The Words Impossible

It is relatively profound how securely a bad idea can affix itself in your brain and become something so akin to truth that you crave it just as much.  A Splenda of the mind. The warning, the wall, the block no chisel can whittle down to David.  It is time.  It is so past time to let some of these thoughts, and the poisons they leech, go.  It is time to draw the new line in the clean sand and say, okay, what is and what as been is beginning to cause a problem.  A physical, tangible, breathless problem.

The only way through the block is to put your hand up, lay your palm on its cold, eternal and sugar-sparkling marble surface so that every finger is evenly spread, and then you just press.  You press today.  You press tomorrow.  You press the next day.  You press when you want to let go.  You press when you no longer feel like pressing.
Eventually, that block will give.  Because it is just thought.  It is just idea and concept and synapse kissing synapse.  It is not real.  It has no external support.  No paper with names signed.  It has no hashtag trending.  It has just you believing a thing that you decided to believe even when it’s put you through the shredder to keep
You will probably need some reminders.
Right now, I am such a high-functioning mess in certain quarters that the other quarters would not believe that we come from the same place.
I don’t know what it is – entirely…no, that’s a lie.  I want to write today and I want to do it because I dipped into the archives and as so often, almost always happens, I found something pertinent and compelling to me in a way that I think only our own personal writing can be.  That voice of the past calling out to you as you sit here in what was once the far-distant future.  Beseeching you to exist differently, do differently, change the seemingly inevitable path you are barreling down.  The past is, even if it does not break it down or call it out, always a bit hopeful that the future finds the way it cannot.   That the world ahead will take the lessons and learn them well enough to choose the sacrifice the past feared.  Will see the truth of the anxieties of the past and side-step them.

It is nice, I suppose, to find myself here as a future soul tethered to all this past and know that in this moment – this space, not yesterday, and possibly not tomorrow – I am not choosing the depressive, fearful, and broken way of being.  I can turn back to her and say, at least for now, you have an ally.  You have someone willing to learn from you.  You have someone who is interested in the whirling of your mind, someone thankful for it.
I wrote about reading a book.  Not being afraid of imperfect reading and writing and self-expression.
That actually occurred.  Like it or not, that got me here.  So, it can get me somewhere else, if we put a little bit of elbow grease on it.

The Blindfolded Heroine

“She’s always blindfolded, otherwise she wouldn’t do anything.”


A day where I realize the new deep.  I knew this realization was coming.  The actual gasping sense of realizing you are in way over your head and you do not know how to begin to survive.

I have a plan.  I have a plan I have asserted I will do.  To survive.  I’ve smiled and earnestly said yes, oh boy oh boy oh boy, I’ll work so hard for you.  And I’ve meant every oh and every boy.  But part of the plan is me figuring out how to let myself shift into an adult mode.  Into knowing, oh, no, that’s not acceptable when someone suggests a change or states a fact.  Into being the gatekeeper.  Into doing exactly what it is they’ve hired me to do.

One must sink or one must swim.  I always thought if I just lay still, I could just float, safely on my own, but there’s been enough of a breeze these days that my tiny allotment of clever inflatables is no match and, bam, I keep hitting the wall.

And that wouldn’t be so bad, except these fancy, high-tech walls are equipped with klaxons that ring like Operation anytime you fuck-up or are adjacent to any sort of fuck-up-yet-to-be.  And that wouldn’t be so bad except you ring the bell, word gets around.  Word gets around fast, if people aren’t already with their glasses at the tip of their nose, watching you.

I got asked today what was going well and was hard-pressed to think of anything, as I was so aware of the bad feedback and needing to correct it.  So desirous to be perfect, gleaming.  Spotless.  And it used to be that my perfectionism was painful because it existed outside of reality – it was my own standards I couldn’t meet.  Now, it’s everybody else’s.

