Smokey Blue.

An accumulation of grotesque emotions, throttling anxieties, and darkening expectations has built up inside of me over the period of time in between now and the day in early December that my Mama was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

The earliest days of her treatment were nightmarish; the febrile pneumonia, C-Diff and drop in her blood oxygen level that nearly killed her and kept in the hospital under intensive care over the off and on over the holiday season of the 2016-2017 threshold was an experience that left me in motional shock. My initial intentions of being a staunch ally to my mom were tested and tried (and continue to be worked hard on a daily basis).

An emotional earthquake and subsequent spiritual tsunami have occurred in my soul and mind and heart throughout the best and worst of the newly defined existence shared between her and me, leaving perpetual aftershocks and a flooded wasteland in its wake. The inside of my own eyelids seem unrecognizable to me these days, so hideously changed has the world become since the diagnosis. I am 110% detached from my attachments, withdrawn and withered into a defensive ball colored dark blue to mirror my soul.

I am living inside of a new loop right now:

I long to spend as much time with my mom while I have the chance;

yet, she is so broken down and different from the default mom I still somehow envision and recall, that spending time with her is not pleasant and/or fulfilling in the ways I seek out;

This fact makes me feel guilty and awful, so I typically spend time with her whether it helps or hurts my own state of being, which causes the visits to be those of a highly forgettable, even regrettable strain.

The moments passing by feel like torturous slashes and slices; the time feels as if it is laughing in my face. I know that after she is gone, I will hate myself for all of the things I am doing wrong or not doing at all with/for her; I know that I am letting too many opportunities slip by, but I am can’t do any differently than what I am doing. I don’t have any control over her illness, I couldn’t keep her from starting to smoke again either – which has also become huge tension between us, as it symbolizes things to me that she seem blind to.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that going anywhere with her has become something that my anxiety ridden, ADHD, PTSD brain has to build up to being to do because it is always SUCH an ordeal to go ANYWHERE. And anywhere we do get to, we are unfailingly in the way because of an absolutely and obnoxiously un-foldable walker thing with a seat and handbrakes. She has become resentful towards my aunt and uncle (who have been beyond good to her and taken her into their home immediate family, and daily life. Nothing she does is enjoyable to her for the most part; she told me over the phone the other day that she is ready to die.

This statement hurt me deeply, though I didn’t say anything to that affect. The gist was that despite the grueling and miserable months that I have sacrificed to my mom, and regardless of how many things I hold back and suck up in attempt to ease her reality, she still feels alone and burdensome enough to disregard the miracle of her ongoing existence at present (if that makes any sense).

 

 

Silliness.

Silly, silly me,
to once again,
redundantly…
peel back,
broken skin,
to let it bleed…
the point,
as it had been,
is lost on me…

Silly, silly you,
to have,
misconstrued…
such a concisely,
spoken clearly,
cemented truth…
damn you,
to next see,
the full moon…

Yet – sillier still,
was the bend,
of so much will…
and even right now,
it’s twisted somehow,
my stomach’s ill…
over such an end,
in betrayal again,
a void I cannot fill…

Wasted Energies.

You've done this thing,
like attaching a string,
from my mind to your heart,
from my mouth to your brain;

You've created this thing,
like a hornet's sting,
from my inner-most thought,
comes a painful tingling;

You've become something,
not quite a human being,
from my unhealed parts,
the blood is running again;

You've turned out to sing,
the song of an old enemy,
from the deepest of want,
for the very same things;

You've proven to swing,
back and forth, in between,
from the history you haunt,
o the throne of a King.




Blanket of Grey.

When you begin to hate someone who previously carried positive weight in your life, the world temporarily turns grey.
Things start to feel skewed and look grotesque.
Nothings seems to make you smile or laugh as before, nothing seems funny.
The world has changed inside of you, is changing inside of you.
You have no control over the darkening or lightening of the shades that the grey blankets over and around your life. You just have to snuggle in this blanket.
You just have to keep yourself enveloped at any cost.
There is nothing else for it.

Downshift.

We had drawn up this road map so grand,

the highlighted route to the ending we planned,

the flutter of cards as they dropped out of hand,

the calling of Gods in dreams we understand;

poor odds follow close, wherever I am,

fleeting as granules of time-whitened sand

fickle and pickled in the spices at hand,

between promise and oneness,

that same ol’ ominous numbness,

parlor tricks performed in a deserted land;

peopled with embodied nothingness,

void of all the sugary fluffiness,

where you are is ever where I am,

when I’m asleep that’s how it stands,

I dig in the deep with my polished hands,

driven mad by a fiendish hologram;

dropped from the attached strings,

to your heart’s working guillotine,

you never came back for me,

left me miserably, deservedly

just as I am.

