what do i remember about that night???? chris was flirting with me. maybe we had already started snuggling..... i know we had at least been talking/hanging out on the couch in pickle house. 

were we going somewhere? cel came upstairs and we were standing in a little circle by the fridge. 

or did i get up and come back to find the two of them talking?

i remember asking if we woke him up, apologizing. i think it was the next day, he said he couldn't sleep "with a fire under his ass" and a suggestive sort of look.  what could that mean? i didn't ask.

today he's whispering so ken won't hear about a previous "arrangement" he had with chris. something to do with education. sounds like something to do with sex, if i'm reading his implications correctly.  

he also says chris wanted me and him to get closer and that he was trying to bring us together. 

so you're saying he's fucking me to get us to be friends??

and you're saying that chris placed us here on purpose, to 

okay i don't buy it. 

okay i think he really likes me and i don't really know what to do with that. 

i can't get over the idea that he's making it up for some reason. but he told mike he was terrified and excited, he wouldn't say that to someone if i'm not there. to a dude!! and he told FOUR dudes today that i'm an awesome lady (or something, i guess i'll find out exactly what i am when the audio recordings roll in). 

i don't quite know what i'm doing but i don't quite mind. these last two weeks (good lord, three???) have been a blur, a dream. i don't know where we're going and i think i'm okay with that.  

that's not altogether true. i know you're going to south boston, virginia, any damn minute now. and where will be then? you want me to come with you, at least you say you do, at least for part of the time. i can't imagine what this will look like, so i haven't said yes or no. i'm still curious. i still want to see what happens after brett gets here, what we will look like then, and if you are still interested when we're not fucking every couple nights. 

you said:

you want to help me build my space. 

you want to be as honest and open as possible. the experiment is on and for yourself. 

you want to know a good thing.

i can calm you down and descalate you from getting angry, violent. 

i make you feel comfortable in your body.

i make you feel human. 

you said a great many things i can't recall. 

i believe we could do great things. i want to make magic with you. i want to build it better. 

i'm still scared. i'm scared you might be trying to fuck me over, or just get something from me. (what's left? i'm not sure.)

i'm scared that i'm hitting you hard, like wild turkey, and i'm drunk with the right-now good, dreading the ambiguous future. i'm scared i don't know you. (isn't that the point of this, though?)

i'm scared of your massive past, the violence, the drugs, the women. 

your reaction tonight when i told you about cel, about what i thought he was implying, was huge, terrifying. you wanted to hurt him, our poor friend. somehow i calmed you down for now, promising i would talk to him tomorrow before you're back in town... but i don't know how we're going to endure a 4 hour car ride with him for the wedding this weekend, let alone share a tent. i feel terrible. what have i accused him of? what do i know? now i have to have an impossible conversation (is it?) to find out if he's listening to our sex and listening on purpose. the attempt will be better than your proposals. 

i don't understand reacting like that but somehow it doesn't disturb me like it does in other people, or maybe like it would have in the past. why?? maybe i think you're all talk. (not really true.) 

i have a strong desire to record your stories, to pin you down and hold you before you unravel all around me.

this family has known from day one that I didn't belong here. why not own it and go full creature ?

the others send me no smoking signs. the phone getting stolen was big. here another, the whole pack of smokes I lost was found, returned, I was joyous until I found them all broken and wet and it's just like me and how much does it take for me to know a metaphor? 

how I find it so hard to speak in this language. how nothing nothing nothing makes sense. 

we like shapes in the night

we drank half a 30 rack and we smoked more than half a pack of cigarettes between the liquor store walk at 10pm and the sun coming up at 7am before we crashed to the mattress on the floor and took our clothes off, for the second time, i think?
we sat on the bench where we'd been painting boards for the bedroom trim and i was wallowing and you held me and told me you wanted to help and nuzzled my head until our lips found each other. 
(what was the moment in which this became inevitable? the last beer, or the first? meeting eyes in the kitchen and feeling seen? the night you don't remember, when i tickled you to capture your nonexistent keys?)
i don't remember what came next. chainsmoking and natty bo in my unfinished new room, top floor of middle house, sitting on the roof to watch dawn creep over the highway, wearing only jeans and a hoodie. i don't remember when my shirt came off.
we were too many beers in to be doing what we did. we crashed to the mattress on the floor tangled tickling kissing and i fell into a dream, walking to a job interview at the neighborhood grocery. to apply i had to get fingered. your hard soft body naked on top of mine, the sweetness of skin on skin, how we ache for this dance. suddenly your soft hard cock inside. i wanted it but i hadn't said so, i wasn't ready and no protection. (you're lovely but i don't want your babies or infections.) what is wrong with me that i can't stop, can't say anything? why has this become my pattern? caught in drunken jumbles, wanting without knowing why, not having the courage to speak.