So I need to focus.  Take time and figure this out.  Get my hair cut and look more professional (I suggested this, but was not dissuaded from my view.)   Be willing to spend some portion of Sunday working and picking nits.  I have to lay down on the paperwork and let myself find the rhythm of it.  I have to build flash cards and flow charts and checklists and make notes to staple to my forehead and in the midst of all of that…

I realize how much of me is taken up with other things, other desires, to be writing, often, or to be connecting with J. is another,  or thinking about something to share with my friends, or just to be laying somewhere just not-ting for a while. and how I thought I had all of those curious, distracting thoughts locked down.  That I was working hard at work.  But there’s a lot of needing to not push through and instead, feel the soft touch of one of these kind places and I don’t know how to cut that cold turkey because it’s kind of where my soul is.

But like it or not – and I don’t – something’s got to be done.

She Made It

I should write this thing for the guy, but my heart hurts a bit and I feel weird and tired – exhausted, really – and I just need this place.  I need it with the whole of my being.  Just to dump the overflow so I don’t drown in my own ennui.

I have a car.  It’s a Ford.  I don’t know how, but I do.  It feels very weird to not be able to hand over the full amount (they’re fine with me bringing in a check for the rest – and the reason for that is only that I, like a dippy-doo, just brought my debit card which wouldn’t run 4000, thankfully) and then just to drive off, with assurances.  Like, you’re good people, just bring the money in later.  That’s bizarre.  All this after spending 3 hours there while your father co-signs the loan and it still, even with his sterling credit, won’t go through.  And somehow, they’re working it out where someone will loan me the dough and I can just have this very nice car that I don’t…I mean, I need one, and it’s super nice, but none of this was my vision.  And realizing that the he past year of working for a non-non-profit has messed with my credit and it is very surreal to have that come-to-Jesus moment where you can’t get a car.  It’s very disheartening and I’m realizing, I have to do some repair work here and I’m just thrown as to what that means.

So, yeah, I ended up crying a lot today.  Stress from work and stress from someone important being incommunicado and stress from not eating and stress from thinking I don’t drink enough water and stress from the awfulness of my hair and just…I sat in the chair next to my mother’s puzzle and ate a cheese stick and felt raw and volatile and confused.  On some level, that is really appealing, just to venerate the WTF is my life these days feeling of disillusionment.   To have people poking their heads through the bushes to check on me and all that I am enduring.  But I can do this.  I can straighten up and fly right.

Okay.  The pity party is not essential.  Not long-term.  I am glad to not have to mess with another wonky Lyft driver or bleed funds for the privilege of getting mine arse to work.  I can’t control a whit of when or how someone chooses to check in.  I can only do what I can do.

I’ve downloaded YNAB.  I’ve got myself set-up.  I am ready to do this. To get my house back in order.  Here, there, and everywhere.

I am going to drink some more water, do all the evening requirements and then just breathe.  I can’t sit with this worry on me a moment longer especially now that I’ll have money in and be able to do this just as is necessary.  I will be able to get to where I want and need to be.

Okay, that is not a wildly exciting post.




I hesitate to just begin.  That is the only thing that works, I am afraid to tell you.  You have to be willing to use the old second person tactics, the long sentences that are chock-full of words that could easily be whittled down if we were to be editing any of this for concision.  Editing any of it for any reason whatsoever.  Everything running right now makes me hesitant as fuck.  Hesitant to curse, to wear that outfit, to be that person, to think that I might be okay from one day to the next because I get undermined left and right by my own relaxed sense of self.

If I relax, I’m crushed out of the blue.  If I’m careful to watch my six, to duck and clench, the mallet’s flat surface drops on my head as I watch it fall.  Either way.  It’d be one thing if I thought people might be gentle.  Before, in olden times, you had the consideration that if you fucked up,it would be awful, but they would not be out to stomp on your soul.  Nobody has stomped on my soul, but I still feel deeply unnerved that all the soft edges are sharp and flat and swung like mallets and morningstars.  Still, the trundling that was ever done in the face of such things trundles and trudges and whines and moans its way forward.  And in this case, that trundling comes with a steady paycheck that covers your anthologist’s limited expenses.

It is a lot easier to dig deep and find your motivation to smile and move forward when you know you’re going to be able to buy food on your way home.

