Clocks that aren’t ticking to the right cadence anymore.
Chills that stay in my spine, rather than go up.
Your fingerprints on a picture, and how I can’t seem to muster up the courage to wipe them off—I see cowardice as strength, despite.

And how at least I can admit that my urge to destroy stays lapsesd in time, like this clock, or in my single-minded idled thoughts, or ingrained in my routine—the lack there of. So it keeps whirling, like a grain of sand I keep trying to find in my bed. I call it You because I know the function of something so small can still be the thing to move me in and out of rem cycles, into slumber, back from nightmares and into the very last thing I saw when I woke up praying to God that I did not want to ever be like that again. I walked to its euphoria, I saw the inside of the tome—a subscript written and only executed by it’s lack of mortality and love and pain. There was so much pain, enough to evaporate the water of the rain, of the air between words, of the shirt stained because the blood won’t just, stop. Anymore. There was no stopping of time, or reverence in tragedy. Evermore in lighting it’s last strung up corpse.

Only a God out there, and he’s calling your name.

-alice

You are your own creator, the martyr, the plague that brings beauty and so much destruction to that world. I wonder about where I stand on it, half to spread a plague, half to spread a creation only maybe I believe in at times.
Maybe the creation is the plague, maybe it’s what we all need. To get sick with it, sick with the love of our differences, our hopeful ones.
There will never be two equals in hope. We transgress through our differing worlds all the different, and same—we come out different still.
And with our differences, I pray the hope aligns in our own ways we know how, with compassion and thrill, with solitude, and solace.

With once again, a better day ahead.

The world scares me, my own self scares me more with the absence of fate however. I refuse to be apart of a cog that perpetuates notions of the lack of our self, our agency…more so.
We have the power, the voicing, the eternal shift in tides at every finger tip.
I feel like we were made with a promise to use it, a contract we signed in unconscious thought that propels us forward despite our paths being so opaque there’s no sight towards the next step.
I want to live in a world with not blind fate, or hope.

But enough to show there is no such thing as blindness when you are guiding yourself through your own journey of life, not merely traveling on by. While passing moments, and sightseeing sure can be beautiful.

What is more beautiful than the revelation of a self acted fate you know has been aching in your bones since the moment you left the womb.
Return to yourself,
Return to a bask of hope,

A small anecdote of what is to come in you, may just be in your chest—rip, it. Out.
And nourish it back to your own form, anew.
There’s beauty in change,
There’s beauty in mistakes, a change of heart, or mind.
And for that matter,

Everything is so beautiful.

With love,

-Alice

p.s. There is a new domain here for the substack - https://yapperofwords.com
You can find my new personal website at https://atimetowait.com

Find your mark in passions or a field left alone in solitude. Is it you I seek, or someone, something…more?
I don’t ever want admit a wrongdoing, especially if the wrong is a person but, maybe that’s just why you might, or rather…should, be wrong about a person.
We’re coy, masterful shape shifters, alchemists when needed—primordial. Down to our roots, we are soaked in only blood.
Shivers are sent out when bodies need awakenings. Long lusted for imaginations become easier over time. There’s hardship that must be addressed.

The goosebumps I get from feeling life, you’re thankful for it, so am I. It’s someone to call, not when wanted…but needed.
The suffocation from feeling cold hit your lungs for the first time…refreshing.
When there’s still no more time, and love left to love. There will still be life to feel, clocks tick, after all.
And they don’t stop either. Much like me, much like you. Just like everyone we want to cast out on. There’s always time, for if you’ve lost it…you can always pick it up on the next tick, or even prepare on the upswing. Your time is yours to choose, so come prepared.

I tried chasing you for so long, maybe more of a roaming plead. I wanted change, I wanted a notion to do it, I wanted to do it with you. But where do you go, when you have no home?
You go left, you go right, aimlessly now…it takes you back. Right to the beginning. Right to where the plains meet with the stars, where the animals meet up to play, still. Where it all started. I didn’t hear much then after that. I didn’t hear anything at all, really. Just silence, for the first time in years. Just silence, and what that brings.

It brings magnitudes of weight. crushing abnormalities, making you into not what you are, but what you will be. For after all, you’re only what you may become. So why bother changing? Why not chase the clouds, and befriend the birds? Why toil all night, you will wake up in the morning after all.
Eat your words, change their dressings. Become the winter’s howl when your favorite season comes around. I want to know how it all begun, where it did, how we all got stuck up all in this mess.
A feature film, staring only you.

