I need to get the whole story out.  I need to make a complete project list.  I need to get to work on some writing.  I’ve been daydreaming, flittering around one particular scene, but without the pathos of the original one I wrote and it needs that pathos. It needs doubly so.
I need the brain to get up to speed and to reject these calls to become a layabout just because my time is so loose and unmonitored for the next few weeks.
So let me tell you about my plans for October as a girl always needs a good plan to get her by especially when she doesn’t have a trip somewhere in the offing.
I am going to eat at home every day in October.
This is no small feat.  I am actually nervous about how much brain space will be opened up if I no longer have to consider the hows wheres and whens of buying food every single day.  I will be saving oodles of cash.
Let’s just give this a go.

Wash It Down

You will want to remember the day.

You will want to be able to scroll it back up.   You will want to know the words you used.  You will be curious about the thoughts that wrinkled through your mind.  How suddenly the bravery appeared.  But, you’ll recall how sensitively you reminded yourself as you wrote this post, that there was no bravery required.

This agonizingly slow process has made it entirely possible to be bold in the context we’ve built between us, nine months later. Nine months of feasting on famine, starving on gluttony.  These are the saline-laced shores we have been sunning on and now the moon grows heavy and the sky grows dark and but the water stays placid and warm.

Should I know better?  Only time will tell if I will regret what I have so long assumed I could only regret given my imperfections and the imperfections inherent in the world?  As for now, I will take the compliments,  I will take the long-distance resolutions. I will take the way it feels to satisfy, to deluge, to surfeit, surely, a desire not of my own making.  To matter this much.

I liked it.  Twas good at it.  Will do it again.


This is two weeks or so, maybe more, maybe less, of playing Wil E. Coyote, suspended in mid-air.
I don’t like the part of my brain that keeps clipping sentences.  That doesn’t want to sit and luxuriate in the possibilities of the white, blank page.  I don’t like the part that is mired in so many jutting, stuttered, action items that it can’t conceivably settle down and contemplate a wider world.
It feels safer just to not speak than to say something that might insist on being mentally accepted through the process of having said it.
Sure, I’m freaked out about the unknowable future.   The future that is reliant on me becoming more of this professional, be-yoked person with more of this tunnel-vision, more of this aggressively tight style of brainwork that I don’t like, that demands it else the bottom falls right out, but the future that presents me as a stronger person, a person who might have the strength of will to achieve some of the objectives that me, myself, and I have agonized over for millennia.
Essentially, they are keeping me on for now.  The for now of this for nowness is wildly fragile.  It’s ultralight glass.  I am to serve others, like some sort of chattel servant, until they find the next lord or lady where I may be installed as seneschal.  Or, deemed unworthy of service and shunted to the side, unceremoniously set out on my ear while some more polished and bold chambermaid takes over my duties.
A fellow from work was asking me about my future the other night at the party where we said the first of the long series of goodbyes to my current boss.  I said I didn’t honestly know.  He said, well, you should be fine, so long as you keep adding value.  And I nodded, lamely, subserviently, meekly, distractedly.  I nodded because what do you say to such an earnestly provided and frightfully mechanical statement as that?  Is my printing that email providing value?  Is my wiping down that white board value.  Yes.  On some level, it rolls up into the larger ability of the organization to function.  But the corporate speak, the sense of yourself as a unit, a cog, an ox at the mill, that’s so demoralizing.   Harder still to know how I once idly craved it.  Thought it would protect me from attempting to step out on my own as a writer, from walking against the storm. The storm comes with the fear and the fear comes with me.
But that’s not precisely right if we do care about the precision of language.  I am not a cog now, or I am not meant to be.  I am in the forefront of a lot of people who doubt me at the same instant they are required to trust me.  I am a name that is attached to other names, an engine of emails.  I warm a seat, but it is a well-known, important seat.
My boss hugged me at her party, after she’d had wine and there had been memorializing videos and technical difficulties on some of the videos and whispered “Thank you for everything.”   I said, “Thank you for everything.”  Meaning her basically not letting her doubt overtake her trust, at least so far as our short seven months together allowed.   Who will the next boss be?  What will they expect from me?  What will I provide them if my brain is half-hopeful that I can just write my way out of these places that I’ve always had to walk out of before.
So, one says, go follow thy passion, thy bliss.  Put your feet in the cold river, wander around in the dark, singing to the trees as you go.  Fear nothing, grasshopper girl,  Winter, as so many say, is coming. But winter only comes but once.
You’re supposed to have saved, one says, by 35, double what you’re making in salary.  That.  Will not happen.  That will not even be close.  We will be playing catch up to this benchmark until the end.  Greedy, fearful ants, burrowing in the heat of the lightless earth.
I say these things not to provide clarity of meaning, but to say…damn.
What a fretful, frightful time.

Phlebotomist Joe

What is passing for thought these days:

The way the silence feels when it feels like a physical weight, held against the tongue, that is a burden to move.  That the words had better be worth the strain and generally, never are.

Being told thank you.

What enormous anxiety and suffering and self-inflicted psychic wounds can be endured until the moment it all cannot.

The tailings left behind in the name of survival.

Why anyone should trust anything at all when no one is really willing to let their hands off the guardrails in someone else’s name.  Or those people are too few to truly be a significant segment of the survey.

The ebb and flow of desire.  The exhaustion that can pull my heart so firmly in one direction or another.

The need of the mind to work and feed and churn and devise stratagems and observe and list.