Identification is physically slight—

a small rectangle

of paper or plastic.

And it asks little of us—

a matching of names and faces.

It calls itself ID for short.

Simple, clean, certain.

But its arrogance is vast and shapeless.

ID proclaims to know, to identify—

that is its only job, after all—

but its ignorance is vast and changeless.

It knows nothing of identity,

forged through tears and sweat,

shakes and grins, clenches and sighs—

not to be found in cultural relics,

institutional departments,

categorical assignments,

printed documents, or

geometry.

When I don’t know what

to write about, that’s just

my luck. Invention

is for the ones who

aren’t sure which story to

tell, which pen to use.

Guess what I did today? Are you sitting down?

I made a work schedule for myself, and I mostly followed it! And whaddya know? I was much more productive than usual. And my day was better as a result.

What I can’t get over is why I don’t do this every single day. Every few months I’m reminded that, oh yeah, I know how I could get more done. I could make a schedule for work and then I could actually follow it. Huh. So I do it for a day or two, and then apparently I forget to keep doing it.

But y’all, how do I forget that this is a really good idea? I mean, time is always there. I cannot forget that time exists, so how can I so easily forget that I should make a plan for time?

This truly baffles me. It’s possible that since birth I have been in denial that time actually passes. But otherwise, I’m stumped.

Regardless, I’m going to make a schedule for tomorrow, before I forget that it is something that will help me adult better. But not this minute. Soon. I’ve got plenty of time.

Ah, I already missed a day of posting. I started writing last night, wrote three words, and then got so sleepy I couldn’t write anymore. You wanna know what the three words were? They’re super exciting: “I intend to.” I intended to what? I don’t remember that, but I do remember why I titled this post “Gobbledygook.” I was thinking about how I’ve been trying to keep in mind lately that there are no rules. Well, I mean, there are some, but not nearly as many as I go around thinking there are. Here are some examples of rules that exist only in my head:

1. The house has to be totally clean and organized before I can have guests over. Not actually a rule. A good idea? The ideal situation? Maybe. But NOT a rule.

2. I have to bring my best game when I’m with a friend, so I’m sure not to say anything wrong. Yeah, that’d be nice, but last time I checked, people screw up and sometimes say stupid stuff that gives away the fact that they are indeed only human (gasp) after all. So why would this be a real rule?

3. If I write something and post/publish it, it better be damn near flawless. Like maybe one word can be kinda sorta not the best word–that might be allowed to slip by–but otherwise, those words and punctuation marks have to line up perfectly, like crayons in an unopened box. Again, not a real rule. Crayons aren’t any fun in the box anyway.

The biggest problem with these rules isn’t the rules themselves but the “or else” that comes at the end of them. The house has to be clean when people come over or else they’ll judge me and not want to visit anymore. I have to be on my best behavior with my friends or else I might offend them and they won’t want to be around me anymore. I have to write perfectly or else people will think I’m a bad writer and what the hell am I doing writing when there are plenty of other people out there writing important, meaningful things? Ouch. Those “or else”s hurt, even if what they portend never comes to pass.

So how do I defang the rules and their “or else”s? I wish the answer was easy, but the only way I know is to remind myself over and over and over and over (you get the idea) that nothing comes after the “or else.” What comes after doesn’t exist because the rule doesn’t actually exist outside of my head either. So I can smash these “rules” into tiny pieces until I can’t see them anymore and other, healthier mind-created rules come in to replace them (how about “I am loved whether my house is clean or not”?).

And now we get to the gobbledygook part. I could, if I choose to engage in some serious rule-smashing, write a post that consists of nothing but the word “gobbledygook” repeated, like, a hundred times. No one would want to read it (although they might be intrigued enough to come back another day and see what crazy-ass thing I’ll post next), and I wouldn’t have said anything meaningful, but I could, in fact, do that, and it wouldn’t kill me or anyone else, and my friends would almost certainly still talk to me (they might wrinkle their noses or roll their eyes, but I’m pretty sure they’d still be willing to talk to me), and I could possibly write something meaningful another day. No freaking harm done.

So, yeah, not easy–but worth it. Because even though it might be exhausting, who doesn’t like smashing stuff?

It looks like I’m making myself do thirty days in writing jail again. I’ve been committing the crimes against myself of “not doing it because I just don’t feel like it right now” and the related “but it’s too hard; I’ll just do this other thing first.” Damage is done when I so flagrantly break my laws, and I must pay!

Sounds like a sentence you wanna do with me, huh? Can we have any fun in writing jail? Guess we’ll find out.

In no particular order:

1. It likes to make up stories.
2. It’s scared of things that aren’t really there.
3. It thinks it knows better than you do.
4. It has trouble transitioning to new activities.
5. It follows you everywhere, even to the bathroom.
6. It wants your attention RIGHT NOW!
7. It will not shut up.
8. It is impossible to reason with.
9. It is exceedingly difficult to make sense of.
10. It will fucking exhaust you.

Counting syllables—

what a way to choose the words.

Are they really right?

Maybe this is just

idea prison, growing

ever more crowded.

A safe space lost, and

a search begins. Zoning laws

necessitate stealth.

But paranoia

draws probing eyes away like

so many bright spots.

Then you stumble forth

calling out names and wishes,

forgetting the rules.

Building new patchworks

of sadness and light, stitching

hope with heavy hands,

we ask when and when

and when will they cover us?

We complain again—

the pieces don’t fit

no matter how we stretch them.

Inevitably leaving

gaps we’ll never fill,

you and I just laugh.

My heart aches today. I’m not sure why—maybe it’s everything to do with the pandemic, maybe it’s discontent with my privileged-but-not-all-I-want-it-to-be life, maybe it’s just hormones. It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that I’m responding to this ache differently than I would have a few years ago. It would have been cause for concern then, but now I’m okay with it staying around for a while. It has something to teach me. I might not learn the lesson right away, and that determined ache might keep coming back until I get it. That’s okay too.

My zen attitude doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ll enjoy the ache or that I’ll like it. It’s kind of like an annoying teacher whom you wouldn’t want to hang out with but whom you learn a lot from nonetheless. You roll your eyes at the sight of this teacher, but you still get out your note-taking supplies. And you try to pay close attention and make your notes as thorough as possible so you can get away from this blowhard as soon as possible!