A feature film that’s only about you.
What will you write in it?
Where will it bring you?
Do you, want to go home?

Is there still a home out there…one for me?

Sure there is, you are your own foundation in it.
Be well in it,

With love,
-alice

I had never felt what burnout really was, I also had never felt life be so catastrophically wrong at the same time.
Waking up to night terrors, hearing & feeling tones telling me to run.
How do you feel safe when those sirens in your head keep blaring, getting louder each day.
It's create or die. It carries a lot of weight, there's no other way to really compare it.

While creating, it's fluidity in sync. No metrics to define you. No rights, nor wrongs. Just…you.

And a blank screen, canvas, head-space—even too.
For what you don't know will always come to surface. Thoughts that barely break the surface tension creep closer and closer to the light of day in you.
To nurture, or not. It's terrifyingly me, once again.

After a while, I see my flesh exposed in my guarded self. I see the stretch marks, the pain, words that don't make sense—that can't make sense, billow up. Slow suffocation, if not acted on.
Now is the truth something to be afraid of?
Are truths allowed to change?
What's holding you up in the end as well?
Falsities feel more like a blessing than a curse sometimes.

At least in falsehoods, there's always a truth—both sides. I can see myself questioning more and more of it everyday.
But with truths now, it starts with myself.
Between inklings of giving up and valiant hope, there's a special kind of quiet space, reserved, and full of hope waiting to be revered.
It gleams in perfect nights, I swear speaking to it makes it speak back.
Hope is something that could never be found in truths, It lays in a subconscious…do you lie as well?

Because there's so much to lie about—success, happiness, that you ever have it figured out. My lies tug on me, I don't know if I bend to being fake, a poser. Or if the lack of 'knowing what I'm doing' permanently keeps me in check.
The more I lie the more I want to live the truth, with happiness & my sword in check. I crave the safety of it more than anything.
Are you safe in lies?
For a moment, yes.

But only for a moment, for when it passes, and you stand at attention. There will be only you.
Someone I hope you trust to lead you through the darkest of nights. There will be no reward, or honor just—a simple solitude to make wrongs, right.

Love the world because it loves you back

xoxo

-Alice

I never wanted to grow up, it came at me fast while I was young.
Lately, I've been looking through the lens of what 17 year old me would feel, act, show.
I learn fast, but I would never begin to conceptualize what starting treatments, chemo, arthritis—every pain incarnate, would do to me. It feels like a sick joke, nothing I do is normal, nothing I feel is either. It rests in that though.

I can think back now, vividly to these past few years. I know heartbreak more than ever. There's an itch inside of me to always be moving, it leads me to never actually start anything.
But, I want to do it all, only because I know I can. Consistency is the huge struggle with it all now.
Weaving words into notes, sounds into art, atonal noise into melody.
Sometimes it feels like a superpower, other times it feel like there's something underneath my skin, crawling out of me.
These bugs just scare away my own nature.
My skeletons make me unlovable with the likes of the worst out there.
Why is comparison now there?

I don't want to be a bad person, a scar on your heart, 'the one that got away' — I want to be me. With freedom of my own tongue.
Words cut.
And these days I see myself holding in anything from compliments to pejoratives, the line is so hard to tread on.
It feels like sinning.

We're all going to do it…sin, break.
Minds change, words fizzle. Maybe we become what we hate during that process. Because it takes time. It takes failure.
It takes a point of no return.

My struggle is making sure I can return, even when I don't want to.
There's solace in quiet retreats but, I still ache for the loudness self-expression of others brings.
There lies my own nature, the human-factor, our beings, our doings…the love for love sake—now I think that's more of what I want to be.
Human.
Because humans make mistakes, like leaving home without your keys. Or keeping your soul in someone's arms until the crushing weight of you brings both of you, down.
I clung to you hoping we'd both drown, and it turns out neither of us could swim. Another life boat comes, now only I'm left treading water.

For now though, maybe that's all I want. Maybe that's all I'll get. I want to set fire to the entrails of my past, and live.
I want to see the high-rise of the mountains that still stand tall.
I want to look over and see a soul in my bed who can speak as softly as me, a still remain.

To shout loud enough to break the windows.
I want to hear the goods, the bad—a certain kind of ugly that neither of us can possess, it's just what we are.
Fickle.

-alice

https://x.com/tp_p_pt/status/1931010036958101690/photo/1

xoxo

Evictions are hard to swallow,
Waking up not knowing you had been, terrifying.