they have said: cmon. please. you're nothing special. just hold still. shhh.
and they have said nothing as they put themselves inside me.
and they have said how much they missed me, how they love my squishy body, i'm not like the other girls, i'm good enough, i deserve it.

my heart races to write it. as much as i'm disgusted and furious with myself, i'm still turned on. and i want and i want and i want and i like you but i don't like our culture. i don't like the roles we're playing or the confused consent. i want to break myself apart to see how my sexuality was formed around my passiveness and i want to start over.

sometimes i think i ought to charge

lately, everywhere i go, all these men's eyes.

at east wind, there's a male majority, and the closest town with a bar is 20 miles away. commies in the ozarks get lonely too. from out of the autumn night rain, i shuffled into the cramped sunnyside commons, bumbling with my bags and beer and too many coats, sloppy smiling, and i became meat. the freshest sort, from one or two communes over, but as yet unclaimed. a dozen people crammed in this small room, and i felt them mentally undress me, i saw them puff up against each other for a piece. but it was so far under the surface that maybe i'm the only one who saw, because they were really all so kind, not creepy at all, just starving.
could i blame them?

i don't know what to do with men's interest in me. i guess i'm a little flattered but mostly confused by it. they all like my dimpled smile, they like that i think, they think it's cute that i'm awkward, they always like it when i'm nervous.
do you think your presence caused this? your power?

my confusion takes the lead in the dance of the flirt. i refuse to believe that this is what's happening, i thought we were friends. i didn't expect him to take it there.

how did i end up again against some him?

his room is its own circular structure, right by the dribbling creek, falling down, half whole, mysterious, broken. is this how you saw me? how did you see me at all?

i will entertain the conversation, i will drink his dandelion wine. i'm a sucker for the bottom of the barrel, let me keep going till i find it. finally i'll stop my awkward talking long enough for him to ask to kiss me.
thank you for asking.
for a moment everything feels sweet and giddy, almost innocent.
why not say yes? why not anything? why not see if i feel?

the first time kissing is always the best. (maybe i am better when i'm nervous.)
it will start on the couch with our mouths until his hands start to wander, why not? he will want to move to the bed or turn out the light, why not? he will squeeze my tits like lemons, kiss suck pinch pull push hard harder hurts.
most of this will be uncomfortable.
i will go into a certain type of subspace: silent, riding, object, use me.
some things feel good but others i will just let happen.
what's the point in trying to correct his too tongued kissing, his hard hands?
what am i doing here, where have i gone?
what can i ask for that i will get?
he won't know until after he's done it that i like pain but he won't understand what kind. he will have already had his hands inside me and will have bitten my meat until the blood vessels pop and the bruises flower up.

i should be better, glow more glitter
not blurry squinting hunching monster
new holes in my dress + my head
i've stayed and i'll stay here for hours
smoking up these papers
until i stumble walk the bottle back to bed
never eat, oversleep
drink till you can't remember where you put your feet
they found you fallen in the street
all blood + piss + fleas + meat
immature + undercooked
never had a chance you took

two nights dreamed of tall water.
the first, riding atop the tallest waves in train cars, saving the people and carrying the cats in boxes. gracie lou who close to my chest, while i call orders over the tumult.
and the second, on the tallest balcony, the tidal wave encroaching, worrying over the people and herding the cats into tubes. willikers the prominent tuxedo in a tunnel of black cats.
and that night, in the dark of the conscious world, the saloon deck of the ferry to manhattan, leaning over the railing, willing myself not to drop in.
and then the train with river wild, and finally seeing rex across broadway, in front of roma's pizza. we dance the distance until the lights change. our reunion on the streets and at the overcrowded dyke bar, cash only. but friday night and too many straight boys and overpriced weak whisky pushes us to the corner store, the tiny park, the street. rex doubts his inner queens compass and modern convenience leads us astray. we never do find the water, let alone the pier. what we find is a strangely deserted bright street with a rock. without protest, the rock lets us talk and sit and drink and piss and nearly fall asleep right on it, until rex gets us going, back to the subway and the walk through the garden apartments to the cluttered cozy jackson heights townhouse where we can whisky steelie sleep through the morning. except that rex has a bus to boston at dawn, so i oversleep alone, try to slip out quietly, but am thwarted by his mom, nourished with apple fritter, sweet talk, and decaf. the journey back to staten island takes two meandering hours, and the ferry is soothing this time.
ganas is a strange green maze with its own sidewalks, raised up from the street; is this the real city? there is a palpable tension between old and new, the steadfast 60s communards and the invigorated younger set, fresh for revolution. "it's time to turn, to revolve, it's always time," we say, as we huddle on our porches, sneak a smoke, scurry when we hear them coming.
and look, we do share the bounty! from the house pantry, jaclyn makes tunafish pizza with bacon grease white sauce, plus tomato cheese just for me. the days drift in the green heat; is this city real?
wednesday rolls around and i still don't make it up in time for the 730am planning meeting, especially not from the extra house at the bottom of the hill. i still can't handle time, i'm one step slow all day, and even run late to rex's show at the new york city bureau of human services queer division, and the building was even more swanky than the name. everyone is beautiful gayz and i'm so proud to see rex his cap his bow tie his perfect poems and py arrives right at the end, during the glitter rap dance party, the queer cafe unsure how not to shake. pyrite is a vision in the village, vegetarian and mostly sober, until we spot the stella. "it's the gay beer," we're told. we fold into a flock, a glistening smoking parade brigade, back to the dyke bar, cash only, whisky bourbon on special.
i'm sorry if i rambled your ear off, spun off too far, gave you too many smokes, spent all yr money on drinks, spit your powdered supplement on the ground, cried on your shoulder, hugged you too many times, kicked you for old times' sake. but we did laugh, and we remembered the ghosts, and we almost walked that secret path.
but it twisted and you left us underground in the sick yellow light, where we continued to follow that dolorous brick road through the tunnel, to the dive with the whisky and the filthy foggy back room. it's no wonder i can't remember what was said. but we make it our home, for now, and i could live here forever until rex persuades me to leave, he in his infinite wisdom, with his mind on new york time, and again quit my pointless flirting and i'll hold my brother's hand on the train to queens, and again i'll share your bed until morning, but this time i have a bus, and two ferrys, and ten trains to catch to make richmond tonight, where i'll hitch a ride to twin oaks with comrades, albeit strangers, friends who have never met.

