it has to be nothing

The table next to my recliner holds an ever growing pile of books, amongst them Man and His Symbols.

I’ve made a promise to myself to finish the ten or so half-read books I’m currently working through before starting anything new, so I’ll have to wait to figure out what Jung (et al.) have to say about my dreams. Until then my unconscious thought life will remain unexamined.

Until then I won’t think about what this most recent addition to my dreams means, nor will I think about all of the other bits and pieces, and what they are adding up to.

It’s nothing.

I’m sure it’s nothing.

It has to be nothing.


My brain feels spent on so many other things lately. My art work. My health. Processing this horrific genocide…

When it comes to words worth sharing here, there isn’t much. 

Maybe soon there will be something with more substance than these recent, sad, anemic entries. 

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October 30, 2023

I have that same book, creased and withered, tucked in a crate in my storage room, with other novels and texts started but never finished. On my desk, though.. The books piled that I’d hoped to have had the urge to finish by now: Dorian Gray, Dubliners, Brothers Karamazov, the complete poetry by Anne Sexton, Philip Larkin (which I’m almost done with, thank God), and Sylvia Plath. Sigh, the brain wants to do cartwheels into the past while listening to Talking Heads and A Tribe Called Quest. I’ve been trying to process all of this conflict, too. Bleh. Oh, and the dreams.. yeah, I’ve been trying desperately to process my own psychotic sleep anthologies and short stories.. to no avail.

November 1, 2023


I need someone to hold me accountable to finishing books. There needs to be some kind of support group. The letter friend is no help – he works at a bookstore and keeps telling me about new books.
I might post in the next couple of days with a list of my current list of half-read books.

Can relate completely to the brain cartwheels.