Thinking It Over

Is there anybody going to listen to my substack post**?

Give her a go if you feel so inclined; I was proud to make this recording because I have accessed a plain sense of being which allows for real conversational tone in my talking about what was otherwise a very emotional and disregulated time. (It’s not a crime, anyway) And I am me again, after all, and I have a beautiful body (and beautiful heart??) and a serious voice and a log of beautiful work hiding away on my desktop. Today is a day of celebration. But I worked very hard to make this for you all- See-

After I recorded it, I realized my computer had glitched, and had sped up the recording, leaving it sounding like a chipmunk. It would double about a tenth of a second every three seconds or so to keep time. Because I very much liked the nature of this post, I researched ways or adjusting the time and pitch to the most accurate version, then I painstakingly cut and spliced the original recording back together across about four or five hours. It looked like this:

Every one of those black lines was a manual cut and realignment of the audio to correct a skip. Obviously I left some in the negative space where it didn’t impact the recording very much.

(Audacity is an open source DAW that will show you a spectral waveform, so that I could match the audio more or less precisely, and I like it as a product, EXCEPT that) as I was trying to save the last time, the program crashed and the file was corrupted.

Good Lord I said, Oh my I said, I said a few things.

If I were a spiritual man, I would take it as a sign, but the One True God above knows I am not.

So I did it again. And time will tell if they were trying to spare me some great sorrow, or if we must work for the things we believe in. Also a final note:

Jerrod gave me Chekhov and it was actually a BEAUTIFUL gift which profoundly shifted the way I look at theater and tragedy and the human condition. I think it’s funny to say it was harmful, but I want to be clear that I don’t mean it.

Love,

Oli

A NOTE: I am trying a new format of post where I publish an audio-version in tandem for people who prefer to listen, or read along with it. I recorded straight into Substack and the compression is weird. I welcome feedback about this.

Hello everyone,

I am making a secret special redemption post to tell the few of you here about how I stopped wanting to die, which I alluded to, before, desperately, by killing the what-how of my life instead:

It is no secret I have gone too far, not even to me. Yes, Mana dismisses my play as naval-gazing, and Holly says they only like the parts of the FEAR BOOK where I talk about something besides my feelings, and my good friend sends me a meme which says ‘I think you guys are thinking about yourselves too much.’ Yes, of course I am, and all of my instagram stories are selfies, yes. But there are two truths which belie that archetypal character, the fraudulent vainiac.

1. In work, what could be a fallacy of belief, which tells me if I am to write on something, I ought to be able to take accountability for my position. I picked this up on tumblr and twitter as a 20-year-old, witnessing, in the democratization of discourse, the posture of authority in every post. It was a theme of posting. I still witness it on substack, the guru-type meditations on wellness, or how one ought to be, spoken in the confidence of the absolute, and it annoys me. Everyone is an expert, and I think that’s stupid; I want to hear from an actual expert. I developed an attitude of speak-for-yourself, which I have tried to embody (if somewhat erringly) in only writing about what I know for sure: my experience and my feelings.

Hey, and if I can communicate some relatable aspect of the human experience that sits like a buoy on the water of being, like so many other writers have done for me (there’s that Baldwin quote) (“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was Dostoevsky and Dickens who taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who ever had been alive…”)then my work is justified, and besides I’m not compelling anyone to read anyway. I think, It is my honest account of my being, and who knows, maybe my account is enlightening.

2. In my social life, a dogmatic rejection of dignity in favor of possible growth, which is I guess best explained through narrative.

I rejected the ego and got something like contented. That was probably like 2019 or 2020. Life was about love and I did not need to be anything. This was better. But then I lost a bunch of friends and support structures and yes even stability and money and health in a year-and-a-half’s time (2023), and I found myself in the desperate position of having no reason to work, besides to try and be seen by someone, anyone, to give my life meaning. So my writing remained expressive, like a journal.