He Versus I.

Had I not already been neck-deep in the execution of self-sabotaging the thing between me and a particular (possibly) impossible person whom I have been trying to let “court” me, when he opted to get pissed off at me (for the very first time) and wrap yesterday up by dumping me, another Valentine’s Day might have become memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Luckily (and I say luckily with a heavy and exaggerated roll of my eyes), I was well into that familiar, contradictory and counter-productive pattern of “seek-build-destroy” when it all happened – so I wasn’t too heartbroken.

I expect such things anyway, Hell, I create them. I tried to tell this one from the start, too – how we seemed to represent like, Polar Opposites at the end of the day. We have very little in common besides work (yes, we work together) and physical attraction. He literally left me with my mouth hanging open when he asked me to go out with him because I had previously imagined him as a total yuppie that travels for fun (he’s very worldly) with season tickets to the Warriors or whatever. Like many men from “the clean side of the tracks”, he was intrigued by my roughened edges, I suppose.  When I told him that I thought we had nothing in common with each other, he said something like,

“Just let me surprise you on that score.”

A surprise that I am still waiting for…

 

He:

is too normal (he reads the newspaper and drives an SUV)…too well-maintained by scheduled workouts and personal tailors…too condescending without meaning to be…too hopeful and focused on The Big Picture.

I:

am so fucked up in the head that I can’t get close to anyone (the more I want to, the harder it gets to actually let happen)…too unbalanced and paranoid by a lack of human interaction…too defensive without meaning to be…too traumatized to exist outside of One Moment At A Time.

Snap.

There’s no pattern to the trend
That teeter totters without end
No method to a madness that mends,
The sadness between every exhalation,
I pull, you push.
You’re slow, I rush.
There’s nothing happy in the end
To go and slap me in my face again
No loss of sleep, no skipping heartbeat to maintain,
No giggling, no tickling the inkling in my brain,
I give, you take.
You bend, I break.

Deal Re-Breaker.

There’s this threshold inside of my brain that others either cross in a grain cut painfully against me, or never cross at all. It is a horrid barrier that I’m sure I have created myself; but it is a sound and solid barrier, all the same – an impenetrable construct by my own mind, immovable in my own mind. This is a threshold that grants closeness and kinship or falseness and nothingness between me and other people who come into my Life.

 

It’s hard to explain, but I’ve been trying my best when it gets brought up by (a) certain (male) people (person) whom I struggle to maintain “healthy relations” with:

 

  1. the way that my ability to even experience anything good or positive with an individual diminishes completely once I feel the slightest bit of vulnerability to him, because I am fucked up and my brain doesn’t work normally.
  2. the way that after I experience any vulnerability on a conscious level on his behalf, I seem to automatically try to sabotage everything.
  3. the way that if sabotage fails, I will resort to some innate mechanism of my emotions to execute the process of shutting down to him.
  4. the way that I spend the entire time this hideous process plays out in hating myself and constantly having to re-focus myself on what’s right, as opposed to what feels right.

 

 

 

Things I’ve Learned From Dead People 3.

  1. Dead people are ALWAYS accompanied by paperwork; if they have no paperwork, we unfortunately have NO business with them, or their loved ones.
  2. Even when it comes to a thing as sacred as a family burial plots, the living are conniving weasels behind the backs of their own family members.
  3. When or if you ever find yourself dealing with a service counselor, funeral director or arranger, there is a strong possibility that you are actually engaging with a retired Marine or Navy officer; it is just as strong of a possibility that you are being counseled by a surviving POW (At my cemetery, at least).
  4. Regardless of your own religion or belief system, it is out of a generalized respect for human life and death that you should ALWAYS stand and bow your head to the passing of a funeral procession (even our yard crew guys stop what they are doing and remove their caps when they see one coming or going by).
  5. It is a true fact that a disturbing number of people (that you know) have already planned their own burial wardrobe.
  6. Most people who are buried in a casket are not wearing shoes.
  7. The “toe-tag” has evolved into no more than an urban legend these days.
  8. Where I work, there are record books that are each literally heavier than me from the 1800s that were hand-written and can still be accessed to date.
  9. Thousands of people died of “Dentation” in the old days.
  10. Even in death, we continue to intentionally pollute our Mother Earth through our need to be preserved and maintained.

The Immensity Of It All.