I always hear about how you only have this one shot at life, I never really knew what that meant until you’re staring down the barrel of a blast that you can already taste the gunpowder from. That in it, you have choices to make.
Clear answers, lives I could already picture—that then scared everything in me as well.

So you (I) do scared,
You do it alone.
You do it together.
You do it with love.

You do it for yourself.
So now,
As I just past the 2 year mark of HRT, as I wake up another day, as I recover functionally back into the person I always truthfully, want to be.
I’m not sure how to even begin to share those feelings—I think art is the way without any doubt but,

To wake up and know yes, there is progress, that I—despite every bit of the universe doing its horrid doings.
I am better.
I am Equal.
I am free.

That me resides in my chest now. From feeling lightning bolts when I catch a moment with myself to, finally up-keeping my hair well enough that it suits me now.
There are still knots in my chest in time though, I still feel the plunge into my nothingness when I overthink.
Though I am still appreciative of the prefix ‘Post’ in “Post-Traumatic”

So now—it’s over.
This trauma.
This chapter.
And again still,

I’m thankful to be whole.

Happy 2 years of trans-ness.
I hope to figure out whatever that means soon.

This is a marathon, not a sprint.

I love you,

-Alice
xoxo

I can’t be the bad person.
The one in the wrong.
Bearer of guilt, for I can do it all.

I can lose faith too, dragging my heels down to where I belong. Right on your doorstep, but with no strength to kick it in.
You can lose faith too, you know.

It comes with the rain, a sudden wash, and you can be new, too.
”It’s just the seasons” — they all say.
But nothing ever passes, time only moves. For you are never linear, nor more than a speck of dust in a chasm of inertia—it’s your duty to keep along w/ it.

But when there’s no more strikes to take, cavities to fill…even doors to kick in.
There’s still songs to sing, birds to compete with, faiths to believe in.

I never considered myself a spiritual person until recently, some things feel silly to deny. The idea that something is more than me, and breathes alongside me—feels more natural than to live without it.
It is there regardless, just up to an equal perception of both you, and something more—if you please.

And into timings of how some things just work after a while. Strength you would think is just atrophy at this point comes back rather fast.
It doesn’t take time, it’s there always, regardless. But acting upon your paralysis seems counter-intuitive…do you become it?
It takes you, with both hands now too, like a caress…like a mending hand, a loving one—it wasn’t familiar until the seconds follow. An embrace that is finally familiar enough that there leaves no question, no seconded guess, no one telling you how it was—you only know for what it is, and that it is now ever flowing. Like the creeks, like the passage of time.

Something so easy to fixate on, you lose track that maybe you should be not watching it, but acting through a force that is so much bigger than comprehension. Be at peace with it,

You have finally found home.

And thank it, too.

-alice

What does it mean to mourn a life—more importantly, yours?
I get lost somewhere beneath the depths, too caught in my own head. Too above others to really notice how my nature affects me, and the world around.

I never could imagine 25, it was never much of a guarantee with chronic illness. And maybe in my own way of playing along with it—I chose not to imagine it, growing up…that is.
I would be a retreating figure back to my coffin—a bed, where I could sulk for hours on end.

Though, no good happens there.
And I worry about the 7 years I spent suffocating in that underlying purgatory, I called it the back of my mind—your own can frame it too.
Mine was suffocating though, it's lifeless—it's just what I wanted while I tried to plead to the Gods to somehow, fix this all. I wake in pains because of autoimmune diseases, who better to ask to take it away—than God?

And through it, it seems like you can come out on the other side of it, but there's no return. Or mail back home, or a 'home'—in general.

It's in yourself, and it's isolating for me. I'm learning it in real-time with all the kinks and pains that come along, and I think back to an eviction—my own family's. Which has turned me into myself, more or less.
You fight hard times, harder people, and like a diamond in the rough—you can appear still.

But what of it, with this new found persona, mantra, being…of me. I never quite know what to do with it, if I should do anything at all with it. I want to save the world, I want to end it, I want it to know my name…but not any that I'm too keen on sharing.
Though, I made a decision, and one now 2 years old, at this point.

It was to start transitioning my gender, something I've made a point to do my whole life—for myself. But enacting it, actualizing it, that tends to be the harder part, and for it. I did it anyways.
I went back to school, and on the same day started injections too—part of not ever believing in 25 was part never being able to conceptualize my body, my mind has always seen it towards an off-putting way. One that is so falsely congruent it makes every fiber of me, shudder.

And still,
It seems like I've lost, or maybe better put, shed…an old life. One that was never going to work for 'me' anyways.But I still stand over it feeling this shame creep in on me.

