For Want of a Title

Just on a whim, I thought i might record some of the notes of the day – the week, really.

Because someone ought to know and the man has me so confused, his upness, his downness, what feels like his complete desertion of me being followed by a haymaker of an overture, all of which has me way too dizzy and exhausted to run through much of my day.   The small little details which need saying.  I forget they need saying so often that they haven’t been said and they’ve balled up, filled up my insides.

I worked hard this last week.  Figuring out – albeit only as a result of being able to afford purchasing transport – how to deal with an enormous four days of meetings that I had to feed eight others in a place where you can’t even get a cup of coffee without importing the shit from Colombia and the donkey it has to ride in on, too.   When you go from a place where you can’t turn around without office supplies and projector screens and meeting amenities slapping you in the face, to a place where the walls aren’t entirely drywalled in…twas tough.

And I was not a hot knife through that butter.  I have been ill, but not so ill that it would have made any sense not to be there at my 6:45am call time.  I can breathe, I can type, and I can walk and order overly salty poutine that weighs on your soul.

I woke up at 4:30am recalling the traces of the most amazing dream – an empty restaurant nobody goes to, a dream of how it ought to be full with 60’s era dancing and revelry, turning dark and mad with everyone racing a lawnmower race, an epic kiss, Madonna bra, violence and being chased by police until we became some sort of painting, maybe Crossing the Rubicon, only with lawnmowers…so strange and delightful to feel a creative mind freed to create, unafraid of the imperfection of that creation, just conjuring and building and breaking until something new comes of it, and letting the waves take that thing so that something new can come in its wake.

Small stretches in hope do seem to pull you out.  Pull me out of my morass, emphasis on the ass.  A bit more water.  Taking my medicine.  Saying no the one time.  Recalling that you have capacity to look ahead just enough to recognize that yes, you will need to wear clothes tomorrow and if you pick them out tonight you only need to put them on in the morning.  You only need to do a bit then, if, with all your energy, you do some of it now.  Imagine!  The logic and foresight.

Rising up from your supine position to realize that there are only a hundred more worlds to finish this up.  To wipe the slate and try again tomorrow.  Only two days until I go to Indianapolis.  Where who knows what obscure and unusual hijinks I could get into.



It would seem to me, having written so recently, that I would have nothing else to say.  But it’s not true.  Not that I have anything extraordinary brimming off the top of my tongue, that my lungs are swelling and my heart is beating just for the chance and the moment to reach out and announce to the keening, desperate world.  I just know the one thing that I know.

I can do this.  I can write these words and maybe something happened in the whole of this day or this weekend or this week or month or year happened that has a greater meaning that I can’t see right now but if I poke at it and contemplate it and write it down so its roots are broken and placed into freer, boundless soil, it will grow and becoming something I’ll harvest later.   This is nonsense, but it might bear some sensical fruit if we apply the pruning shears and the Miracle-Gro.

I could mention, I imagine, the small little egg that I took from my half-sister’s mother’s funeral and hung up on our mantel, along with many other mementos of people and beings that we have loved.  This egg that my young niece – now already nearly 18, a thought that I can hardly fathom in my head as I was only a bit younger than her when she came into the world – announced we could take if we wanted.  And I thought that others should get them, others who knew her better, but after a time, I recalled how much I associated my half-sister’s mother with beautiful things and how taking it could also be a reminder to me the value of such a gift.  I could mention the strange surreal quality of meeting my cousin and aunt and uncle at the funeral and how the lights flickered and we discussed this with delight before my sister’s boyfriend – who has so dutifully and kindly attended all these tragic events in the last five years – said it had to have been a child flicking the switch.  But I didn’t see the child in the open room of the church, the pentagon-shaped room from which a giant crucifix was held, pendulously over us all, and it happened more than once.  I want to believe so I shall.

I could mention the art deco room in this hidden event center where they held the party after the funeral, an enormous stained glass door of birds that rivaled any crucifix and was spring green and held beyond its locks, a fountain outdoors where, surely, the next day some couple would be married.  How lonely I felt that day to think about how I would not mind being married there, how my own mother said two different things that frightened me differently and how I told J and how he said the acutely wrong thing.  But then half-fixed it and half-broke it again.

I could take just that extra little bit of time and go somewhere on paper that I need to go.


The voice went away.  I hope it comes back. I can’t imagine it not even if it’s just treading water in some tidepool. I may have to find a way to coax it out of hiding.  I may have to believe in it more than I’ve come to disbelieve.  I may just have to caffeinate myself and fall into the page.  Screeds and madness and sentences that don’t make sense.  Typos that once were unthinkable, that now crop up when you stop having the word in your eyes as much as you ever had the image.

I have stayed away so long.