It feels as if I have swum too far out and snapped my board in half against a storm.

It feels like I am ever-battered by the disappearance and return of surprise rogue breakers.

It feels so full of darkened, smoky expectations and brewing anxieties.

It feels like such a tiny, shrunken world.

It feels as though my chest and esophagus, ears and eyes sizzle with sadness and grief.

It feels so impossible to take this reality into myself, to accept it as truth.

It feels so immense and heavy and is so hard to carry.

But I am forced to pick it up.

Not How It Was Meant To Be.

My mom’s cancer diagnosis has turned into my own waking fucking nightmare in every possible way. In the beginning, In the very beginning, I committed myself to going through her treatment regimen  with her, as a supportive and constant and compassionate presence for her to depend on. This was when she was living at home, before she got pneumonia, when she was still fairly physically mobile and very mentally capable. Since the ICU, everything about my mom’s situation has been altered abruptly and uncomfortably for me.
Suddenly, she can’t go home to her own house because it’s not safe for her to be there for various reasons respective to her ability to heal from chemo and now, pneumonia as well. This doesn’t even take into account, the C Dificil infection she is barely recovered from, either. Nor,  does it mention the 12 tanks of oxygen needed at all times now. I haven’t been able to sleep for going on two weeks already, and I feel like tonight  (the night my mom is released from her scary hospitalization) marks just the beginning of a fucking living hell. It has already begun. I am sitting in the kaiser parking lot fuming while the pharmacy fixes the nurse’s fuck-up on my mom’s meds so that we can finally get the fuck out of this horrendously miserable place. But its not as if that means anything to me, though, as its the aftermath of all this fucking bullshit that’s probably going to drive me to fucking kill myself, or die of a massive fucking coronary. The stress and pressure of so much misdirected responsibility is fucking immense, and I do not appreciate any of what’s happening at all. After this absolutely chaotic and miserable experience of becoming a full-time caregiver to a mother who is meaner now than she ever was, I will no longer be willing to be the compassionate person I wanted to be. I no longer want to bring my mom to all of her appointments and support her like I committed to, not when I’ve somehow been forced into becoming a fucking full time caretaker. This is fucking horseshit. I understand people cant prepare for things like cancer, but I am absolutely disgusted by the absolute lack of planning whatsoever for simply the event of a serious medical emergency or basic aging. As a result of her poor choice in a “mate”, her total lack of any kind of organizational skills, and her obsessive compulsive lifelong  hoarding, I have suddenly and completely been thrown into the very unwelcome role of being THE ONLY person to CONSTANTLY care for her like I am a personal fucking nurse. The worst part about all of this is that my mom is in full blown denial about everything. She is delusional. She is mean and shitty to me as I bend myself into a pretzel to not leave her on her own, as she will be without me. THIS is NOT how I want to remember her; I did NOT want to grow even more embittered and resentful towards her at the end of her fucking life. But guess what? It didn’t matter what I wanted when she was healthy; and it matters even less now. My stepfather literally disappeared, she cant find him and he has not seen her once since she got put into ICU. She suddenly wants to divorce him (though, understandably) but who do you think has to take care of all that paperwork and emailing, lawyering and mailing, etc? Mom sure can’t. My brother has been useless, as have any and all of my mother’s siblings save for one, who is only around at random and when her hair looks good or whatever; she does this so she can rub in my mom’s face how healthy she is. I don’t really like her, never have. And really, she hasn’t been here to help with my mom at all when I really think about it, she went ahead and had Xmas at her house (a 45 min drive from mine) and insisted we come, which was Hell. She says things like,

“You are so capable, you can do this, you don’t give yourself enough credit…”

She says these things to me from the other side of her champagne glass with her pinky finger stuck in the air, standing in her massive kitchen, built on a sprawling winery property that she owns. She says this to me as I am worrying nonstop about how I am going to pay rent this month, as I have not worked since my mama’s diagnosis, being so directly tied to her treatment and subsequent rapid decline.

Waterproof Makeup.

She should have told you certain things,

like how she hates being on the phone,

how she hates the sound of her own voice,

how laughter makes her stomach ache,

how anything right feels so wrong on her,

how empty and alone she becomes after “good-bye”,

the reason she pays extra for waterproof make-up.

You’re A Worm.

I wonder if you realize how disgusting you are for what you are doing; no need for me to go into detail…you’re fucking gross, dude.

Two things I have learned in recent history that 110% do it in terms of TOTALLY TURNING ME THE FUCK OFF:

  • Being talked to like I am an idiot.
  • Trying to be taken home by a guy (that I used to fuck, a chunk of time ago – like years) who is now sporting a 22 year old girlfriend.