I got out of an engagement, I traveled…making every mistake in the book, but with the people who you'd want to do it all with.
There's always this need to rush, anticipation is the name of the game to jump on a wave.

I've made music for well into 10 years now, I've produced 2200 songs. I have my name on distribution deals. I worked so hard for music to be my 'thing' —only to find myself turning the tides and realizing. It may have not been what I wanted this whole time. And that's been a huge piece of growing up for me. Understanding you can decide to shed things, or to take time to refine, and reflect—it's part of the necessary process, and how silly of me to neglect that for so long. I would've preferred to run my head towards the wall till I break…than express that even I, don't know what I'm doing.

You still do not.

That is what I know of the human-spirit,
That is what I hold everyone else to, for if I must be here.
You do as well.

I wanted for so long to run, to the hills, to the beat of my chest…forward if not, adjacent.
Growing up from below the depths of gravity feels like I weather a new storm each day. Another scare, bad test, (and not one in school this time) in a way to keep me down. It likes to tug me to towards a new hell.
Where I would meet my beasts, a maker, flaws…transparently so. Yet, I still, do not falter.

What keeps us around if there’s still, no one to hear you scream. Making it as blood curdling as possible—they still don’t hear you.
So then, be it with you, and you only to dig your way up into new roots from old soil.
I think on the ghosts I’ve seen from passing by, the moments of—”You once said you loved me”
Once were a friend
Lover
Peer

Now as ghosts you echo back and forth memories of false prophets I see at night. It’s sickening to know there’s nothing you can do about it.
Nothing you can do, but watch.
As a cozy spectator to a universe expiring, where is it in you to keep going.

Finding strength in the small tasks, the weird mishaps, the universe almost signals sometimes what it wants—if you pay close enough attention you too, can see it all unravel in front of you.
And for some, all they want is to see that our world’s intertia is catching us up in a realm we could never entertain.
I think in sometimes,
there’s nothing keeping us here so, do I want to watch a demise? Yours? Mine? —we all love conflict these days.

Play into it.

Or not,
Not because it’s the innate right, it could be the wrong as often too. Where is your moral compass? Is it one to point north? Mine leans to whatever pole is pulling me in that particular evening.

There’s still, no giving up, or even, giving strength to those things that would pull us there.
Our human-ness keeps us bound to right. Thankfully. For when someone feels their poles tug them under, quickly bobbing their heads like breaking surface tension of a frozen lake. Their demise is imminent. You’ve seen it all before, I’ve seen it on my screens—so have you. So instead, throwing a hand out to grab is the natural…human aspect we have.

And there lies the beauty to me, the beauty of humility, of being able to be so materially detached for one moment—and willing to spring into action the mere second after. Then maybe, that’s where our human spirit lies.
To readjust a train going so northbound it would reach south again, and knowing that is the wrong course of action.
Correcting the distant future in the moment.

That is what the human-spirit is.

The one that lies for years…better in centuries out in the open. We have the gift of the past in our fingertips or life-blooded DNA coursing through a papercut.
It only takes one drop.

For one in the ocean is enough to pollute even the crystal clear frames. What of it if two? Or in the cut never stemming? Oceanic awakenings.

There’s only a few ways to make it,
And there’s only one thing promised to us all,

Tomorrow.

A better minded moment,
A past that can’t be rewritten but,

A future that is as ever unfolding as a seamstress doing her clothes.
It can be a dress today,
Or a floral patterned shirt the next,
All that’s promised,

Is tomorrow.

-alice

xoxo

I do not know anyone who’s sleep is like that, actually.

Maybe someone fictional—like in those stories you would read before bed.
But in slumber?
There lies this, different story.

Lately,
I’ve been terrified of the dark,
I’m scared of what it brings.
What it is?
Where is it.
Who it brings…
How,

Can I Ever Get This Sleep.

I have cocktails of medication I’m tired of…there’s always more to try but,
Nothing sobering enough to take a bite out of my frame.
Bucking every known substance.
Battling with every wink of sleep.
Still why,

Am I so afraid of the dark.

The dark answers prayers, it uplifts a menial spirit, and plunges it towards the abyss. Some avoid,
Others’ head on with delight.
There’s ancients in those realms,
believing in it is half the battle.

I feel knots that twist when I get so restless, those whites in my eyes—deepen.
Forgiveness,
Projection,
Old soil—livens me up, these days.

