• The Organic Poet

IN THE NOW by @MovementWhere

Updated: Apr 12

Thoughts fly like embered gnats. Without sequence. Orbiting. I think about things I need to do, people, connections, patterns... memory flashed present by a chance flavor, or the sound of an undertoned voice, something smooth, or the gradual colors of a sunrise spinning up the day. Vanish. With such speed they go and come. Only fractions come as words. Why do they sprint to crouch in their cunning distance? Reaching toward those escaping beams is like the instinctive grab toward the arm of someone falling. I dart to catch them. I write to stay the tiny allowance of those rise-to-sunset thoughts, a retelling, a different view of the recurring, scribbled down at another point.


Memory is mischievous, dropping pieces of the truth as it pleases. It mixes parts together that aren’t related and hides what it wants offering only some of what was. I can see memory reclining, pleased with itself, proud to dictate what I get. It is the unbroken battle of who controls. I drain onto the page whatever memory brings during its tamped visits.

Writing is pause, an elongation. The words merely momentarily encapsulate like a drawn out sneeze. From my phenotype perch I ornament perception. I brush over the same canvas. The shades and shapes, the hues, variant each time. I spiral ahead.


I write when I need to say something I would never say aloud. I make up words, then I spell them wrong. I stack rule-ignoring, punctuation free, run-on diatribes. I rant about being in the line of fire when I wasn’t the target, how it was their fault hurl splattering vapid insults, horrible words screaming through the keyboard repulsive, inexcusable, how out of place, how ugly, ridiculous, unnecessary, how insensitive, how unethical. I write to prove I may be right then store it in print, instead of in my mouth. I get it out so it stops bruising my insides. Rage, guilt, hate, shame, they are only emotions, and they do, at some point, dissipate and morph. Later I sift through the pages to find truth when the immediacy's subsided, and vision isn’t skewed by hurt.


I write short notes to those I adore, so they know they graze my thoughts, with the hope those words bring with them a smile. I write short sentiments on post-its and stick them to the coffee pot if I leave before he gets up. I dictate thumbed lists to my external hand-held brain because I know memory's essence. I write when I’m asked to posthumously condense the entirety of another. I blink images and thick feelings into words. I write when there’s no one around to talk to, and when I don’t want to talk to who’s around. I write when I need to, when I want to. I write when there’s no other way.


I lunge at those tinnitus specks in my own ionosphere. I dig with my dithery claws in search of the burrowed. I want so many of them to come back to me. I beg others to please, please stay away. I wait to see what I’ll be given. If I’m lucky enough to trap them before they dash, I write them up again, in the now.


Name: Evan Knapp


Place of residence: Portland, Oregon, US


Your favourite quote: "Where there is movement there is hope."


Your one wish for the world: Kind, steadfast empathy.

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