Like I would EVER sleep with you again after knowing this condemning fact about you, dude?… get real. That’s like, my daughter’s age, you sick fuck…you are supposed to be a grown ass man, and I am deeply disappointed to know that you went astray down the road bordering pedophilia, it’s sordid.

A Fucking Rant #2.

Why doesn’t anyone just come out and say it? …That our country is RUINED in terms of political standing with itself; that our country is no nation in the true sense of the word; that our country is, indeed, the quite laughable notion made in jest during a drunken gathering of the Gods or whatever…that we have fallen to shambles from the top to the bottom of the stars and the stripes.

Nobody admits out loud how telling it is that this election has been responsible for the drawing of countless distinctive lines in the dirt between countless formerly undivided unions of all sorts.

Nobody admits out loud that we are each scared as Hell by the choices put out before us to choose this country’s future President from.

Nobody seems to want to acknowledge the deeply disturbing realities attached to the fact that we have reached such a low point in our nation’s history in the first place; not to mention talking about how at the end of the day, it’s US who have allowed this atrocity to unfold.

Nobody talks about how divided we are by the same things that divide every nation everywhere, throughout history, tried and true: class, greed, and religion.

Religion = politics;

Politics = religion;

The class you fall into ultimately decides which level of education you receive, your education forms your own notions and opinions about the world around you, you either become a greedy victimizer of others or you are repeatedly victimized by greed, you pay taxes to a chauvinistic hypocrite with two air holes in his head like a fucking whale hybrid or something, and then you die and are interred according to your religious beliefs. The end.

Unnameable.

So…I’ve written here and there about my lifelong friend and very first boyfriend: The “Jar-head”; the first non-fatherly or brotherly love of my existence; a true soldier, three times deployed; a big-boy sniper wound survivor; Career Tank-Gunner; completely fucking  incorrigible; the veteran Marine. He’s been around lately because I offer some kind of familiar notion, no matter how vague and distant, to his strangely foreign-esque state of mind; he’s been home for a little over a year now (by “home”, I mean that he is back living where we grew up together in the valley, I mean that he is not at war in the desert somewhere in constant danger of being killed), and has just started to come out of his apartment without a medical reason within the past month or so. It was obvious to me right away that he is permanently changed in very deeply painful ways for him; knowing him for so many years and sharing “special” things with like the awkward virginity thing and all that just doesn’t feel real because he is so different than the “him” that I grew up with now, and rightfully. I tried getting him to open up and talk about shit, whatever it is, and he tried; but it seems he is too freshly traumatized to even form the event/s into any kind of translatable concept through words or even emotions at this point. I don’t push him, I know better than that.

I told him,

“That’s okay dude, you can come hang out and roll joints with me if you feel bad and need to be around someone or whatever…”

He commenced to spending strings of afternoons in eerie silence across the room with his back semi-turned to me and the TV off, which was kinda when I the empath awoke and I began to feel really awful for him. He’s not the emotional kinda guy by nature, shit, he grew up to be a Marine, that says it all. I always feel safe and always have in his presence, he has that way about him. He is very logical, practical, and decisive; he is tough and stuffs his emotions, that’s his way; he somehow survived a sniper round to the neck; he is imposing in size and has a sharp streak of machismo in his blood (again he’s a Marine, so there it is)…so, when he broke down a few days ago and cried like he had just run over his own puppy, it was profound and heart-wrenching. I was totally overcome by his sadness and loss and grief; it was one of the very few times I couldn’t keep myself from crying for someone else’ sake, in spite of my best efforts. It’s so fucked up that they don’t make some kind of counseling or support system available for these guys when they come home, damn them to Hell.

Writ in Water.

It seems that only those included in the number of human beings that are afflicted by “The Word”, that are also stained by the attached process. A love for words begins early in Life for those of us who harbor one; mine did, at least.

I recall noting many “adult” words that I overheard in “adult” conversations during my childhood; words such as: proverbial (I still over-use it, by default), harlequin (A word that I loved so much as a child, I chose it as a name for my first dog), hankering (a word that has a definition just as awesome as it is), overlord (a word that remains as fun to say today as it did when I was three), and most memorably: Tachyon (a word that I notoriously misused throughout my childhood because I simply loved to say and spell it). I was notorious for making statements that were made up of various idioms and adages I had heard my older male family members (my Papa, Dad, or any of my 5 older brothers) use. I am teased to this day over things I said in all earnestness, as a young girl trying to be super serious and to be taken seriously.