I always wondered where my subconscious goes in sleep,
And if I had to guess,

It stays in battle, until I feel this—divine feminine,

It loosens me up,
it sways my ego, it holds me so tight—through the spasmatic kin I find in most dreams.
And even in my most lonesome hours, I wade in the pools down under until my spear guides me back to surface—first for air.

Next in how to better prepare, again.
Plunge again, meet a maker, or two.
Anything to remind me of myself,
For there’s no plan, or dissertation.
Methodology, or clause.

Down-under is no fate.
Maybe only with acclimation.

Choose love, regardless.
Then watch the wind take it—you?

-alice

xoxo

And then in me, and lately…
It feels like every change, better in—passing of seasons.
Is a tug on my heart strings.

Now in a process of,

Is it me?
Or the weather?
Is it even my fault—sometimes,
I feel like playing into it is a fault—but the sheer aspect of it, could never be.

I’ve been thinking back to 19 year old me lately too, and there are lots of differences but still, the most poignant moments lie—in my late Step-father’s passing.
And with all my knowledge I have now, it was a flu that went bad.

Blood that went septic over time, so naturally…with what is a routine stint in a heart artery.
The blood then, rushing through, rushing in—a brief moment of warmth he spoke on. Into all of that septic blood hitting—and for that,

Flatlines follow.
Fast, painless,
And an even brutal reality to still feel, a warm body in him on the table he had just passed on—to me, that chill will never go away.
A warm body, my warmest figure—I could call “Mine”.

Gone.

It’s been Six years since then, New Years Eve.
The night of his passing—I feel like that will forever be plagued by a memory of a warm body still…no longer here.

Now,
I can go on, and on about my traumas, the relationships that break following it—death.
Even my own near-to-death experiences, sometimes it gets too close to home...him.

But in his sense, he funded everything,
From the same PC i’ve been using for 6 years (still working flawlessly),
To music equipment,
to love,
to an aptitude for others,
for walking into a room,
and seeing everyone’s head turn 180 degrees, like an owl—just to give him (and by proxy, me).

A warm introduction but better in, a meaningful conversation to whatever stranger he had never met.
I’m still convinced there are no strangers in his eyes.
Championing that now, is what I try and take from his eyes.

There’s always a reason why people seem to pass, alive or dead.
We live through the dead, and the livelihoods of others’ just seem to…fade away. Still,
Like a death.

Treating our tramuas, the bleaks of an iris that turn white.
When we feel, we must.
I’ve been taught to look at most everything in a life as a natural grieving process. For—We are all ever changing…shedding a skin, molds, bounds that hold us up.
So,
when I look out into a tragic tragedy unfolding—suddenly.
It’s not always filled to the brim with careless thought, I’ve seen it better in

Head forth, head on,
Honoring.

Honoring those who’s mere presence in their short time here.
Can be just the catalyst,
If only in—to get up again in the morning
And then in,

Making this place a better rock for those who still have their time—’to wait’

Love regardless,
(loving the new 2hollis)

-alice

xoxo

it got lost like—me.

i worried about floods, then the bloodsheds - my own, yours. an oppulence of nothing, relluctantly—do it

there were eyes, plenty. then stilness—then calls become sparce.

what happened to the birds? where did you run off, again? with them? as them? they still find pity. a form to bash, clauses to write, you. out from.

like down under, there’s a peace, blackened bodies. silence, sibilance, still no…words.

None that make sense, really.

chatter. radio. aol startup tones.

pop-ups from ads, a tracking notice, ‘click here to accept cookies’ - sure.

no one believes you in antics. with or without.

im, still, me!

i can never place blame on those who love different than i—wisdom is only something in a moment of hindsight, in which you, and only you can see—anyone who tries. is whom, i, have had held hands within, without it, them—i shrivel.

i worry where we all go, still not when we fall asleep. but when we are so numb that we all ask another circular question.

• are you okay?

• did it hurt?

• stop telling me i’m scared?

• im not?

• but the world keeps telling me

• i should be

• and i dont know if i should be

so i wont be

-alice

xx

song as usually, required listening

xoxoxo

I worry endlessly on the passes of time, like actions that keep up w/ me through it all.
Seeing the absolute barren soul—only I, have.
To darken it—it would have to take me, first.
Would you volunteer safety towards the end of the world?

I wouldn’t.

Yes, no…I don’t know, truthfully.

I’ve been de-fragging my headspaces like, where does it all go when I fall asleep. What’s lost on the road here,
Does anyone ever, have their grenade properly “cooked”.
Let it go, maybe it will blow up in your face—not.