whose hole ?

the porch problem

when you think you are performing for someone but there is in fact no audience 

when you try to create something for yourself but can't stop thinking about the impossible potential audience 

why I never write anymore 

why I sing only during dishes

when will I learn 

or figure how to forgive myself

amy and I talked about the selfishness of artists and wondered if that's what it takes to make anything worthwhile. do I have to stop everything else? not that it is anything but I haven't written in weeks, months, years. what do I want anymore? can I blame the place or the job or just me?

a borrowed beer on the porch, a beer too often. a smuggled smoke, ashes again. 

these small sacrifices grow a larger harvest. they don't answer the questions or the problem. 

where can I go? my home under the hill? I've almost stopped believing. 

there's truly no place for me. 

the truth is I'm stuck again and I hate myself for it. the worser truth is that I don't see any way out. even though there are people out there waiting for me, wanting me to bring the fire, I can't believe that it's the right fire. I only have one flame and it's gone out. nothing to be done now. 

have another smoke, another drink, don't think.
the porch is the only place you'll ever be, there's nothing here but what you see. 

is that your glass heart clinking?

if I tend to write only when I'm alone, then I'm never gonna write anything again living in this damn co-op. sometimes in the shower or in the car, I have ideas, but there's so much jumbled into my head immediately stepping out of those places and into this confusion called my home. generally I really like living here, the hustle and bustle, interacting with so many different people on a daily basis, priding myself on figuring out these puzzles, these people, and getting them to talk. HA! it's true, I won't deny there's a little bit of skill there. but at the end of the day, who makes me talk? who wants to know my ins and outs, downs and ups, tos and fros? none of these people can read my subtle signals, though a couple can see the larger signs-- when I'm drinking more than enough, when I'm overly critical of something small, when I've been hiding in my room for days. and if and when they see it, it's so easy to run away, don't worry, it's nothing, I'm fine, I'll be in my room with the pillow and the cat. they leave me alone like I want them to. but you know better-- you understand the chase. you know the chase as well as I do. I'm practicing a small pursuit on all these people every day, how can they not understand? but they don't want to work on a puzzle, or find that the end reward is no good thing. I try so hard so often to be easy, kind, generous, considerate, patient, amusing, good. I try too much, I unwind the web so smooth, make it all gentle, and they don't see the handiwork. do you know how I am a new creature for every person? how I will mold to fit and nestle in your comfort zone? is it so well done that no one cares enough to talk when I've hit bottom? but this is not new, even though the place and people are. I insist on distancing myself (and my truth, and my heart, and my hurt) from even my friends, then I'm dead and dumb when they can't connect. did I make it one way? I'm convinced it's that they never ask, never ask right, don't really want to know, rather than that I am a closed door with impossible locks. they think animal rescue is my life's work and that I love cats maybe because they're cute or because I'm so good and selfless or because I'm a future hoarder of more than paper. they don't know that I love cats because I hate myself.

why does the truth always sound so dumb?

