a major catalyst and I think everyone should do it at least once in their lifetime. Oh yeah and psilocybin :). I have been breaking down walls for several years now and even though I used to get so annoyed with my father always quoting Jon Kabat-Zinn's “no matter where you go there you are”-- he was always right. When my mother was shoulder deep into the swamps of vanity and setting precedent for my brothers and I, he always saw right through all of it and never cared for it. He has always been my voice of reason. No matter where you go there you are. No matter who you're with, or where you’ve flown, how much money you do or don’t make… no matter who perceives you as this or that or anything.. there you are. I crave nothing more than the freedom to think and feel and learn and wonder. And read and write and grow. And I’m better off for it because no matter what my circumstances are in life, no matter what the circumstances of life are, there I am. And while terrifying as fuck, there is definitely a ton of peace central to the idea that you are only a spec of dust in this world.