The Fever

This is not the blog you’re looking for.

Bad day.  Reacted in predictable ways.  Knew I was doing it.  Didn’t care at the time.   Frustrated, ugly and scary emotions.  Tried to reason with them, but they felt bigger than I knew how to cope.  Still stressed about work, not sure how to stop being stressed, not sure if anyone cares.  Know a few people do.   Find that unnerving.

I’m over at my parents’ watching the house while they do various things so that the dog doesn’t whine and make a mess.   It is eerie and quiet just like being in Atlanta on my own, but somehow, worse in that there I had time restrictions and there was not choice to leave the room.  It was vacation, after all.   This is even more liminal.  Even more random and bizarre.  It feels like I’m always on my own.

When I’m on my own, I make questionable choices.  Not only with regard to food, but, in general.  Like writing a message on a postcard with a website address, just a random, keening cry of loneliness out to the universe and then, when I was driving over here, I left it slip out of my fingers into the air.  I fucking littered my anguish.  I expect the street sweepers will be the ones who wrangle my ennui and chuck it into the waste where it belongs, but I hold out this sliver of hope that some man of the right age, right length of beard, right intent would be the one who plucks it from the gutter and finds his curiosity piqued.

We think somehow this means we’re trying.

I looked so cute today, too.  Such a waste.  The dress and this little jacket looked kind of regency and I had my honey bee amber necklace and there was a group out on the patio and they were playing beautiful, Middle-Eastern inspired music and I felt really positive.  I really wish that everything had gone differently.  I really wish that I knew how to fix things even as I watch myself make them worse.  I know this is vague.  I know that you can’t be expected to care about things that don’t mean anything to you.  I know, too, that I can’t produce an explanation.

It’s all bullshit, anyway.  We make our choices.   We pay our prices.  We tell the story we want someone to hear, even if we hope they hear the story underneath it first.

I got tickets for a concert which seems to be one of the few things that motivates me.  What with all these untallied barriers I have against me.  Positive.  Positive.  Go go go.  That’s at the end of October, so I think I will carry on dancing at least until then.

I’m working on my poems, my stories, my beauty, my fear, my faith.  I’m working on not trailing off.  I feel very small and stupid, but I know I’m not.  I know I’m better at least than my worst thoughts.


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