listening to: xiu xiu - ale

1. I hate myself.

2. I self destruct with smokes and whisky. 

3. I have a problem with overdoing it. 

4. I get so gone that people are forced to take care of me. 

5. I'm lonely. I forget. 

6. I fall into the pattern of getting carried away. 

7. I hate myself. 

birthday song

you grow older and older and older
you grow older and older and older
but you still don't grow up
you can't act like an adult
you just get older and older

you grow older and older and older
you need the heat the fire and the whiskey
you live in extremes
you need to be on the scene
you just get older and older

the new year requires fire and a kiss, I combined them. the ball of rum roams the room. the heating pad flat to my stomach and the tent honing its call, a bubble of pillows. my first new year away from home. unbelievable, and unremarkable. really actually alone. watch the rum roll. the ball drops on its own.

the last few days have been some of the most intense ups and downs in the history of my life, no joke.

thursday morning (halloween) was minerva's tail amputation and spay surgery, which they decided to do even though she'd been sneezing a bit. normally, sick babies don't get surgery, but they said her tail just had to come off, and we couldn't wait any longer. holly kept catching me peeking through the window of the operating room, trying to catch a glimpse of my baby on my way to the coffee machine. finally i asked her to let me know how it went, and holly promised she'd let me know. back in the cattery, trish showed up to pick up kittens for brodie petco, and luckily she was not in a rush, so she held cats and we talked while i checked everybody's med records and tried to figure out who to send. holly popped in to tell me that they were about to start minerva's surgery, and i literally dropped everything and ran to the OR window to watch. holly let me come into the room and told me not to touch or breathe on or even look at the stand of surgical instruments at the foot of the operating table. i was so anxious and upset to see my baby gone under - her tongue hanging out and pinched by tongs, her eyes half open and glossy, breath slow and soft. she should always be talking, hopping, purring, so as excited as i was for her, it was hard not to feel upset seeing her like that. the doctor was not someone i've ever met before. maybe it was dr jefferson, the head of APA, who i am always hearing about but never seeing. at any rate, she didn't say hi to me or make eye contact, so i'm afraid my presence bothered her. i walked down to wendy's office to ask her a quick question and then let mer know that the surgery was about to start, so she ran back to watch through the window with me. since minerva's tail was broken in several places, they started by just cutting off the bulk of it with scissors. wendy was horrified, and i was fascinated, and so happy that she'd finally be rid of that dead thing. we were kinda squealing, and holly had to tell us to shut up, which i now feel terrible about... i didn't know they could really hear us through the glass! holly brought out the severed tail and let me hold it. it didn't feel how i expected - it was like a furry finger, stiff, but the fur was like a case that could be slid up and down around the hard bone. i freaked out, loving it, getting minerva's blood on my hands, immediately wishing i'd taken a picture.

the day proceeded to turn into a giant mass of sickness, with 20 cats needing medicine, in addition to the already sick guys, the possible calicivirus cats, and three or four babies needing to be force fed. sandy started puking up orange foam and i freaked out that he had eaten a toy and moved him to a single and took away his food. i was running back to the clinic for the zillionth time that afternoon when i finally asked how minerva was doing -- anthony told me she was awake and doing well, just really drunk from all the painkillers and tranquilizers. i asked if i could bring her back to cattery, and they said sure. she was probably tripping hard when i took her out of the clinic kennel; she kept scooting away when i tried to pick her up. but when i got her back in her regular bluebox, she let me pet her and purred away. she was mostly her usual ridiculous self, although she was stumbling around and her eyes looked wet and weepy. i set her up with her snuggiedisc and a warm bowl of fancy feast, which she devoured while perching on the warm disc. when the transport person showed up to take her to foster, it was so hard for me to let her go. i got steve to take our picture before kissing her head and saying goodbye.

i ended up working till almost midnight, with all the sick babies and force feeding. i was so exhausted, i involuntarily stopped at a taco bell on my way home. for real, my body just took over and pulled into the drive-thru. at home, i made a list but was too tired to pack and just passed out on top of my laundry.

on friday. i woke up at 8:30 to pack, but i'm a slow-poke and i didn't have time to take a shower or eat or buy coffee for amy like i said i would, especially because she convinced me i needed to be there an hour before my plane took off. she drove me in my own car to the airport because i didn't know how to get there. watching her drive away in my car was like going through a portal - my regular life had left me behind.

after going through security, i found a coffee stand and bought a bagel and latte. why can't i seem to remember that i HATE lattes?!?! never again. over breakfast, i typed some hurried notes for laylee about the cats - i usually try to do this the night before, but i was just too exhausted and there were too many. so i'm hunched over my bagel and phone, and who should walk up but DAN who had actually told me he was flying to his hometown in mexico today for a wedding. of course! i never imagined i'd see him here, and it was pretty awkward. i didn't stand up and he didn't sit down. what do you say to someone who you haven't seen since your drunken cuddle party sleepover two weeks ago? "have fun at the wedding." he isn't so attractive in the harsh airport light, and he looks exhausted and ill. almost grey. i know he's gotta be thinking the same thing about me.

