This is an odd time to try to resurrect le Prisonship. It’s odd to opt for generalist blogging in the microblog-o era, and it’s odd for me to wanna churn out chunks of worthy reportage during a time in which my will to evoke and/or characterize anything is at an all-time low.
But I continue to conflate penance with progress, shame with being and writing with “self”-realization (sic.) Also, I’ve done a lot of things wrong in my life. I want to write in honor of everybody, which is to say in honor of all the people I feel I’ve wronged. Like any other catholic corpse, I am personally responsible for the agony of Christ.
There’d be nothing wrong or unnatural about the people I’ve wronged the most presuming that they know me best. Those self-same people probably’d be happy to hear of my depression and subsequent careening off the well-trod tracks of academic and activist making-do, and my having tumbled so slapstick-uh-ly, mouth-first into a Pyrrhic regimen of psychotherapeutics, zennish meditation efforts and strength conditioning. They would be rigidly self-satisfied to hear of my career-best lethargy.
It’s a good time for anybody who wished some karmic vengeance on me, or those who were content to watch me string the rosary beads with which to hang myself. But I also think it’s a good time to start blathering on le Prisonship again.
I am horrified of telephones and emails. I run away from easy opportunities to be with people whom I love and miss. I am withdrawn, in a city where I’ve failed to really make friends or even look for ’em. It’s a recipe for shit, I tell ya. I have a list of unpaid debts and overdue regrets that could choke a great white shark. They haunt me and exact revenge by running my life through generalized guilt and intermittent panic spikes. Other times they beat me into psychic submission, the closest I’ve ever come to succumbing to a real, live sleeper hold. I used to think it’d be sexy, submission. But now it feels more like abuse.
I can barely keep a journal or keep up with my cognitive-behavioral assignments. It’s a victory when I don’t indefinitely postpone exercise, let alone when I drag myself into the New Age gates in search of meditation tactics worth plundering. Sometimes when I play records, I get scared. There is a sweeping winnowing, happening now. I hope my antagonists, old friends, enjoy it all.
I work hard to eat three meals a day, and to step out of the house and into the day. I cower behind crime novels, even kinda shunning politics at the moment. I am withdrawn and I am winnowing, despite everybody’s best motherfucking intention-fuckings. Tra-la-la. The Prisonship has resumed.