There’s an insanity brewing in him as he watches the steady rhythmic blinking of the cursor on his screen. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. The more he stares, the more hypnotic it becomes. Dylan wonders if he’ll ever write this story, or if the blinking of the cursor will drive him into insanity like some kind of linguistic Chinese water torture.

Why do ideas have to be like mirages in the desert? Something that seems so real in the distance. Real enough to touch. But as soon as it gets within reach. Poof. It’s gone. And once again, he’s staring at the barren landscape. Nothing for miles and miles.

The pressure he feels isn’t one put on him by a publisher with a deadline. No. He could only dream of getting there with his writing. This is a self-imposed pressure put on by himself and his own mortality. Dylan is only in his thirties, and in a perfect world he’d live another fifty years. But anyone who’s spent a New York minute on this spinning rock could tell it isn’t perfect, and each day was avoiding a thousand different ways to die.

So he stares at the cursor. Blink. Blink. Come on, God. Give me an idea. Anything. Please. But the ideas that come are nothing new. Just regurgitations of stories he’s already written, or stories that were written better by far more talented authors.

A working man sits in a bar drinking beer. Done that.

A father feels insecure. Wow! Real original.

The mob. No.

A gun. No.

A twist. The guy was dead all along. Dear God, No!

Something different, man. Something different, something new. But what’s new? Is anything new? Hasn’t it all been done?

Dylan takes a deep breath as his fingers hover about the keyboard. He’s scanning the letters. The letters. The story is hidden within these letters. It’s a code. A story is simply a code, he thinks. The perfect combination. The perfect sequence of letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into pages, and boom! Voila! A masterpiece. A legacy. Something he can pass on to his kids and their kids when he’s grains of sand in a floral patterned clay urn.

He’s no religious man. He’s sure there isn’t anything after death, because ideas and faith stem from electricity in the brain. And once that’s shut off, then there’s nothing. Nothingness, like the days before he was born. Not darkness. Just nothing. But the idea of a book. A hard copy story that was written with his hands, and filled with his ideas. Something that is only his, a selfish manifesto where no one else deserved the credit except for him. Something like that makes him less afraid of death. A lasting legacy.

But he’ll never get there if his fingers don’t start typing. Nothing was ever gained with idle hands, except pressure.

But there’s still nothing there. Not a single word. So he scans his bookshelf filled with great stories, good stories, bad stories, but stories nonetheless. The shelf is filled with writers who wrote, imagine that? Writers who had a dream chased that dream and succeeded.

Dylan still stares at the blinking cursor. Mocking him. Beckoning him.

Come on, write something. Write the story about the drunk in the bar. Sigh. Like that’s never been done. Or better yet, write the one about the misunderstood father who tries his best, but people don’t see that. Eye roll. Wonder who that’s about, eh? How about this? Write about the guy who can’t write. The guy who is so lonely and desperate for companionship that he talks to a blinking cursor on a blank page. But no. That wouldn’t be believable. Would it? Only crazy people do that. Just write something!

So he does. He writes a sentence, then deletes it. Another sentence, then deletes it. He wants to fast-track past all the drafts. All the bad writing that only turns into good writing after hours of editing. He just wants to write it all in one soft, smooth go.

You belong among the Wildflowers. You belong in a boat out at sea.

Why did that pop into my head? He thinks. Then he remembers the Tom Petty documentary that he just watched. Somewhere You Feel Free, he thinks, is the title of it. In that documentary Tom Petty says that the song Wildflowers was the only time in his career where he sat down with his guitar, wrote and played the whole song in one go. Wow! What a masterful piece of writing that is.

Maybe he can write the Wildflowers of short stories or novellas or novels, or whatever his non-existent piece of writing is going to metamorphosize into.

The pressure from his internal deadline is still beating like the thumping of a temple migraine. Thump. Thump.

And it isn’t just coming up with a story. A story with mini-stories placed inside like Russian nesting dolls. It’s trying to figure out the style that will help him expertly weave all these stories together.

Dylan again scans his bookshelf. Cormac McCarthy, Larry McMurtry, Dennis Lehane, Stephen King. Some of his favorite authors. Great stories. Great characters. Writers with a strong understanding of the task at hand. Writers who knew that they had to write, even before a single soul knew their name. Writer’s with their own deadlines.

And like magic, an idea appears inside his head. It’s clear. It’s right there. Please don’t be another mirage, he says to himself. Please, be the real thing. He types. One sentence, into two sentences, into a paragraph. A paragraph into a page. A page into two pages. He’s off to the races now. He’s smiling. This is the drug right here, he thinks. This is the high of all highs.