It has to do with him, of course.  I always wanted to be the sort of girl who didn’t “need” someone.  I had to be that sort of girl as I was so unable to…”have” someone.  We make the rules ones that we’re already living by so it seems like there’s a plan to it all. It is strange to imagine that so much of the writing of a year ago and prior came out of the loneliness, came out of the yearning and pining, and when provided with regular emotional contact, that desperate, aimless clutching sense of the purpose of the word went away.  Or perhaps, just transmuted into a protective silence when the regular emotional contact became something less beautiful than I had hoped.  When it became a mirror into my own depressive experience, when I was feeling so frustrated by the ebb and flow of trying to relate to someone so like me.  An amusing realization if it wasn’t also so tragic – that we who should get each other best, we who do get each other so well, who hold so regard and esteem for transparent communication…can’t say what we need to say to one another.  To be terrified of being invaded by the idea of someone with such unqualified need for me that were I to plate and serve my beating heart, it wouldn’t suffice.  In the same moment, to be so angry and disappointed and indignant when no colonizing forces ever stormed the beaches.  Waiting for a war that never comes. That the draw, whatsoever it is or was, was never any greater than it was before.  It wasn’t different because it was him.  It wasn’t motivation enough to overcome his nature.  Just as his was not enough to surmount my own.
We are both so stuck.
But I know it’s not about me and this, too, is a problem.
So I have stopped journaling.  Effectively.  Some writing is happening – other veins that have been slowly spitting and bubbling.  Nothing sure.
I think I was afraid that if I wasn’t a broken record on the subject, the voice might be powerful enough to change my mind.  It might lead to the pounding, inescapable truth, that this isn’t right.  At least not in the form it exists and if I heard that enough from my own thinking mind, I might be forced to speak up and say something to him, a something that, to me, from my perspective, would have to be painful to him for it to be curative for me.  We need a break from each other, we need to classify this as a good friendship, I need to just do what I want to do and let everyone else move out of the way of that.

One Centimeter

Can’t write it unless you open the page. Can’t magick it into being without lifting your magic wand and abracadabra-ing a bit.

Don’t mind the cigarette smoke, the man choking and dying below us. We’re not here for forever, anyway. Just long enough to catch a breeze.

Okay. Time for a bath.

Like It or Not

Teeth are still bothering me.  The muscles holding my jaw in a way that used to be comfortable do not like, at the moment, to hold them that way, but holding the closed is just as untenable.  Finding it difficult to think about anything else.  They don’t hurt – the gums, I guess, when I’m eating, so that’s a fun discovery.  If nothing improves, I may, under pain of death, call and see if they can push up my appointment.  All of this goes back to the sincere, omnipresent and seemingly insurmountable doctor fear I have – one that I wanted to use my 8 free sessions with a therapist offer from work to maybe address  – but the doctors’ office that is right nearby and perfect is all full up on crazy.  (That’s not appropriate, but it does reflect how I feel.)   So I told them, no, I couldn’t wait, I’d find another place and now I feel exhausted about finding one, but that’s probably 50% my goddamned aching teeth talking so…

I need very badly to go home and sleep.  I think the tooth pain left me restless and so I feel achey and exhausted now and the motoring has ground to a halt.
It is hard to be a successful writer who flat-out refuses to contemplate eventualities.  That’s all fiction is, following through on the great what-ifs, down to their last terrible drop of consequence.

It would be nice, I think, sometimes, to just have someone take me unawares, in my sleep, and cart me off and let them them do all this pokery and fear-mongering while I am off in dreamland.

Bad dream: I want us to have an argument.  A blow-out fight.  I want to be able to say what the fuck, man, what…the….fuck is going on?  Why am I meant to just sit about here, waiting for the sun to rise and set on you? I never used to think…no, that’s not true, I always thought about such things, about the way I would dote and coo…I doted and cooed over doting and cooing.  I was in constant thrall of the possibilities of romance.  But here we are, the knit loose and fraying, and I still have no clear vision, save the big picture which just has more of a feeling than it used to – there’s something empiric at the edges, where it was formerly just thoughts and ideas.  Still.  It’s not a place you can live, not a sweater you can wear and expect to keep out the cold.
I don’t think about the things you said.  I forget the meaning in your whispers that knocked me sideways.  I don’t think about myself or what’s going on face-wise.  If I’m getting the big red, pus-filled stop sign, I’m just motoring on through.
I don’t think because everything, everything, everything wigs me out.  The rightness, the wrongness.  It all burbles up to the surface and you can’t just ignore it and walk away.   I am trying to ignore it and stay right here with it.  Tonight, an aspirin.  Tonight another pass with the toothbrush.  Tonight, a swirl of Listerine.   Maybe I need to change what I say…it is always on my mind even if I never, ever think about it.

I watched 4 episodes of Dietland with my mother who actually paid attention to it – this is not always the case when I put something on the TV.  She did not see the instant and painful parallels I saw in it, but she thought it was good.  Worthy of watching.

…I called the dentist and at least moved the cleaning up as far as I could, but it’s still 10 days off.  They are meant to call me if there’s any other slots and I am meant to call them if it becomes desperate.  I am hopeful it will not become desperate.  It is…pressing, but not ER-worthy.

Okay.  Okay.