SOME EXAMPLES:

“Don’t put all of your eggs in a gift horse’s mouth before they hatch”

“Never kick a gift-horse you led to water in the mouth when he’s down”

“Give a man a fish, shame on you; teach him to fish, shame on me

 “Kicking the bowl”, instead of the bucket

 

I knew my ABC’s way too early as well; I can partially remember the day that I was in my Dad’s lap at the kitchen table and we were coloring together (so I must have been super young because I became “too old” to sit in his lap by the time I was 3.5 years, according to my Papa) and my Dad surprised me by asking me if I knew the alphabet yet. He was trying to mess with me, being certain that I didn’t – and that he would be able to give me shit for not knowing an answer – he was good like that. I can guarantee that he was the more shocked of the two of us when I belted out the entire song correctly without missing a beat; being the oldest of his own siblings, my Dad often overlooked the power that having a clan of older brothers gave me in such instances. I was (and still am) like a dried out sponge just waiting to absorb any information made available to me in any given context.

It was like I saw words as people spoke them, like a cartoon bubble over everyone’s heads, all the time. I was a naturally excellent speller as a child, something I have lost touch with in the time in between; I just LOVED words – there’s no other way to describe it. There is only one “wordsmith” in my immediate family, and it had been my Papa, who doubled as my daycare provider during my pre-school era. This became one of the most enriching and enlightening parts of my youth when it comes to words and my love for them; we often played word games together that loosely ran all day long and into dinner-time. My Papa gifted me very, very generously with his mind, heart and brain, indeed. In grade school, I was able to win over the others in my class every time through the shaping and molding of the words I chose to use on them; I took sweeping victories in my campaigns for the Student Union or Student Council positions I went after, because of the speeches I had written and the way I worded them. I was a peacemaker at home and on the playground – and my love of vocabulary never let me down in that context either. On the flip side, it has been the same love of words and literary expression that has wounded me deeply many times in Life, too, however. I am sensitive to the weight that words carry in an almost exquisite way; something that is tried and true: impossible to explain to a non-word-lover. When the weight of a word has been passed along to me, I have carried it no matter how heavy it may have been.

Most, if not all, people not afflicted by “The Word” have no appreciation for the burden attached to being a carrier of its weight, and behave accordingly. I have realized in the more recent years of my life: just how much I am affected by literature and the artistic use of words, as I find myself feeling the most emotions available to me during times that I have absorbed written content. There is just so much simplicity alongside of such intricacy in words and the beautiful combinations they can concisely make up. John Keats, my all-time favorite romance  poet, who was so perfected in his wordsmithing skills that he often made women cry and men shrink, left on his headstone, the most eloquent description of it all:

“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”

You dig?

 

Come.

Come see me –

this night;

in my dark cornered dreams

I beg of you to make me scream;

Come touch me –

Once more;

sweat your saliva from my pores

cut the wire and kick in the door;

Come stay with me –

come closer; revive;

wake me up until I come alive

let me feed the carnivorous side;

Come with me –

come in; confide;

touch every steaming hot place inside

never look into my crying eyes;

Come ruin me –

this night;

see my body writhe beneath

Come tonight and leave me empty.

“Life Goes On”.

Way back when I was just barely thirteen
and Death stole my father quite suddenly
a stinger stuck in and burrowed beneath
I learned something then that never left me
how during the stages of trauma and grief
people say the stupidest words robotically
How “Life will go on” or how “Time will ease“,
Such a blow to a child’s sense of stability…

I recall the way all tried to describe so emptily
how things wouldn’t feel as unreal for eternity
how things would settle back into normalcy
how the grief-stricken child would heal eventually
And each had been right about just one thing
in the context of my quickly evolving reality
each time they grasped straws in my comforting
by telling me ‘Life would go on’ still, for me…

I wonder if there was even the slightest inkling
behind such words that I heard rather constantly
that the thirteen-year-old was, indeed, listening
to the messages shone through such faked sympathy
this was how I learned the lesson of superficiality
by being forced to listen to such hollow human beings
the loss of my only parent had marred me spiritually
scarred my soul, shut down parts of my heart permanently…

Yet, in the eyes of those outside my immediate family
I recognized that element that darkens all humanity
that need to keep the world painted in a happy scene
at the expense of those whose former world is darkening
and so, today, if I am faced with a friend in like mourning
I will never offer empty words in attempt to ease the suffering
I remember all too well: the affect that such bullshit had on me
when my present, past, and future were stripped away so suddenly.