Then, after a few thousand words, he stops.

He looks it over. As he continues to read what he’s just written, the smile slowly fades from his face and continues downward into a frown. This is garbage.

He highlights all the words. Delete. They’re gone. And again it’s just him and the blinking cursor. Another mirage.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

You belong among the Wildflowers. You belong in a boat out at sea.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The pressure in his head.

It's the pressure

of the undercooked

the undone

in the locked lid

that suffers

for hours

when inspiration

or remembrance

hits

and I open

eyes

dilate

in the light

there is

smoke

there is fire

and I

draw it

in

to a point

red and glowing

forked

sliced thin

somehow

in my sauce

it

always

comes down

to the steaming snake

and the boiled apple

11.12.2023

In the pressure cooker challenge @Huckleberry_Hoo

Ever felt like you were slowly sinking, despite your best attempts to tread water? Or that the boat you’re in is gradually going under as water levels rise and cover all port holes? Or that you’re swimming in water that’s becoming warmer with each minute, while a fear consumes that you will eventually be boiled alive? These are all descriptive analogies that embody a sinking feeling of hopelessness or a calculating depression that can threaten to consume someone and lead to an early demise.

I have, thankfully, only felt a sense of such severe symptoms once in my life while going through a bitter and ugly divorce. With such feelings permeating my being, it made routine, everyday life immensely difficult. As a result, I was lacking in the ability to make rational decisions and be my own advocate. Fortunately, I sought help and found it in counseling and an anti-depressant medication. I would like to stress that these two treatments did not cure my severe symptoms, but together, they enabled me to function somewhat adequately and make healthier decisions. Eventually, as my life settled back into place, I was able to discontinue the medication or treatments.

I was one of the fortunate ones. The sense of swimming in a cooker can easily be recognized as depression or mental illness, and others who struggle so profoundly with such disorders, often have problematic results with treatment strategies or medication treatments. I have a thirty-four year old daughter, who since the age of thirteen, has struggled relentlessly with achieving the correct chemical balance for a bi-polar disorder. Not only does she struggle with the key diagnosis of being bi-polar, but she is also faced with the challenges of other linked conditions that co-exist with the main disorder. All can be fine for days, weeks, or even months, and then all hell will break loose as a chemical imbalance or immunity to medication rears its ugly head – and the struggle begins anew.

I guess my daughter is also lucky. She is insured by a parent despite her advanced age. Also, a combination of medications also usually works for her to a large degree, making her condition somewhat manageable on a day to day basis. I am aware that there are many others who are not so fortunate to achieve success or partial success in a variety of treatments. For so many, insurance is not a possibility, as many are unable to work or qualify for assistance. I am more than sure that just seeking assistance under such dire symptoms is a hardship in and of itself. Also, many who do have insurance continue to struggle more than my daughter does with achieving a balance in treatment options.

I simply cannot imagine struggling on a day to day basis under such adverse and dramatic circumstances. I wish, in this country, we had more options accessible for those who do need help and that there was not such a stigma attached to mental disorders. I am sure that each one of us, at least on one occasion in our life, has felt the need to seek an additional means of support or help for we are all human, falling short of the mark, be it intentionally or through no fault of our own.

It goes without saying that this subject leaves the door open for a multitude of further comments, comparisons, and possibilities. I’ll just end this brief discussion by saying I wish no one ever had to feel this way or struggle so. Still, life is what it is, and unfortunately, it is not always easy and usually not fair either. These facts alone mean we should always be willing to listen, help, and assist those who are struggling. We should also be mindful of those who do not display such needs in an observable fashion. Listen with your hearts, minds, and all senses in addition to your hearing for you never realize what difference a small kindness could potentially make in someone’s life, especially in the life of someone who feels they are swimming in a cooker.

I used to think I was somehow special, that my trauma made me superior to others. Surely, I thought: no one has suffered the way I have. I would watch girls laugh with their mothers, speak without their voices shaking, move their bodies without twitching, and I would seethe internally.

I am not in poverty. One out of every five people have been molested - also not me. I do not have ailing health, or a bully. I am, in fact, lucky.

So why do I feel this pressure to be more damaged than everyone else?

I read a book once where a girl in a psych ward cuts her hair super short and starves herself to emaciation, and goes to group therapy and laughs at the idea of recovery. A man pulls her aside after the group session, twisting her arm, and says: "You can cut your hair as short as you want, you can not eat for as long as you want, but in the end, it's still you underneath."