Then I took on a more fearless attitude again, to risk my person for romance, to risk my failing stability for art:

Then I (thought I) found someone who I thought saw me, and maybe they didn’t, (they didn’t) but the fragility of that experience and how flippant the ending left me defeated (my friends saw it coming). Okay, it was all a farce, my being, my tenuous ego-identity, I gave up on life and as such, became its victim. I felt like I was dead, and I thought about dying. Why was I so delicate? How is my life that delicate?

And then I had a little epiphany!

I thought: If I’m going to die, and I surely will, why not wait six months or so and go completely insane to see if that feels better? So I decided to do that. I will wait to die and see if I can’t make life feel better in the meantime. The ‘meaning’ (ego expansion) I am buying into is giving me reason to work, in fact I depend on it, and in fact my whole life is dictated by it. I’m almost certain my friends will tolerate me just a little longer (I love you all so much its crazy, and I’m sorry) while I sort it out. And so with a full awareness (and little at stake!) I am being as loud and unapologetic as possible (I’m sorry). I’m not good at it yet, but I’m getting better. I think its fun. I’ve still got a little time and I feel alive and maybe even like I could want to stay alive.

The idea is that if I can succeed at anything else (which demanded making new definitions for ‘success’ that included things like career advancement, social standing, art identity, all those ego-fodders I had rejected) then I can have more pillars which support my continued ‘being alive’.

Okay so, that’s that. I know how this all looks, and, yes I am using “I” too often (but aren’t “I”?), and, They are right that my writing sucks (but it doesn’t) because it is too selfish (but it’s not).

I am going to grow and improve because I love you and respect you and/or I do not care what you think.

Here’s some real writing, which is painfully relevant, from the journal of January. It is the same but I was healthier about it. I hope to include it, at least spiritually, in the FEAR BOOK, which has been stripped of its soul lately, but I have hope in redemption:

I needed to reclaim a sense of desire from the annals of ego youth, where I last left it. Sometimes we have to revisit things to finally see them through, like Al helping me process the ancient Tyler-fear. Similarly I think the dip back into self-obsession is a product of trying to triangulate where desire lives. Those two things- desire and ego, currently, are inextricably tied. I do not know much but I know to have the one, I must accept the other.

And then now in the vacuum of being, the total temporary rejection of FEAR BOOK I started a new thing, which has become journal of stagnant August- It is aptly named POSTFERE and I will share these passages of self-restoration.

After all, …

Another audio post, regrettably, about Orpheus and Poetry, made when I was fresh on the heels of a painful break-up. Now with distance I kind of like it.

I cut all the explicitly break-up related stuff, which was clogging the line, but that included my introduction of a specific concept: I was lamenting an aspect of misalignment, which I described as her total vantage of life, and my total vantage of death. I liked her life as a contrast and it was enriched by the tonal implications of Orpheus. You can figure how on your own.

Gregory Orr is the author of that book I mentioned, entitled Orpheus & Eurydice. It is a book of short poems detailing the story from each of their perspectives as it unfolds. Really lovely.

The recording is pretentious on the first third and then really laid back. I decided before I began that I would own the title of ‘poet’ while recording, and I regretted it. I break down the following poem, meaning-wise, line-for-line:

Why the fog? Why this morning?

Listen if you like to listen to that sort of thing, otherwise I’ll see you next time.

Best wishes,

Oliver

Little to say by way of text. Listen to the recording if you’re someone who enjoys that.

The small metrics of Substack could go a long way- if you liked it please Like!

Peace and love to you all on this February day,

Oli

Listen if you’ve got the space; transmission from the void of self; the FEAR BOOK lives— Work which will likely remain unpublished for some time, but you can hear it here.

Two notes:

* Twice I misspoke and I didn’t correct myself either time—

The line: the internet’s find me

ought to be

the internet finds me.

obviously.

The line: I only know what I don’t know, and that’s enough.

should read

I only don’t know what I don’t know, and that’s enough.