Countdown to Nothing.

Everyone’s asking

What I plan to do

To ring in the bring

Of another year, new

Can’t seem to communicate

Clearly to you

Can’t seem to articulate

The words I mean to

The parades on the street

Leave me wanting to puke

the commercials on TV  

And the anchors on the News

Another year gone

Another comes right on queue

Three hundred sixty five

And I’ve got nothing to show to you

Just another day and night

The New Year offers nothing new

Just another song and dance

For a crowd that blows darts at you.

My Glass.

The most frustrating paradox belonging to me at present would most certainly be the one that defines everything that I am or am not; all that I tried and failed at being; and/or everything that I have been and will never be again:

An element of existence that surely defines EVERYTHING from one moment to the next, and undoubtedly plays a large role in things like perception, willingness and overall opinions; of course, I am referring to my “attitude”. My attitude sucks for the most part right now, I admit it. I am nearly impossible to satisfy in any context right now; I am constantly harassing myself to “perfect” things, because I can’t do anything right the first time around. I am most certainly very, very ugly on the inside right about now. My thoughts weigh in salty and stained by the weight of darkness; my emotions are completely out of my own hands; I have to trust that the “guardian” (that’s what I call this state-of-mind and being because most of ME is absent right now, huge parts of my consciousness are detached) will make decisions that will carry me through, somehow. Apparently, one of those decisions has been to just go cold in order to persevere; because I have been stoic, silent, and all-around numb in regard to my daughter and the loss of whatever hope I had for her. But I have felt the attached loss and painful emotions, just not very often and not in excess (as even I anticipated); I have not been managing my emotions either, though – not necessarily allowing myself to go through them and let them be what they are…so it’s still this Limbo-esque sense of teetering.

              The paradox to which I refer in all of this is a constant punch in my throat, however, and I am curious to get anyone else’s opinions and/or input on this specific topic.

Those of us who have been wounded – truly wounded to the very core of our being – are NEVER able to revert back to the sub-conscious place that they resided before being broken; we can go to support groups to try and get better at our issues, but we will never be back to whatever we were before being mistreated. We can see therapists for fear of abandonment and/or commitment, we can talk about our problems until we go hoarse – it will not replenish what has been taken away. Despite any and all of the things that the physically/psychologically/emotionally wounded may do to better ourselves and empower the victim inside of us, our traumas CHANGE us permanently. This is no secret to me, and hasn’t been for quite some time; and in turn, I have gradually adjusted my attitude to better compliment such alterations in my character. For example, I have been disappointed so many times by so many people throughout my life so far (men in particularly) that my expectations have dropped down to nearly nothing when it comes to others. This way, I am rarely let down. This circumstance illustrates a comprehensive math equation in my opinion; it’s simple enough to deduce – self-explanatory.

On the other hand, I have earned the label of “Pessimist” as a result of my constant expectation of negative experiences, as opposed to positive ones. It really shouldn’t shock a living soul that my glass is half-empty, at best. Anybody with half a brain cell who knows ANYTHING about me and my Life’s journeys, thus far, would be a complete idiot (in my opinion) to think anything other than that I keep a half-full glass…why the fuck would I? I have no reason to be positive; I have no cause for optimism…been there, done that shit, repeatedly found myself being the dumbass for the poor management of my own expectations. But it does bother me when people say that I am a pessimist; because as much as I can admit that I am NOT Miss Merry Sunshine on the sunniest of days, I also feel pretty certain that if I truly were a pessimist, I would have never made it this far at all.

All My Dirt.

I am randomly typpling (type babbling), yes, I know this… my personal Microsoft Word screen seriously could fuck me with all the secrets and truths it has seen at my hand, fuck it though…transparency is the new thing isn’t it?

I have given up my appearance altogether, I suppose…couldn’t tell you when the last time I looked in a mirror at myself…hmmmm…the possible causes behind this fact aren’t lost on me, either…
Something is happening inside of me again; although I couldn’t possibly describe any of what those “somethings” may actually be in the big picture of things; and I am not trying to find any way to describe it – there’s just a slew of mental data on upload at present; and my mental data down-link seems to be broken, too. There’s just a fuck-ton of shit coming in, and nothing moving aside to make room for it; if that even makes sense to anyone reading this.