i boarded the plane next to last, and before we took off, i remembered laylee's family tradition: before traveling, take a moment to sit and close your eyes and think of all the people you love and visualize a safe journey. laylee said, "i guess it's like praying, but not."

on the plane, i sat next to a 60-something-year-old woman from Indianapolis who had been in austin for her friend's daughter's wedding. it was Downtown Abbey / Edgar Allen Poe themed, and this lady thought it was gonna be a joke, but it was actually one of the most beautiful, "impressive" weddings she had ever been to. "I'm conservative, and I was expecting it to be a joke, but this was just impressive." so old people can still be surprised, can still change their minds. another instance of me relating more to old people than to people my age, these days. and how weird it is that old people are just as confused and stumbling as me -- it doesn't get better, it doesn't make more sense with age. as the plane lands, she weasels it out of me that i'm going home for the film fest. "Be proud of yourself! This is a huge accomplishment!" okay, i'll try. "No, do! Like Yoda said, "Don't try. Do!" this makes me smile and i think she might be right.

brett has agreed to pick me up from the airport, but for some reason we can't find each other. i forget which way is out -- this airport is so weirdly small and dinky, but none of the signage makes sense and i can't figure out where i'm going, and i'm so anxious to get out of there, i just keep turning around and around. i go down the escalator, and he isn't there, so i go back up, and finally find him. the moment is a little odd, as moments in way stations often are. he seems excited to see me, but also surprised (do i look different?) and a little unsure of himself. in true brett fashion, the first thing he does is take a stop at the wiz palace. of course. on the way out, i see the Flyer in its little dispenser and i have to stop and get a copy. even though i already knew we had the cover, it's still mindblowing and surreal to see it right in front of me, in the box with a hundred other copies, sitting here in the memphis international airport. no fucking way.

so we decide to go to lunch, but first brett has to check the blu-ray of the movie at morgan fox's house, and while we're at it, i'll charge my phone for a few minutes. declan opens the door and is certainly surprised to see us, but seems happy nonetheless. we give and get big hugs, and hang out on the couch with delvy. eileen has just gotten dressed and says hello for a minute before cole wheeler shows up and they disappear. mfox gets home too and it's a real memphis reunion. it comes out that craig brewer's "secret screening" is at the same time as Concrete, and this really pisses me off. there are so few hometowner features this year -- why would they put two of them at the same time?? morgan says that craig was pissed about it too, and asked the festival director to change the times, but he said it was too late and the schedule had already been published. i'm really annoyed, but morgan assures me that the audiences are different, that it won't hurt our screening, that we're gonna sell out anyway. i'm especially upset because the movie actually looks interesting, since it's a documentary about the memphis chapter of the black panthers and actually has nothing to do with nasty ole craig brewer.

brett and i piddle for a hundred years before we finally decide to go to kwik check for sandwiches. the stoner MCA student forgets my order and only makes us one sandwich, which i convince brett to split. leila stops by our table and says hi, hello, congratulations on the movie, etc. unfortunately she can't come because she's already told one of the Invaders folks that she'd be their date. we eat our sad cheese sandwich until morgan calls and says she's just gotten off work, and she needs to do some things at home, but she'll meet us in midtown soon. me and b make our way to playhouse, where we find free beer, friends, and film freaks milling around being awkward. we make sure we've strewn our postcards all over creation, and someone maybe even asks us about the film. we sit on weird chairs made out of tires. i kind of love them even though there's metal poking into your back if you lean at all. chris has a hug for us, and craig brewer even has kind things to say about the film. he promises to give me something (a shirt or dvd, perhaps?) but we never see it. when he asks what we're up to, i make sure to get brett going on his movie, which he immediately regrets, although i think he has the speech pretty down by now. even if the elevator pitch is still 100 words strung together -- it's the truth.

we head to my parents' house to pick up morgan and make the rounds. as usual, the dogs are freaking out and so happy to see us, and willikers makes something of an appearance, as well. we end up sitting in the den for way longer than brett is clearly comfortable, and eventually he drags morgan and me to a movie that's almost over, just to get us out of there. but it was so nice to sit at home and feel so cozy and chat with the rents about who knows what. goodbye to my kitty, goodbye to everyone.

we arrive for the third act of the movie -- a heartfelt comedy about gamer nerds -- and it's not half bad. it gets some chucks from our little corner of the theater, where ben siler has joined us after we come in way late. after the film, we stand around on the street corner while morgan stresses out about bekka and how to get her to find us. i am really looking forward to seeing her and trying to get morgan to give directions that make sense. she's so anxious that bekka won't be able to get into the filmmaker VIP party at the local, but i assure her that it will be a piece of cake. why so anxious, morgan??? what can i do for her??

