Rough Draft

Yesterday I despised writing. I thought of my pencil and wanted to use it for wood and make a tiny fire. That thought didn’t actually happen, it’s a mechanical pencil.

I groaned through my consciousness and mentally yelled fuck it. I’ve been writing so much. The plan tried to scooch itself into my hours of life, trying to get me to write out Sandra’s story. I thought of trying to make the ‘voice’ ‘hers’ and to change word use and it all got so hard.

So so hard.

There’s only so many words!

I was also overeating.

I got so fucking sick of Marfa and its nothingness.

I’ve been drinking caffeine just to have a place to go. There’s a little coffee hole with a sexy as fuck fire pit. Oh I took a video of it yesterday in actuality, it goes with another post.

How all the world can make sense if we just watch fire.

Here you go:

Excuse the distance. I wanted to get the phone right into the fake wood, but I had to avoid looking like a hippy that wanted to videotape fire.

Just…the peeved blood that flows through me of artists valuing nature so much while being so disconnected from it is about to be so strong I’m going to bust another human out of me.

So yesterday I started to feel really stuck in this room around four. Fuck has it been a buildup though. Night after night I’ll want to go out, think of going to Lost Horse Saloon (the bar here) and then convince myself out of it from some anxiety pulp left in my life lemons.

I need those to make lemonade Mr. Life.

Sigh….sugar free lemonade…the world still feels so fucked as I muse back into memories of yesterday.

All the existential reality of horror self show came back into me. I realized despite understanding life so much more, I still don’t know why we exist.

I’ve accepted it as a journey. I have.

Right now the journey stopped in Isengard and I have some questions for that fucking eye.

There’s still no answer to why we exist that could explain this hell.

All of this pain.

But I did pick up a friend yesterday while at the coffee shop. He’s actually the one who I avoided hippy flame filming for.

There was the “what do you do” exchange of life existence. Oh wait. First he had a pencil out and was digging in his wallet. As someone who goes through this often and the signs were there I offered him paper.


“Haha no problem. It happens to me all the time.”

I go back to writing about Sandra and our meditation experience.

Somehow our words enter each other’s lives again and I tell him I’m writing a book and he says he’s here on an internship.

“Do you write?” I ask with the whole him needing a pen thing as a cue. My eyes fondle the paper to solidify the question.

“Oh, this is just a list.”

*chuckles are exchanged*

“I do write some though.”

*inner perk of excitement from all of the fucktons of past connections I have with excitement from writing*

“What do you write?”


*larger self perk at memories*

“Really?” *pause and stare into his eyes with a passion flare that tries to pool out the words of his poems. *search about a bit as though they’ll just appear and realize I’ll have to talk to him for that* (this all happens in about three seconds)

“Do you have them on you?”


“Oh.” *unwilling to release desires*

“Where are they?”

“Up here.” He puts the tip of the pencil eraser on his forehead

*My eyes portray shock at him jarring me from memories and into a new reality connection*

“Can I hear them?” I assume he’ll say no but the word’s hopes come out of my mouth before that idea.


*shock rustles my brain but curiosity only kills cats* Actually we’ve been abusing that saying:

The popular version is again abridged from a longer statement: “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

But back to my past reality.

He stares into my eyes and quotes his poem. Line by perfect line, never losing it. It’s…this true mindstreaming connection. I’ll get it from him later in order to give it to you without my memory scratching words out accidentaly. It was mesmerizing.

At this point I’d already been analyzing him though. His face had drawn out twitches at certain moments and he wasn’t keen on looking people in the eyes. His laughter was rare and he liked to have my words fit into his brain rather than move it.

If I made a ‘joke’ about the conversation, such as him saying people are in boxes and I joked that we turn them upside down (that wasn’t the joke but we just need the gist), he would try to move the conversation along and if he paused to absorb the words he’s choose to continue other than laugh.

Sigh…I believe…autistic features were there. It murdered my insides for a moment, but the cure was just a breath. At this point I’ve adapted to all of that pain. Fuck though, you know how long it took.

So he verbetum recites his poem, and then even another. Our eyes capture each other throughout and every time I smile his comes in and embraces his face. When ‘in a moment’ he can stare deeply into my eyes and it’s…losing of reality to be inside them.

Really the eye avoidance is when he’s thinking or if he gets frustrated…later on when I ask him questions and provoke his reality. …I seem to challenge people.

So our coffee hostess says she’s shutting down the shop for a lunch break in ten minutes. I’m holding my journal a minute after the poems have passed and am about to show him my work. The time reminds us of itself. He has ten minutes before work. She’s closing in ten, but that’s enough minutes to read some of it.

I leave him with my mind’s pages and return the red espresso cup with a few brown waterfall stains to the counter along with the empty shot glass of sparkling water.

I thank her and ask about something we relate on, we’ve formed a form of acquantance friendship by this point. I asked for her help with Raistlin when I couldn’t figure out how to describe the street…I’ll put it in here later. Don’t want to challenge this love of writing again by provoking it with the cues that may have led to the hatred.

She was also writing so we connected our pasts to each other.

Max and I leave the coffee shop after he asks if my writing is mindstream. “For this character it is. The other is very business like and Elne is …also mindstream but in a different way.”

I’m sick of the words as I speak them already, they’ve got a bug in them that’s resting in my lungs.

I avoid it and ask more about him. “I also like to play music.” “What instrument do you play?” “All of them.” “Oh really? That’s impressive.” *my nonverbal is seeping into him during this conversation and it is obvious. Haha. I generally don’t hide reality though. I wonder if that’s what makes me odd.


I have a ..thing for musicians.”

*we smile*

“Can I listen sometime?” “Well I only have the guitar with me, but year we can do that.”

Words happen. In them he tells me where the movie is tonight that I’ve heard people randomly talk about all day in the coffee shop. “You should come.” “Yeah I will. I was already planning too.”

We leave each other.

So then I come back to my room and get on this computer. I work adamantly on my 150 keto substitutes post. At first it was fun and I was doing a 10 keto substitutes and adding recipes and where you could buy the things. I put in pizza and flour and sugar and pasta and it all added up really fast to where I realized it could be a 100. It’s grown. It’s a fuckton of work. I Googled though and it will be the largest list on the Internet. There’s something enticing about that.

Before two days ago I’d been really connecting to life, myself, and my time here, but that’s been changing the more I feel ‘stuck’ in this room and like I’m repeating my days. Fuck it’s 9:24. I’m supposed to do yoga at 9:30…..

you or me…

I want to do yoga and can’t stand being stuck here.

I’ll be back.

Published by

SI-Ya Ray

Greetings beautiful people. I bliss out over crafting new flavors, interviewing test makers and restaurant owners and discovering the brain.

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