There are days that can be described as nothing but borderline. I'm learning how much trauma was left behind in my attempts to be resilient. My partner is proving her love and loyalty more and more each day. I try not to be extremely angry at those who've left these deeps festering scars. I try to be forgiving of myself for my sloppy attempts at attachment. I'm on the road to mental wellness, if the world doesn't burn to the ground around me first.
Sunday, September 6, 2020
Monday, August 31, 2020
I do not know why we speak of bad days. No twenty-four hours is bad on its own; it is just the time of day. This is much the way I lament talk of good and bad people, of good and evil. There seems only the spectrum of cloudy, gray hours and behavior that isn't readily pinned to cork above a label of what it is and excluding all it isn't. I am a joyously tormented human who experience hours of perceived worthlessness, hours of peace and friendship, moments of laughter and insight, and a good portion of the last fifty-five minutes in tears. I thought about my death today. I wondered when it will come and whether or not I will be the instigator. I felt longing. I felt despair. I captured three photographic images within thirty yards of my apartment door. I have embraced my youngest son, texted his three older siblings, enjoyed the wisdom, charm, and intellect of three friends, texted K— that I think she would be better off without me after she again attempted to squelch my voice. I am writing words. I am mercurial. The content will ever change. It was not a bad day. There are no good nor evil people. There is this moment, then this. Then this. Hickory-dickory-doc, the mouse ran up the clock. Vivaldi's Four Seasons through my headphones. I am waiting for sleep, waiting for tomorrow.
Sunday, August 30, 2020
Friday, August 28, 2020
Still practicing the tightrope. Some days I think I’m getting better.
My work has taken the shape of photographing South Provo. I am caught up, enthralled, or as K— puts it, obsessed. The shapes and textures here move my heart, give me a longing for the story beneath each layer. I get to know people, residents both past and present. I see their hopes and the dreams gone by. One wouldn’t likely find this place as rich and decadent as I do, but I don’t conjure from midair. And I mourn the passing of stories I can only just puzzle together.
Monday, August 17, 2020
I would like the attention span of an egret as opposed to that of an earwig. I'll leave it to the pachyderms to chew on that one. It's tough, but nothing like bronchial spasms. I hear wing nuts are easy to screw; it's all in the finger work. If the Queen of England shat blue, would any of us be surprised? I think witches might spell things out for us. They could tell us about the time the Earth was mud. God dipped his fingers in to shore up foundations, restore site. We all knew. Every pie a palace, a person. Holy temples both. Some hold fast like quicksand. Every line justifies how long you took to read it.
Thursday, July 23, 2020
Monday, June 29, 2020
This is as much as I will say on social media. It's best if I don't mingle Facebook with relationship drama. I may talk about how we're doing here. But I need to keep what goes on inside the house private for the sake and safety of the occupants.
Wednesday, June 24, 2020
This is my dry, dark wit journal entry. It might not make you laugh, but I’m chuckling and I’m the only one who seems to matter right now, as I’m the only one talking to me, feeding and dressing me, holding me on the couch while I Netflix and chill, replacing the batteries in the vibrator.
I’m pissed. At myself mainly. If I came to me and explained what I’d been through in the last six years, how much energy I’d put into it, how much I sacrificed, the first thing I’d ask me is, “Weren’t you a little underpaid?” Then, “Why do you let people take advantage of you?” And finally, “Have you considered raising your rates?”
How many fish do you think get caught and released more than once? And I want to know why would any creature impale itself for an insect, a fly, a worm? Do you think those fish have Borderline Personality Disorder, or were they traumatized as minnows? Catch and release fly fishermen think they’re so skilled. Tying lures, putting on their wadding boots, wearing those straw hats that only look good on Brad Pitt. Cast and pull, cast and pull. Ten and two according to Robert Redford. Artistry. Brad is only sort of catch and release. He devoured Jen, fileted Angelina. Jen’s the one I worry about. How can they still be friends? An affair can’t get more public than box office cinema. The Smiths need to GAR. It only got a 60% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. We all knew it wouldn’t last.
So the Brown trout, Lenny and Bruce, I see them tagging alongside Jerry the Rainbow, watching him size up that lure as it dances across the water. And Bruce says to Lenny, “Didn’t Jerry just do an R&R stint in the shallows over one of them flashy dames last month?” And Lenny shrugs, which is a hilarious thing to see. A shrugging fish. Those are some incredible pelvic floor muscles you got there, darling.
Jerry, oh Jerry. When are you gonna learn, buddy? A guy like Brad will flash his fly, jerk you off the line, and send you back whether you’re a Rainbow or a carp. Now, if the person on the other end of the pole happens to be a lesbian, that’s a whole other story. It’s rumored that Brad is bi. We should hope. But he’s still catch and release with his fish.