Failure:
Failure is something has come to define my every moment of each passing day for me; it began slowly when Boo was put into “residential treatment” almost a decade ago and only snowballed from that point on. The many things that have subsequently gone horribly awry since then have accumulated into a vast and freezing cold tomb; each instance of my own perceived failings stacking up against the previous until the room shrinks. Failure has been something that I struggle with regularly, and I often lose the fight with it because of its overwhelming and constant presence. I go to a psychiatrist based on this failure (and its many facets and faces); he repeatedly instructs me to “just let it go”…
Abandonment:
Abandonment is another key element that is deeply embedded in my marred psychological profile; this element is born of my inability to “just let it go” when it came to my inter-personal relationships with parents during infancy and childhood (most notably a then ever-absent mother). It has mutated the human being that I was born as into a different version of who I might have been in a “healthy and/or intact family setting”; over time, it has warped my perception of others who I feel any closeness to – a mechanism of the emotionally fearful and unstable. I am extremely insecure inter-personally, and it only becomes an exacerbated symptom when I give two shits about the other person involved. I am afraid of people in general; not in a physically cowed way though…I am terrified of interacting with others because of the emotional traumas that inevitably attach themselves to each and every experience with closeness to another human being (or the socially mutated versions of one).

Truth:
Truth is another crucial piece of who I am from one moment to the next; it has come to burn in my veins like molten lava these days, and growing increasingly more important to every nano-thought in my head. Acceptance of truth is part of this element; and as painful as this aspect often is for me, in my own experiences, the truth carries weight that is undeniably addictive to my heart, spirit and mind somehow…
Perhaps after all, “the truth shall set me free”.

Chow Mein.

It isn’t so bad,
when I think on it;
the way that my brain,
becomes like chowmein,
after taking so much of it,
the dumbass bullshit…
it doesn’t surprise me,
maybe not even slightly;
how much it might take,
before I finally break,
cut my nose from my face,
just to spite me…

Silliness.

Silly, silly me,
to once again,
redundantly…
peel back,
broken skin,
to let it bleed…
the point,
as it had been,
is lost on me…

Silly, silly you,
to have,
misconstrued…
such a concisely,
spoken clearly,
cemented truth…
damn you,
to next see,
the full moon…

Yet – sillier still,
was the bend,
of so much will…
and even right now,
it’s twisted somehow,
my stomach’s ill…
over such an end,
in betrayal again,
a void I cannot fill…

Notes to Self #445

Dear Self:
1) How many times have you actually carried the bag out your car before leaving, despite its precarious position on the inside of the door-knob to the front door? Time for a new reminder spot, dumbass…
2) While sleepwalking, try to somehow remember that you will be held accountable for the things you’re up to during the early morning hours in the man-cave, by the men who cave there…
3) Over dinner with the parents of a childhood friend (who is now, unfortunately, deceased), try to avoid talking about “death throes” – even in the intended context of the fish on your plate. Talk about awkward…
4) Not everyone feels the way that you feel about certain historical figures, including, but not limited to: Joan of Arc, Genghis Khan, Socrates, Moses and Josephus; sometimes it’s just best to let ignorance override a situation in order to avoid a five-hour marathon of “truth versus textbook”…
5) YOU ARE NO EXCEPTION…not to ANY rule, ANY time, or under ANY circumstances…
6) The VERY gradual tapering off of the use of the air horn you keep stashed under the passenger’s seat of your car DOES NOT truly count as “changing your ways” in regard to ‘Road Rage’…
7) Using only one hand to flip off the dude next you (who cut you off twice) instead of both doesn’t count, either…
8) Again, when you don’t pay your bills – you lose your shit…
9) “All-Day Wear Lipstick” should be illegal for what it ultimately does to your appearance, after only a partial day – you’d be better off smearing wild berry stain inside your mouth and all across your own front teeth…go back to Blistex…
10) Lastly, just because you’ve had luck in the past with training (notably trainable) finches, does not mean that you can start ‘Homing Pigeons’ in your spare time…

Delivered.

I had been complaining about how long it has taken her package to arrive via snail mail just the other day; it had been just about one month…she made the comment that it was okay, that I’d see…the mail would arrive at just the right time – when we were each more in need of the said packages than we knew. As usual, she is right.
Today is Mother’s Day in the U.S.
I have a rough day on Mother’s Day every year because…well, for obvious reasons…
I opened her mail this morning amidst the sadness that I typically wake up to on Mother’s Day…and it made me smile and reminded me of important things that aren’t always so easy to recall during the rough patches in my life: to breathe…inhale and exhale…and everything else falls in line somewhere.
Throughout my lifetime thus far, I have seen many movies and read endless storybooks detailing friendships that seem to be able to surpass the confines of space and time; even life and death through the invisible bonds associated; I never fully comprehended such subject matter until now, more recently in my own life.
There are, indeed, some friendships – bonds – ties – sutures – webs, which are so intricately wound throughout the human elements of the Universe, that even those bound inside the weave do not fully appreciate the depths and heights made available through such cosmic humanity. Those of us who are woven into this fabric know the power and strength to which I refer; those who do not know, can only believe.