* I actually HATE that I wrote: the blind dog *didn’t* look at me for a pet.

I think it is very “I’m 13 and this is deep.” Humiliating. Please ignore that part for my sake.

Thank you for your time and attention.

Happy listening,

Oli

It’s fast-paced and entertaining. I rant a little about life and society.

I hope any of this means anything to any one of you.

I mention here many things and read off of this list below:

The painter’s writer

a play written, what does it mean

Drive my car

so I walk around

the exploding dogwood

directionless

is Portland fucked forever

imagined lives

real lives

Sell Trooper, work on it, move out-

idle hands

Peace be with you, It’s an effort, let us be closer,

Oliver

I say I’m going to talk about parts-work but I don’t.

It’s long. It may put you to sleep. There is no poetry or art in it.

I am talking about the nature of being in ways, and how we try to manage ourselves and our lives.\

Peace be with you.

I love you all.

Forgive me,

Oliver

People don’t often listen to the audio posts (I have metrics) but I make them anyway. In this one things are more interesting; It is not something I feel like explaining.

I am going to take some time away from making frequent, impulsive posts.

Call me anytime.

Thanks,

Oliver

My friend’s have mentioned at long last that they like some of these things, so I am doing it again. Listen in, I expose all my secrets (well, most) and tell the truth about things. I like being truthful and am good at it. It is a practice. Here is the poem I reference in the post:

(POEM OF YEARNING)

Was meant today to start the new play; A woman is shot and slides down a hill, at the bottom of the hill she dons a mask, a death mask which is covered in green earth and a single flower like a lily pad. A child approaches in bucolic clothing and grabs the flower little by little and puts it in her basket, tearing the petals, leaving the meat. The gunman sits down nearby for a spell, in a fugue state. He buries his gun in the soft ground. What does it mean? I couldn’t tell you. There are other themes I need to investigate today, of my waking life: The silver edge of a worn porcelain cup, been repainted. I am thirty three this year, Last night went to my friends forty-fifth birthday party. His kids put on the play I mentioned; I aim to steal it off of them. He said to me over coffee that I’m closer than he was. Older friends sometimes say that to me. Though today I accidentally forget age and the past it built. I have one bit of truth to build and its in the novelty of every new day and every new state: I needn’t behave in such accordance to things the ‘were’ if it is in conflict with things that ‘are’. Now Bella and I are meant to make hats; Now Tess and I have plans to catch up. The girl I had a crush on at Guero is gay, like most every crush I get. The other one and the other one has a boyfriend- And this morning when I masturbate out of depression I end up crying, like always, for the chasm between here and there- It is tiresome to elevate and compress over and over; I keep it up as a function of living, I say to myself, and then today an hour after crying I hear a song I AM KINDA NEW… I am indeed man, and it needn’t sound meaningful to you, sometimes these things hit, because it was for me. And that’s not even the most notable thing of the morning; a beautiful cool day with some intrigue; some freedom of being; some crush to message and dribble away; some stupid jokes, friends coming over and records on and a little waffle- imagine that a waffle this fine autumnal pretending morning, I say to myself, like the older cats I’m closer than I was, this day-

HELLO TO YOU ALL WELCOME TO THIS EXCITING POST! I put in a little effort here and made a video version of the dang audio post. So you can really imagine you’re there with me and we are friends and all that. (Imagine as well as you’re able we are friends; and you may find at the end of your imagining that it is so :) )

I read briefly from my play and the talk about fear and growth for a moment, and then ask desperately for anyone to be my friend. I find it to be a good one. Watch or listen if you got some time and also want to and also are in a position to. As always the quoted bit is below. All summer loves and beautiful lives to you all we surely deserve it.

Peace, Love, Easy Life, Easy Death-

Oliver

JOAN: I have a story I want to tell you. Once,

and it continues…

THEO takes a sip of his drink. The last sip. He looks at it disappointed, then back at the mirror.

Be well <3