And on the worst of it, there’s still tomorrow—an itch to receive.
Give me the Hollywood Hills, and I’d still find a way to tell it how, it means nothing.
I sat outside, doing therapy instead.

I’ve seen healing through tenses, always.
Past, Present, Forward.
Being complacent on the latter, is where my brain goes.
Each, and everytime.
With writing, it’s quiet.
Stillness, liminal-versed words parsed through the tips of my fingers—I didn’t expect it to be so easy.

Seeing paragraphs form off no good thoughts, they come back around. The words need to eat—just as I would never admit, I too. Need sustanence.

So then,
You find it, cataclysmic thoughts to ruminate on. Barrells of evil to sip from—actionability would get me, you—someone, there.
Off into guises, there will always still be a search for home.

Not in straight forward tenses,
But echos, vibrations, innate wholeness—like a home. But never to be worn down like the foundations will, in the distant future.
For longevity,
is where mountains birth,
Where creeds follow to vessels,
Birds lay nest,

And somewhere, I—take.

If, and then a thought were to finally emerge, I would call it out.
Blank space intices me, always—it means there’s cavities to fill in.
Almost like the ones in my mouth I’m sure I have, fillings, drills—I’m still terrified of the Dentist.
Maybe only, for disapproval sake.

But even professions have ends to meet.
The ones we spend so much time of a worried feedback loop towards—what do you mean, “It’s not a big deal”.
It smells like flouride, and jaw aches.
—maybe one day.

On actions, trying to get towards. It should start small. Even with the eyes already locked there on the path—an end.
For even if there’s a sight ahead, is there any telling what may come up in the middle of it all? or the beginning—or the split second you have until breaking through the ribbon, as the first.
First of whom, exactly?

Enjoy the rush, or drown in the deep—I’m afraid.
Bask in the sun like the crows.
Follow intertia until they scream.

For there are never things in final, I’m once again—afraid.
There are just predispositions, you found acclimation with,

I think now, too in,
Loving regardless,

& Thank it too.

-alice

xoxo

This was in September,
my dearest - first childhood best friend.

Passed.

And coincidentally enough, I was in the hospital, at the same time she was. September 5th,

The flood that hit North Carolina, that caused a rationing of IV supplies, we both felt it. Myself however, got two blood transfusions - And a chance at a new life.
I, myself.
Was paralyzed for near 3 days…for my own health reasons but,
I was discharged the 6th of September, herself…passed on the 5th.

I’ve been writing about mysterious floods in prosed words, through tactics no one but myself, can understand - however.
-This is my letter, right back to her.

I was beginning a new life, coming out of my paralysis,
I taught myself how to walk
I read, daily.
I write, even more so, now…again.

I think back to the person of myself she knew,
One conjured through years of neglect,
Abuse.
No ordinary way - I would best assume.

And,
On this night, nearing completion,
As myself, nearing a betterment - better life, in whole.
I think back to days of 7th grade bickering,
Of tourturing each other w/ non-complimentary music tastes.
Of,
two souls who just,

Knew.
From one another,
Back in ourselves,
Forward in - Each other.

I told myself, I wouldn’t say sorry.

That I wouldn’t use a singular ‘I’ - something I’m trying to get better at.

In itself, I wanted to see her.
So when I try extra hard not to do anything,

It’s just something I hope I do,
for her.

Rest, dear.

-alice

xoxo

There’s actually nothing to reach for at the moment, so making due w/ writing seems more productive. Cause,

I can write for hours about an affect of what it does to you, I’m not quite sure the difference in the pain or the pills somedays. All I know is, I was born with these things attacking my body. Once again, you make due.

On a weird day, off the back of more oddities. I sit upright in the same ways I did as a kid, I wrote a lot then too…it’s silly looking back —Not much as changed, I actually am…more reserved, for whatever reasons. Maybe in defense, maybe because talking about pain —mine. Is something I was doing before I could even understand what a “tolerance” meant.

My tolerances not to pills, or pain(s) but,

Understanding these are virtually invisible diseases, invisible pains to whomever but it happens every time I meet someone new, and a question is asked about myself…it always comes back to me talking about pain, my own incarnated nightmares, a heat-death of a summer that coincidentally felt as if it wanted ‘Me’, dead —all the same. I wake, I adjust for a new level of my own body’s contempt and go, again.