XVI.

Anyone who throws tarot regularly will know that certain cards stick to each of us; from the first time we touch a deck, a handful of cards carve out an affinity to the hand that throws. I have seen it over and over again. One out of four cards that has remained near my hand without fail – and has again become very prominent lately – is
The Tower:
One look at this card, and you know that shit is about to go down.
The Tower Tarot card is all about change; usually very sudden, not-so-pleasant change. Changes in life are typically gradual; this allows our minds to acclimate. When a sudden, cataclysmic change occurs, such as the Tower card suggests, it is a triggering of a chain of uncomfortable (at best) events. When we are so entrenched in our daily lives, or stuck in an inflexible way of thinking, a swift and jarring motion is sometimes necessary in order to move forward. In order to strengthen, one must strip down to the skeleton and start anew. This is exactly what the Tower card represents; it represents an unexpected cosmic slap in the face, for lack of a better term.
The clouds are rushing, fire is thrashing, waves are crashing, people are falling, everything is at high-speed motion except for the tower; meaning that the signs have been all around us. However, we continued to sit in our “ivory tower” blindly while the storm brewed. So in actuality, the changes foretold in the Tower card aren’t sudden, we were just too pre-occupied to take heed of any warning signs. The presence of the Tower card in a reading is nothing to sneeze at; but by identifying your “ivory tower” of illusion and acting accordingly, a lessening of chaos may be possible.
In short, this is NOT a very promising or encouraging card to see on the table.

That all said, I feel as if this card and I most certainly have an affinity with one another, and pretty much always have. Out of the Tarot, it is definitely the card that would best depict the personally relatable expression of “waiting for the other shoe to drop”, or my seemingly perpetual lifestyle as a “storm trooper”…it is surely the “the shit has hit the fan” card – very appropriate in the context of my story thus far. I have a love/hate sentiment in regard to this card because it is also supposed to be a spiritual prompt to learn a lesson…and I sometimes am not able to pull any more lessons out of a given circumstance…and I get frustrated with all of it.

Ocean of Trash.

Since everyone else has their’ hands out –
patting other backs,
ill-humored wise cracks,
“Well Done, Bad Ass!”…
let me be sure that I’m sure –
to fit into the mass;
to expel –
all that goes unwell
as I pass,
I notice the line of faceless blood vessels –
waiting along the tracks,
that make a body intact,
“Hello? Anyone home?”…
open the fucking door –
to the last-ditch,
burnt bitch –
mysterious panic hatch,
the Gods have not yet left me alone on my knees –
begging for scraps,
starved of the pats to my back,
“Get up and walk, dumbass!”
it is Life, itself –
just ONE great, long pass;
through one Hell
in an ocean of trash.

Come.

Come see me –

This night;

in my darkened corner dreams

I beg of you to make me scream;

Come touch me –

Once more;

Sweat your saliva from my pores

Cut the wires and kick in the doors;

Come stay with me –

Come closer; revive;

Eat me up until I come alive

Let me feed your carnivorous side;

Come with me –

Come in; confide;

Touch every steaming hot place inside

Never look into my crying eyes;

Come ruin me –

This night;

Take away your warmth from me

Come tonight and leave me empty.

Note #203

Notes to Self: Note 203

Dear Self,

  • Whoever told you that you look even remotely tolerable in those leggings is a cruel liar…
  • Granted, humor and a good sense of it have long been an arguable type of psychological coping mechanisms in human beings; however, this DOES NOT seal the approval of joke-telling in any forum, as it may fit your own need to cope with things others remain unaware of. You’ve taken “Class Clown” a little too far.
  • Lines seem to be another huge impossibility for humans to wrap their superior brains around, in any context surrounding the notion of waiting one’s turn in line to achieve a goal that one finds necessary to achieve. Whenever possible, it has proven tried and true that we will avoid and desert standing in lines to wait our turn, just like the others waiting in front of and behind each one of us. I’d like to see more police brutality happening to those people, personally. No one on Earth deserves a few chops to the throat than the people who cut in line.
  • When avoiding eye contact with your strange female neighbor, try not to do it so well that you resemble Rain man’s female counterpart. Now, she tries to send donations over through your roommates.