i tried to go to sleep at 12:30 tonight and haven't had any luck. last night i got home from work at 12:30, ate a piece of alfredo pizza from papa john's, had a glass of wine, took a benadryl, and went to bed around 2. i woke up at 3:30 in the afternoon then went to a potluck party on a farm. i had yummy veggies and macaroni and lots of good beer. i got too much food and had to throw it in the woods because they had taken away the trash can by the time we left. i am sad that i didn't get to eat my hardboiled egg, but i hope a possum finds it. i wish i could sleep. i took a half a bendadryl around 5 so hopefully it will kick in soon. i wonder if my pills are keeping me awake or if it's caffeine or anxiety or what. i've just been thinking about the cats all night. and itching itching itching. i need to find out if kelly got itchy when she was staying here. i just keep thinking that it's somehow self-contained and as usual my body is a mutiny and maybe it has to do with being a mutant. next week i have an appointment to find out whether i am eligible for sliding scale health services and then maybe i can afford to go to a dermatologist. my body feels like it's breaking down entirely. i hate doctors but i don't know what else to do. i feel guilty that i haven't taken my cat to the doctor in so long. i should make him a doctor appointment while i'm in memphis for the film festival. i feel like the worst cat mama ever. i wonder if i can bring him back with me on the plane. i miss him but i still don't know where i'll be living next month. everything feels so up in the air and impermanent and sliding and i don't like it. not that things are bad in general. i do like my job, but i need to learn not to work too much. i might have a date with a lady tomorrow. i have never been on a date, so i don't know if this is one. i might be too scared to show up. i might go to a show with a band from memphis and get drunk instead. i might go get the kitten with the broken tail and bring her to my room. i wanted to bring home jekyll but i couldn't when kelly and dill were staying here. i was going to bring her home on wednesday but laylee gave her to another foster and i will never see her again. i'm sad but i shouldn't be. story of my life. tomorrow maybe i'll get minerva and maybe won't be so lonely. maybe soon i'll fall asleep.

"Forgive yourself for not being at peace. The moment you completely accept your non-peace, your non-peace is transmuted into peace. Anything you accept fully will get you there, will take you into peace. This is the miracle of surrender."

tonight, walking back with the groceries, i thought of this quote, in the parking lot between the car and the door. i was thinking, “i cannot be happy. i have tried and failed too many times, it hurts too much, i give up on happiness,” and the resignation was such sweet relief, and it was so familiar, having thought this so many times, and i want to just feel nothing but that feeling, that empty low that owes nothing, that hollow in between the trying. and i thought of this quote, and i felt so calm, and of course reading it here now, it seemed better in my mind, though i couldn’t quite say just what is missing. and that rather neatly drives the whole thing home, doesnt it, though i hate to point it out.
remembered this quote tonight, walking from my car to the apartment, desperately hoping that the grocery bag wouldn't break. that would have just been the last straw. (i wonder what really would be the last straw, at this point.) thinking: i want to go home, but there is no home. i want to be somewhere else, do something else, but it won't help. i want to be happy, but i don't know how. i'm not capable. i have known this for a long time, but remembering my resignation tonight with the groceries, i felt such a burden lifted, and i remembered this quote. i don't want to jinx it, but so far it seems to help. or maybe it's just really late. today was terrible. this week was terrible. every time i see a bit of silver lining, or have a little moment to smile, it all goes black again. i am overwhelmed and undone by everything. it's leaking out now, without my choosing. laylee had to see me cry tonight and i felt like such a pathetic baby; i didn't want her to know. coffee, brett phone call, egg in a basket, car phone calls, craigslist, nothingness, shower, getting off x3, hash stash chills, look for place to live, couch on the car, hit the other car, crying, grocery, beer, tv, sleep. why i cling to other people: i have nothing to live for on my own. why i stay up so late: i'm allowed to be in my own world, a nothing place.

death night. puddles, beer, tears. i don't know that i'm qualified to take care of cats. or much of anything else. feeling more useless and alone than ever and could really use a hello.
of course there's plenty else to say but no time at all to say it. 2am!!! how are you here again. i have to go to bed to dream about cats to wake up to take care of cats. repeat. circle.

Something about shuffle tonight has me spinning in circles of you. Or something about being here in georgia again, almost a full year since i last saw you. Or because of the mind numbing deadness of bejeweled pushes all this unfinished business to the surface. I dont know how to be done. The number of times ive thought of writing, even planned to, but where would that get me? Would it really be closure? How could it. And how could co mmunicating make things any better? Youre happy now. I know that and im glad you found what you were looking for. Theres no reason to disrupt that. (not that i could really have much effect there anyway.) your last letter suggested you were failing at your relationship, thhat you were "damaged goods." that was one of the most infuriating and frustrating lines-- as if saying that absolves you, as if there were any such thing. And the subtext seemed to say, "i cant do this, and im telling you because it isnt working and im moving back." and my heart couldve broken again but it hardened again that you assumed id take you back. So what was i supposed to say? I had plans, grand plans, to get you on my side and pull you down and really make you see... But i had tried that once (twice? Twenty times?) before to no avail. What good would it to and why should i waste my time? And still im planning the letter, thinking what i would have said. Sometimes its mostly nice-- i really do miss telling you about my life, miss having you to talk with. But i try to stay resolved: you have to know that youve done wrong, you fucked me over, and now you dont get to know. Youve lost the privilege. Anyway you wouldnt have cared to hear about my depression (because you never did) or about my granny's last months (i cant picture you taking care of anyone) or any of the mundane stupid things ive wanted to share with you.