There’s therapies, there’s medicine, better in art to me. I may have always been aching but it’s over ten years of making songs, writing lyrics, audio-engineering. If i say the raw number of 2200+ —I don’t know how it makes me look. I worry about ego, my own…how I despise it, but also learning to reconcile with it for, it’s still me and I’m still my ego. I’ve worked hard to understand myself to that depth, and I don’t know what you do then, with it. Shout?

I hope the art speaks for itself most days, I don’t regret anything in my life. Living the earnest way since my diagnosis’ inceptions actually just throws more roadblocks in my life these days. Ripping back control of not my body even, but soul —i’d like to say it as. My own.

There’s so many beautiful things to me in my head but feeling myself curl over a sink, splashing cold water on my face —extremities. To ‘wake up’, to get somewhere, somewhere new, something new. There’s always something to chase, or in my life, why I can never seem to sit still. I’m sure you may do the same—

I just have a good excuse, maybe you do too. And I’d hope you can find that.

-alice

xoxo

I remember 6th grade me, 
vividly these days, too.

Part of me wishes to address that version of myself as, 'her’ — part of me still finds it difficult introducing myself, ten years later…as ‘her’ — all the same. 
You know,

It's not something you ever prepare for. 
Growing up, I saw bountiful 'coming-outs', and still...what a beautiful sight it has always been.
I go so much in a back and forth w/ mine. 
There was always something brewing, and because of that.

I've been putting a needle into my leg — every 7-10 days for...closer to two full years now.

I remember 23 year old me,
I remember having resentment thrown my way,

Because for me, even with the nature of incarnated death, staring — longing me down.
I can still, crack a smile. A joke too, if time permits.



For me, transition is an act of survival. I hear so often, you only have one shot. 
So,
I lined my trigger, 
You pull it.

But still, it was an act of survival. These days, it's coming out of that fact — survival.
That will be the lifelong recovery from.

It's impossible to see it momentarily — in it, as it...through it. But the longer you stop to stare, it crystalizes in some ways. I do the same. 
You don't realize what you lost until you can look back, and so I do, and it turns out...

I lost. — not a thing.
For my ego is still held up, words still flow out from my cavities, there's a flaw wherever you want to look at me, deep enough.
For I wear it to my sleeves, the ones that will have more tattoos sooner than later. The ones that will never be long enough to hide a burden.
The ones that look still, just like me.

I always wanted change, but it never gives it forth.
You take it, 
Rip it from the claws that tell you — not.

Forlorned by my destitute frame.
If it were to linger, I would cease,
There's still no maker to a God,
Neverminded in my doubts.
I watch the sunrise, into frail warmth.

- You can end it, whenever you want to.
-And I'll always be there, morning time — rises.
w/ all the love in my chest.


-alice
xoxo

why has our language broken so far down? - mine included.
messy, obtuse, retractable.

back to forth, there may always be a way to change. 
a tik-tok influencer may say it as, 'manifesting'. i'd say it as...i'm not sure these days.
seeing this bastardization of art, of culture, sounds, songs, life innately from 19'-23' - did you too, forget?
there was a pandemic, everyone lived like me,

can you hang?
-and still, i'm not sure why i feel the need to then become the very thing i critique - hypocrites.

we all may be, to various degrees. 
and that's the better parts of us there - a willingness to change in births.
seeing yourself in the mirror after taking your first few steps after paralysis.
seeing yourself in these candid lights, 
seeing yourself
seeing
see
seek & find.


people talk about grit, grinded cores, and influential bystanders would walk up to take it all away.
what goes on passed the point of no return.
how long can you drown until gills form.
is there ever a time, like now?

writing about things tends to get you in feedback loops, sort of like forgetting black-hole reverb w/ 0% decay is on a send in Ableton.
i haven't composed a song in over 2 years now.
-there's 2200 of them and still yes, none. that recently.

when i think of my songs - compositions. it's a religious moment, liminal, i succumb to it.
i think of my 10 inch Subwoofer that i was able to crank in my dilapidated house as a kid, into...a point of no return.
-i wrote even more after that.

6 hours, get out. no,
you cannot spend the night.

i saved lives, before my own.
i watched the stars die out,
i held hands until i squeezed too tight they were ripped away,
i speak through tones,
i wandered,
i sought,

and still, it comes back to you.

there's an album just sitting here now,
it's named - 'not to condemn the world'
it was recorded throughout random places, the foley was all picked up from around me. 
much like my names from, 'various corners of the internet'.

i worry i sound head-like in moments where i'm never given a chance to explain, i yearn on, and on. people stop listening pretty fast, i get that.
-yet still,
--i would give up all the words, sounds, minsicule dumb things to pick up on.

if you could see the world how i see

-alice
xoxo

Would be the right time to tell a story - I’m working to get better at that. My typing tends to be a stream of conciousness so…bear w/ it.