See, there, two hundred whole words that fly as quickly as breath does just so long as we let the spigot run and don’t hurry to spin it shut.  I have to take every reminder I can get that this is possible and not to give up before I hit my mark.  If you stop doing something that matters to you for a while, you start to get the impression tht maybe it doesn’t matter all that much to you.  Well, in this case, I want to be quite clear as to the value of making the post, of being present enough to listen to critique and review my thoughts on the day.  I think it is so desperately essential to my ability to potentially have any success here.

Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll look back and feel cheered that I did it, but also so that I can review what I wrote here and see if any of it made a lick of sense at all.  Tomorrow, thoughts on love and all that is unsure and intangible in this world.  I definititively have more to say on that subject, but the need for sleep is making my eyelids exhausted and my brain doubly so.  We will have to table that whole discussion until sometime tomorrow, and in the intermission drink some sort of terrible tea.

Notes to the Heavy Machines

I am trying to hold all the universes together in one spot.

Do you remember what it’s like to have the side of your lip curl up in the subtle pleasure of recognizing the deft skill that pulls images and language together in one spot, like four or five good universes pressed in a kiss?

Somewhere in my long memory, I recall such a feeling.   Lately I am so uncomfortable sitting here with this hot computer in my lap, my shoulders heated coils rather than muscles, my wrists against the sharp edge, my brain a’whirling.  It is not ideal for creativity.  I need to make like Jane Austen and get myself well out of Bath.

Be neither honorable, nor proud.  Stand still and do the work, and that is the only way we can anticipate a good outcome.  You will learn.  The truth will unfold itself.  Just push forward.



Keeping One’s Word

Four hundred words on a snow day on some bit of something J’s asked me to write.  Somehow, we will struggle towards the strength to write one hundred more.  Within the weave of the day a few strains of competence and achievement have been shuttled through.  Gleaming little strands. I up and made a personal call.  I elected to sell the car because one amount was more than the other.  I arrived at the right time.  I did as the devil pleased.  I did all I could out of kindness, but then, no more.

I looked after myself and committed to writing the words no matter how I tired I was.

In the Dark Cabaret

Sooner or later, the dam will break.  As plugged up as I feel, as kept away from the language as I am held, eventually, it will flow through me once again so long as I am patient and don’t turn away from it.  Chip at this wall, chip with tools and nails and teeth until the water runs wild and free.  Soaks up all these desert tiles.  Until the fish swim where once the birds flew.

Honestly, it is all just muscle memory.  It is all just finding your way towards the way you used to do it and doing it that way a few times in a row.  So I sit here while my mind kicks and screams and flutter around the edges of my skull trying to evade my attempts to bridle it and keep typing.  Let the business run like that river.

Tomorrow, snowfall, which makes zero sense to me.  So many sunny days recently.  But it’s already raining now with enough strength to sound like a discordant student band stumbling towards music in a garage,  so I suppose the forecasters may be right.  This means I need a bit more time in the morning in case it is the first time we go on the bus off to work.  I am contemplating many, many things, including that tonight.

I could, of course, always talk about J.  That has not gone off course as some might have easily suspected, but it’s rather that the course has decided to carve a path through some massive mountainside and so we don’t, at this particular moment know either where we are or where we’re going.   The things I needed before and pondered the plausibility of this man being able to provide me, I still need, but work has taken over so much of my mind now that I’ve consented to latch myself into that machine, so there isn’t brain power for much lust.  I am open to lust.  I like lust, love it, some might say, but when it is lurched along and squished into tiny, airless spaces.  Well, it’s easy to just nod your head for a while if he doesn’t want to want to go full-bore into le romance.

There isn’t time to cajole, to draw it all out, but I hope I figure out how to find that time because I think sooner or later, it will drive me mad.  Madder than is currently the menu on offer.

I have come to make myself finish this up.  Listening to dark cabaret which is really rather weird and disturbing given the alternative silence of this room.    THe last will and testament of a mildly functioning mind that just sought to fill a glass with water and then promptly forgot it to chase after an obnoxious cat. Let me be remembered for posts far greater than this one.  Let my wit be elevated and not my blase, cliched turns at the page.  Let us find our way clear and free of all of these constraints.