Okay, so that was tasteless. Fishy.
Maybe I’m a suckerfish. There’s no hope for me, really. I’ll be weighed and measured. Someone will stick their fingers in my fishy flesh for a trophy photo, and then I’ll be tossed back. Ad hominem. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseam. You’d think I’d get it. Remain a bottom-feeder and you never risk getting yanked from the water. Or maybe go on a diet. You might live longer either way.
You ever hear of a professional fly-fisherman? Someone pays these folx to endorse a fishing product because they catch the fish who don’t get caught and taken home the first time by the amateurs. These sportsfolk are the players of the aquatic kingdom. It’s their thing to catch a fish, but the real treat is the release. It doesn’t matter how tasty that trout might prove to be, these pole-holders live and die by the mantra: “I caught you because I can.” And because they do, other people flock to them. Endorse my tackle box! Endorse my jigs! Hey Brad! What are you using for attractant and bait this season?
And what’s funny is it’s all camerawork. No, the Smiths do not pull off their own stunts. They’re too busy in the makeup trailer to take on any hard work. And I’m pretty damned sure that Brad Pitt doesn’t know the first thing about anything besides his own pole. Especially catching fish. Those cinematographers though…they know a thing or two about capturing a thing that lives forever, they can take their catch home, and eat it too.
Tuesday, June 23, 2020
I slept some, walked through the cemetery at 1:30 a.m., tried to go back to sleep around 5 a.m., but laid in bed staining my new pillowcase with mascara-infused tears until 7 a.m. I had therapy scheduled with W— for 9 a.m., but I called in a cancellation. I’m too raw to therapy today. I’m scheduled with L— tomorrow. Hopefully by then these dry-heaving, air-gasping spells will subside.
Thursday, June 18, 2020
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
Sunday, June 14, 2020
Friday, June 12, 2020
Thursday, June 11, 2020
Wednesday, June 10, 2020
Tuesday, June 9, 2020
My idea is a simple one: essays on my possessions. I live at poverty level; most of what I own I found second-hand or was gifted to me. And then there are my “finds”—objects I’ve collected from hikes, urban, rural, and mountain. Like the kid that I was, I have a mass of precious treasure that most would designate as refuse. But each item has a story, and each story is part of the wealth of being human in a poor, simple life of survival.
Monday, June 8, 2020
Sunday, June 7, 2020
Saturday, June 6, 2020
Tuesday, June 2, 2020
and the Devil has as the Devil can
loved me back for her purposes.
look between us
Someday, this too shall pass.
Monday, June 1, 2020
A dating profile:
Gender: Fluid. I never know who I'm going to be, but sometimes it's male, sometimes it's female. Most of the time it's somewhere in between. I present femme almost always, but on my lipstick days it definitely feels like participation in social construct, and I've got no problem tossing out feminine stereotypes even when I'm feeling female. Just don't treat me like I'm not a guy—ever.
Orientation: I'm sexually attracted to people I find sexually attractive. I would say I have a type, sort of. But there are exceptions to those. I'm into minds first; bodies second. Most of the time. I probably have some kind of a crush on you.
Age: 45. I'm as developmentally fluid as my gender. I can usually hold my own with people younger than I am. I always feel like a kid around my peers and elders. Kids are awesome, but I think I freak out their parents.
What I have to offer: All of the above. That's it.
What I'm looking for: MYSELF
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Saturday, May 30, 2020
I mean, I don't want to be harmed. Not really. But I'm already hurting. The injustice. How can you love so well and have so little return? I'm not perfect, I know. But I was giving it my best. Sometimes, I supposed, that isn't enough. It's the emotional maturity thing again. Maybe I wasn't patient enough with where she was. Maybe it seemed clear that she wasn't sure whether she wanted to be in the relationship any longer. Maybe when she didn't mean to hurt me she did. Maybe it's best to let the boundaries re-congeal. When you're a sponge it's advisable to make sure you know what you're getting into.
I'll protest injustice later this afternoon.
Thursday, May 28, 2020
I met with my therapist this morning. She's counseled me and K— for over a year. She asked me to take into consideration the possibility of simple human error over sociopathic disregard for a person's wellbeing in the cases I've experienced in the last four months. She also said I should consider the number of strange references to murder I've heard from my ex-partner over the last two weeks. She said to take into account the number of times that I have believed my safety was compromised by my ex. She said to consider the manipulation, gaslighting, and controlling behaviors. Then she said I get to make the judgments based on my rationale about what happened to me.
I've spent the last week alone with B—. But suddenly, time feels like it's standing still.