As I stood at the corner of the dock, thoughts swirled and ruptured inside my head, confusing each other and overwhelmed by their connections.

I have always been one for finding connections, especially recently, that other might not see. And yet despite my apparently impressive capacity for words and writing, I have found my hands stuttering and tripping as I try to spill my thoughts and findings and connections onto a piece of paper. This is why I have taken up a form of ‘collaging,’ in which I stick things to each other on paper in a way that makes sense too much. I wish I could get out the things I’m feeling in a collage, but even in that fractured medium it seems that I can’t get across the jumble of colossal realizations going on in my head a million miles a minute. They are going so fast that it’s slow, my brain going so intensely that my face and body and mind, mind especially, can’t handle it and resolve to a slow, dumb slurred turtle pace and resort to the easiest most mind-numbing ways of living, of getting through, since my mind needs the numbing and seeks the numbing because it can’t figure out what to do with the more cool part of itself, its cerebral twin, the ‘brain.’ In some ways, in many ways I wish I could make a collage that I felt was more representative of me, more different, more unique, more like what I was able to take from Schroon, but instead I end up with the yellow beach and the blue water and the red toys lapping on the shore with the calmly metronomic waves. I want the roads and the dodos that I think I hear in the afternoon and the blankets and the goosebumps but all I can grasp at is the banal and hackneyed campfire that was so much more than a campfire. All I can make is collages of such generic and boring and shallow, dumb things that keep my mind, at least on a topical level, occupied with black and white stripes and retrogressive hair styles when in reality I am grappling with a very topsy-turvy ship that I imagined once in a dream, like the school bus that I once imagined in a dream long before that, only what was a dream and what was a movie and what was a book? What is my dream? What were my dreams? What are my dreams? And yet I keep coming back more importantly, to – What is my dream? I am and have been on the brink of so many things, of so much pleasure and satisfaction on so many different levels, it seems, and twhile he couch would have me think that it is not my fault and it’s the anxiety and I should probably increase my dosage and take it easi(er), I know that the couch is just old and tired and probably sick of my fat lumpy weirdly drugged-smile-ing placid self and needs a break/

I think I may not even want this release, that I am afraid of the things I can write when I have that release, because I don’t want to stop doing the things that I’m doing, that I have been doing, well anyway I’m not doing now because my hands are busy, they want their own things and my brain andmind can’t figure out what to do with that. Do you ever wonder what your facial expression looks like? Why your tongue is flicking out to catch your words so they don’t tumble out and you don’t make a fool out of yourself in front of the nobody standing outside the window throwing no (know) pebbles that know (no) everything about you?