October 28th, 2001


Heavy sigh ...

Well, I wrote this yesterday morning ... but yesterday night was one of the more surreal through-the-looking-glass nightmares I've been through of late, which is, frankly, saying one hell of a lot. Sometimes I think that it HAS to be me ... that I must be INSANE since the odds against EVERYBODY around me all going fucking nuts at once seem to be a bit high ... but it at least SEEMS like I am this center point of calm (or at least morbid resignation) and everyone close to me is going psychotic. I don't know, I suppose that if I HAD gone "off the deep end", I probably wouldn't recognize it, would I? I mean, what are the odds that I would NEVER GET A FUCKING REPLY TO ANY GOD-DAMNED RESUMES I SEND OUT? Again, you would think I'd be at least getting those "eat shit and die, motherfucking loser, we'll stuff this in a file cabinet and then throw it out in a year" notes, but there is NOTHING. It seems like it's just me set within a swirling chaotic world full of freaked-out LUNATICS and evil, scheming, hateful functionaries ... a universe of Little Hitlers, who will not rest until I have been broken, destroyed, and eradicated. Again, yeah, I'm probably nuts ... everybody's probably just FINE around me, and there are fucking GOBLINS eating my faxed and mailed resumes before they get where they're sent.

                    THESE MANY FORMS OF DEATH

                    frozen hours
                    embedded days
                    we descend
                    as if in Lucite
                    a semblance
                    of being, life
                    but hard and dead
                    unchanging, cold

                    there is no movement
                    there is no growth
                    we are locked into
                    a cycle, almost sleep,
                    a dull place, without action,
                    a grey place which repeats
                    frustration's tango ...
                    try & fail, try & fail, try & fail

                    patterns warp
                    but never change
                    we are cursed to this,
                    cast down to worlds
                    too blind, too mundane;
                    fated to be alien,
                    to be exile, anathema
                    to the shadow mass

                    we can find
                    no place for us
                    no niche, no role
                    no way to be
                    and at every turn
                    the monster waits
                    seeking to destroy
                    everything we mean

                    I fear the future
                    bears steeper declines
                    and more brutal forms
                    of degradation
                    as all our truths are stripped away
                    replaced by lies
                    and dull conformance to the norm ...
                    how much like death is that?

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2001 by Brendan Tripp

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You know ... while working on my poetry archive (now available directly at http://i.am/btripp ... I am nothing if not convenient!) it has struck me how consistently miserable I've been. As I've jokingly said, I've been writing suicidal poetry for a quarter century ... but it's true. One would think that SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE, I would have had a "happy time" to at least look back on, but the more I read into my "history", the more I realize that I've pretty much ALWAYS felt this bad.

My poetry has, at least in the past decade and a half (since I quit drinking), been a "reaching inside" to pull out emotional realities ... and those realities have been very dark, ugly, and anguished. I assume that this was NOT different back in my "drinking days", as one would suppose that my consuming a litre or so of gin a day was a symptom of extremely unhappy inner states!

The question comes up "Have I ever been happy?" ... and I have to answer "I don't think so." ... It's not that I'm outwardly "Mr. Morbid" (frankly, I'd assume that most folks who know me would be surprised at reading my poetry), but there is a deeply entrenched aching that NOTHING seems to be able to touch, a center point which is a naked, seething abyss of alienation, that no amount of "good things" can fill.

And, of course, when I look at this stuff, I wonder why the hell I bother even trying to fight.

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