I feel the pressure, not only to be more damaged than others, but in a complete contradiction, I also know that I need to overcome my insecurities.

I was talking to my therapist the other day and name dropped a prestigious college on the east coast, where I'm from, and she said: "What's that?" and I was completely taken aback. What did she mean, she'd never heard of it?

I felt foreign, pretentious, but more than that - very east coast-y.

Perhaps, then, it's where we come from - and our own personal biases - that make us who we are, and put a unique pressure on us.

Maybe it's not my fault that some guy twisted my arm and told me to essentially F off.

But maybe it is, and maybe that's my unique pressure - to overcome myself.

Can you feel it?

It’s in between your sighs, it’s right there, before your heel presses down on that carpeted floorboard you know will creak, it’s the five am aftermath of cats outside yowling and the foxes fucking and the bins crashing and your neighbour’s flashlight through your curtains— at least you hope that was your neighbour’s. There! it’s in the click of spit breaking between your teeth and lips, every thought ringing true right before you forget. when what you’re waiting for surrounds you like a ticking you can’t hear, that quiet before you dive into a chlorinated pool, when stillness becomes just a high pitched whirring, it’s that empty space on your chest where someone you love once pressed — are you dizzy with it yet? Here, listen, let it pull you closer in and —-shush, you.

It’s all those needless fears, anxieties borrowed from the future, it’s the upside down hopes and dreams, it’s all the things you never said. you never needed to, anyway.

When pressure hits, I never brace,

I'll gladly accept its warm embrace.

Everyone has a goal they'll chase,

And everyone has that worry on their face.

If that's the case,

It's a common space.

Everyone feels pressure before the race.

Caged within bonds of bone

Aches a thrashing heart

Spiteful and merciless

To sleepless eyes and leaden limbs

Murky darkness presses hard

Yielding little solace

Beneath the crushing weight

Bows the weathered spine

Upon a humbled back

The lashes never stop

A poison to imagination

All so devastatingly mundane

Infected by a crazed heart

Grieving what never comes

The frightened mind becomes ensnared

Drowning in its own creation

A sea of darkness

Swallows the withered soul

Combated by a light so dim

A single candle on the darkest night

Bedraggled hands thrust upward

Fighting to reach that light

A promise for something better

A guide within the mist

The glow grows larger

Any escape is heaven

Ragged bone grows hostile

Fighting for what could be

It's a constant reminder

I'm swimming in the cooker

Anxiety building higher

My heart is an overstuffed pot

The steam from my soul is boiling hot

My thoughts are on a constant simmer

The heat of life overwhelms my inner

In this pressure cooker I'm living

My emotions are so unforgiving

My worries and fears fill the pot

My sadness is all that I've got

The pressure cooker is all I see

The heat of life is drowning me

I'm trying to find a way to escape

But I'm stuck here in this boiling state

There ain't no pressure than being heavier

Than the stuff you're swimmin' in

Inhale and you taste what it is

Exhale, and you sink to equilibrate

With the bottom feeders who wish you the worst

That's life, I'm 'fraid

Sink or swim

But swimmin' ain't nice

'Cause the rest of 'em are grabbing you

To push you down

And down

That's strife I'm 'fraid

Sometimes you have help

To sink or swim

Sometimes they help

But then change their minds

It goes both ways

That's the midwife, I'm 'fraid

What is this tripe in which I swim

Sink or float in false reassurance

Climbing to the top is misunderstood

It just tells you how far down you can go

Where you might just belong

That's hanging by the blade of the knife

Pressuring, something getting ironed. A shirt to look nice doesn't have much say. Something to go through, they might name that. A period of something. They might one day mention a shirt that went to one of the finest dinners, a shirt just like you. Ironed, tailor-fitted. Pressure.

In many colours, come. Not a boring old shirt, is it. No, time to shine, now lay down. They're gonna iron you, before. Try to squeel, they get rid of you, or replace the iron, with another iron.

Pressure.

There are many shirts, to go around. C'mon. Hey. C'mon. On fancy dinners, on expensive job-interviews. Now lay down, they're gonna flatten you out before the big date. Oh, you'll have a good time.

Pressure.

Empty shirts floating round shaking sleeves. Tailor-fitted, friendly, funny, sharp.

A woman being called crazy for touching her face - apply cream and she's making herself pretty. Ah, but first apply money for cream. Face-touching without cream is crazy, apply money for cream, apply cream, pretty. Apply pressure and lay down. Lay flat, apply pressure.