I wouldve told you that when i moved back to memphis i found a beautiful card, with the start of a letter from my mom. "it was great to see you but i wish you would think about what you weere doing and stop wasting aysour time." something to that affect. Se hads said it to my face before we left town but i was offended and not really paying atttention. (good god i was riding so high on the dream of you.) but damn it ehat a huge waste of time and energy. Maybe you feel the same somehow. But i was reacng out and out, feeling so little in return and just rideing that dream, putting so much energy into the idea, hangiong so much on your occasional sweet line.

Unlearning that love has been a great lesson, an experiment. Ive had more sex this year than in the past three combined, albeit mostly bad. I thoug i couldnt do it but appparentlyi i too am capable of random drunk hookups and even sustained flings. Ive got my mind wrapped up around this one guy, he's older, a drummer, and a comiplete mystery to me. So i mabe overanalyze our intewractions out of curiosity, and a need to be solving puzzles, of which i hhave no otherw at the moment (sexual or otherwise). But at the end of the day i know it doesnt mean anything and i find these thoughts on repeat: this may br th last time. i sr ysour face. You have never said my name. Do you like me or not? not that it matters. But it is interesting and odd to spend time with (and devote thoughts to) a human whom i do not love, romantically or otherwise.

So when i miss you, i think i miss loving you, the act of devotion, the dream of what you were and what we couldve been. It was all speculative afer all, which makes it feel all the more stolen. But no, you had the right idea. Cut it off and dont look back.

I dont really beliee that. I believed you respected me too much to take that route. And i resent you for that. And i still miss your sense of humor and our little talks and jokes and our whole history and your ice blue eyes. And didnt they say it all, shouldent i have known? That ice spread thin and far, covered up everything and froze us in the end.

last night again you were in my dream

but thank god i don't remember it. somehow you floated into my mind while i was brushing my teeth, and i remembered you had been there. even asleep, i ignored you. two rows over in the theatre, and not a word. but you just followed us around and didn't say anything, so it was easy. and saying it like that sounds like the living you, but the dream you pulled and twisted, and glowed and hummed. brushing my teeth, i laughed at how the reality is flat and cold and easy to ignore. (and yet this dream.)

"the days go by like butterflies...." the days move abruptly from coffee to beer. my head aches with a constant tender worry, my skin feels thin and useless over imagined/probable ills. i can't shake this damned cough, after being sick ever since the vagina overkill/amy oelsner show (almost two weeks ago now) and then chainsmoking at bobby's going away party (though he isn't yet gone away). it's a wonder i haven't infected anyone. mostly i just want to know what the hell is going on, and why i can't choose, and how i ever fell this stagnant. who is driving this contraption, who calls the shots, and what do they want?

maybe it's not all bad. there's drinking an appropriate amount of beer, the bartender saying that you have the best laugh -- the bar folk don't bite every night. tipping off your stool, leaning and laughing, canoodling all night, a dozen poses at his place, and tiptoeing home at dawn before the long drive to see your grandparents in georgia. the audiobook narrator's voice makes your head reel, but it's almost puss in boots, and you will live through this. it has often been worse.

your goals fluctuate wildly, from grand and wild to status quo to suicide, depending on the time of day and how much art you're absorbing. versus how much media. some nights it's okay to watch bad movies with your parents, play unblock me, and believe that having a 9 to 5 job would be the greatest thing that could happen. (from there, imagine the range of other possibilities -- it feels like sacrilege to write them down.) mostly, obsession is the thing, whether fleeting, ongoing, or recurring. you will consider every relationship, exhaust yourself over a moment or a text message, wonder and analyze and reconsider, all while knowing what a goddamn waste of time. but when you're not alone, how the time trips on and the thing takes over and you don't know who you are anymore- how much you change depending on whose company. how you seem so unsure of what you really want. how well you can pretend. how you never can stick to the plan. or the designated curfew, the number of drinks, the amount of money. you are sickened by your privilege and indecision, this rotting, waste. you don't know how to change.

like clockwork, your grandma wakes up between 2 and 3 every night to let the cat out (or in, apparently). "you're still awake? are you working on your.....?" she doesn't know what she is trying to ask, but no, of course you're not. you really don't deserve any of this; you're too lucky to have fucked up this bad. you should have done so much more.