-I started ‘atimetowait’ in 2017, I wrote about it’s anniversary here!!

I almost missed it, actually…it was a fluke I caught it. So then,

I honored it.

Hoping maybe, just to continue in those ways. I’ve decided to let that timeframe…go.

An act of ‘letting go’

So be me, out of an engagement. Out as a trans-woman. Inverviewing as now, myself.

-I did 7, slogging years, still. Well spent w/ treatments.

But 7 years I will never get back, seven that now exist somehow. In 2200 songs. And now I look forth, to more treatments, to still…a full life of - (?)

Take it from myself there’s - ‘no plans, no goals, no future’

Realizing that time, was actually not wasted at all, like I was playing into believe. That my strength in taking back control - maybe of my enviroments, they react to me, accordingly.

Maybe was always the plan, I wonder how a 17 year old predicted it. But, in my usual antics of having too much love to spare. Putting it into creativity seemed like a ‘good’ idea. Putting it back, for me…the ‘right’ idea.

So now, there’s an album out, towards a phrase I always championed.

-it gets my lips messy, when i smile - freya langley

I wonder how it looks, these songs are old. Recorded, mixed, mastered inside a house I was evicted from,

In those aspects, I can still go back. Now only…sonically. But,

When I listen to these songs, there’s four walls back around me, suddenly. There’s my golden retriever sleeping under my desk as I hyperfixiate on my masters. There’s love, there’s passion, human-ness,

An open communinty, culturally, self-empowered but - Too many arms to hold myself up.

-story of my life, maybe,

w/ all the love in the world now.

happy love day

-alice

xoxo

i am a natural competitor,
in music, performance, sports...i refuse to not, push myself
and while that's maybe not - a problem. if i dont acknowledge why i do
--it especially gets lost, in me.

i would hope there's a fire underneath everyone, something to motivate, something to elevate...does one live for anything, these days?
i sure do, 
a fear.

it's as if everything matters so much that then, nothing really seeps into me.
my prose goes from, steady words in serif fonts.
to a combination of css, markdown, and monospace. however it may fit.
-- i struggle w/ relatability 
--- opens up easy, but keeps everyone in a trance so i can get my mind off of 

"this idea that i'm dying faster than everyone else"
and why is that still,
the most competitive aspect of my life.

it works harder than me in classical music, in written words...in spoken thoughts still, it always. wins.

the bell, a tone, your clauses 
and yet i still 
cannot get over the floods, 

i remember waking up a few times in hotel rooms
--it felt like waking up out of surgery, the one i had on my spine when i was 16 especially.
they forgot to give me pain meds out of it, i smelled them eating lunch as i came out of anesthetics.
i couldn't open my eyes, there was no muzzle on myself, there were still...no words either.

i think a lot on our innate pain tolerances, how your body when it would choose to, goes numb - defense mechanism in action.
why mine doesnt really...alert? it runs closer in my blood. i follow it closer in my head.
there's a toll to that, like 7 years of chemo-therapies - weight

and still, 
why is it still my job? 
i didnt ask for it, much like me...i came w/ the gene.

'there was a piano composition i made last time i felt like this, i named it "worked to the bone" - then, but i've sorta repurposed it w/ a silly name.
i want to be able to get back into my composition worlds. there's a lot more of me in that, than the electronics, or the words. i think the sounds have always been the most important to me, and that's why i tend to keep them for myself. it's a selfish act, and im a selfish person. but for the art, for my sounds, for the words that go in and out and out and in. 
there's nothing more, 'me'...than that,
a sound, 
a lil song

a chordal structure that i hope has never been written'

we can hope
xx
-alice

story of my life

xoxo

i can't stop seeing lines,    geometry, has always come easy to me.   an expression, the equations however...   the whole 'no visualization' thing - tough for it.   i didn't realize until recently, while i can't draw a pretty picture.   while my sketches don't go, anywhere.   i still can't see a foreground. there is no background to follow, either.    lines.  secants,  cut through, something.  against a grain - towards...no wonders  and it's no wonder you get up after it,  there are still, lines to cross. to cut, forth, into back   i dont believe in new beginnings,   there is no peace if you were to bite back then   clip a wing,  it may just be what's holding it all - - - towards an oblivion    -alice  xoxox