Garfield Run

I love this place, so how could I let it burn?

I’ve been having reactions to the world that this nervous anxiety that is flaring up is telling me I can’t share.  This has been my life for always.  I intuit a reality that is personally terrifying, I shut up about it, just let shame force up a smile, let a face show focus.

I’m thinking about things that I have opinions about because I am alive and an individual and sometimes these things and opinions are out of line with my own circumstances.

It’s the high-dive.  Where I wait, standing on the edge of the edge, up over the sea of light and ruin.  They said doing the thing was where the magic was, nowhere else, and still I stood, blankly.  Another woman at the office is leaving after just two nights ago we had a big party to say goodbye to another, when not two days ago I had to sneak away the computer of another while they told him and five others in some office not to come back.  I am not existing in a vacuum.  Then the nice, but not particularly warm woman announces, casually that she’s pregnant, that she, at my age, is having a “geriatric pregnancy.”  Suddenly, the PMS throttles and sends me down some sort of biological clock luge.  Suddenly, I feel perhaps the burst of energy to get me to jump from this place into anything, anyone, anyway, but I look down and the sea is a sea of knives.  I look up and the birds that begin to swarm, knives, too.

I write this and know that there’s no place to go, but yet, maybe.  Maybe in the surreal world we share, I could fall and make it.  One hit point left. And if not make it, have the victory of having escaped the question.  Will I ever? Ever, never, ever?

This sounds darker than it is. But it isn’t not a cheerful prospect. It is factual in a way no one deigns to speak with me.

I called yesterday to see again about some therapy, some venting of the spleen and heart, easing of these sparklers I call a nervous system.

Could I make a plan to divest myself of circumstances that pain me within one year?  Could I delve deeply into these ideas of perfection, imperfection, motherhood, being loved, being feminine, having ownership of my own vessel again?  Could I go into the painful places rather than pretending I have none?  Could I be honest about the fact that all of this is my choice and nothing that is happening to me or owed me by any other entity in all the wide universes? One year can be remarkable in terms of habit, in terms of total output, but I have no reason to believe myself capable of doing much more than finding my way back into bed after breakfast.  I don’t know how to make this plan.

But I at least want to make one.  I don’t know how to get out of the January Trap, but I at least want to.   I don’t know how to jump or climb, but I at least am blinking in Morse code to the versions of self, the Astrids, the engaged and alive and writing parts of myself, that I’m here and I want help.

 

Terror in the Year 9000

Might be the title, might be just something I have to say.  Things are pretty crazy these days.  If anything I want ever comes to pass, I might like to have a reckoning of these days before they ruin me entirely.  Something to pass down.  Not that it’s genius.  Not that anyone would care.  But maybe it would help motivate me to recall that there is more than just absorbing and consuming the plot points of other people’s lives as a method of passing my own.  It would, at the least, in the end, remind me that I have one or two thoughts that ping inside my cerebral cortex and make five hundred words worth of sense.

Tomorrow we vote.  What else is there but that? People might follow it up with prayer but prayer these days just feels like giving the Devil your PIN.  Suddenly all your hopes and dreams laid bare to people that have no empathy for them, no sympathetic regard.  I don’t know what will happen if people don’t put a chain on the beast.  I don’t know what it means for our undying souls.  People starve in this world every day, and in Yemen, by numbers that are so unholy, so unbearable to comprehend, the fact that anyone can sleep at night, can fold their hands and feel so pleased at the catbird seat upon which they sit blows my mind.   I don’t know how I will feel if the result isn’t positive.  I don’t know how to re-route the despair and fear.  I’ve done my part, I don’t know anyone who isn’t voting, if I find anyone I can reach out to tomorrow that will make any whit of difference, I shall.  And the rest has to be made to be survivable.

I say this because it is not as though I’m not doing my own sorts of small horror as it is.  We smashed up a bunch of people’s lives today.  Once I would have been despondent over the fact that people I work with are now no longer going to be working with me.  I would have known each person’s wife’s name, where their kid went to school, some factoid that would build a red thread between us.  I would be able to visualize the ways in which this is going to fuck their shit up.  Now, perhaps because I needed to find that way to make the job survivable – to not let it claim the creative parts of my self and soul – I walled off a lot of both myself and my interest in others.  So I don’t know the specific ways in which this damage has been done, I just know that it happened, and that distance is making it possible for me to think about parties and daylight savings and strange curiosities come and gone.

I think this is growing up?

More to say, more skin in more games.  Suffice it to say, I wanted to hear the world the way I say it and not through anyone else. So here I am.