listening to: joanna newsom - go long

the season will destroy you

on the longest day, i did not see the sun. i meant to plant a tree, take a walk, make a plan, clean up a bit... i barely managed to make a call. could not take any. 

even doing this is impossibly difficult. 

half an hour later... (longer? time doesn't move right anymore. what have i even done?)

another half hour. music finally chosen, the cat sick and restless in my lap.

where did it go? the last solstice still seems so close, maybe even the freshest thing. because i wrote it down? or because i was full of fire, more inspired and empowered than i had been in months, before or since? because i had a plan, or because i didn't? because i thought i would inevitably die on the highway? OR BECAUSE I HAD GOTTEN TWO HOURS OF SLEEP AND WAS CRAZY FULL OF COFFEE AND FELT LIKE A GOD FOR GETTING OUT OF A SPEEDING TICKET? what a bunch of shit, what a fucking farce. everything has gone wrong since then, and i'm sick of pretending otherwise. i don't understand how everyone can float through all these strange social labyrinths and somehow know all the rules and make it look so pretty and beautiful and boring at the same time. why am i bothering to try?

today i decided to give up. again. maybe it'll stick this time, now that it's words.
stay inside. don't wonder what you did wrong. the dance won't be worth it. the mess is too much. they don't actually like _you_ it's just beer. they won't call. no one will choose you except your cat who will die. get some kind of desk tech job and quit kissing and pining and puking.

what did i ever think i was doing, all these years? why did i never plan? somehow it never seemed necessary. i didn't believe in anything involving goals or plans. why bother? probably won't live that long, and if i do, i guess i'll have done something right. i guess not.

boy is this ever hard to write tonight. i just wanna spit. what a fucking disaster. although it doesn't matter since no one will read this.

i've fallen into a trap of cycles, a bunch of really meaningless stupid short time-disappearing ones. probably it's gotten a bit obsessive.. not too sure how to get out of there. because i'm always "about to" do something else, then three hours later... i get up and do the dishes and then get sucked back in. how?! oh misery, so embarrassing.

now this low, i saw this one coming on, but i didn't know it would be such a hard fall. now, from the bottom looking up, i see that i've just come out of probably the longest manic period of my life, and it's taking its toll with a vengeance. it was fairly steady with only bursts of total crazy - a month of panicked online booking, three weeks of lunatic touring traveling nonstop communicating and floating and attempting to entertain (another story entirely), and the whole next month riding it out, mostly solitary mellow with spurts of restless social energy and the urgent need to be out out out. how much i needed people! and why? the whole time i kind of can't stand them (mostly) and i don't know even know what the purpose is, why am i there. just to use them? for distraction, or....? add in my newly recovered (discovered?) libido and jesus what a mess. just to be on the pulse, to ask the questions, to be wanted, enjoyed. still, they never do catch me. (haha what am i saying, they never try.)

maybe i am getting somewhere to be able to at least remember that charged place so clearly, even from all the way down here. have i pegged this before? morgan seemed incredulous when i told her my theory, but after i explained, she said, "yeah you do go through this barhopping phase a lot." and i could feel the switch starting, when i sat in the corner at the p&h drinking straight from the bottle and trying not to make eye contact, and when i showed up at lauren's cookout not knowing why i had come except to bring the charcoal. clinging to each little mission. the next drink. the next smoke. the next person through the dark of the door.

maybe i should go work at a bar, that's what i was thinking. why not? and then there's this spiral, and i can't stand anyone, and i can't do anything, and that's all there is. even typing that feels so useless and stupid i can't believe i even did it. but this whole thing has been a struggle, so no point in stopping now, three hours later.
this is where 4pm coffee gets me.

really it's not as bad as it could be.... so probably will get worse before it gets better. this could be the slow buildup after such a long decline. a blank staticky expanse stretching on and on and on... potentially toward some much more tumultuous oceanic death-ridden thing, i'm sure. i don't see another option.

lord how does it ever get so late (and where indeed does the time go) and why am i even writing this here. TOO LATE NOW HAHA and dont bother editjng


listening to: matson jones - spring fever

you don't even own your own violence

​when i spill a full glass of water across my antique dresser and remember that nothing is mine, or good, i find your clover, dry and intact, until i try to touch it and its leaves disappear, crumble useless in my fingers. ​​
there will be no nonsense.

​how many times i tried to make you feel this. how even now i am slipping, how hard i am missing. i tried pouring it out for you, a silver stream from the cup -- how even then you missed it. not again. how my stomach still sings, toes tingle. it is all glamour, the imagined beauty of it all. ​​

it's been long enough that i can smile when i think of the park, the beach, the wedding. but at the thought of your face, my teeth clench, the truth of it makes the vision go sour.

But you don't even own your own violence
Run away from home-- your beard is still blue