Pertinent Information: Day 29

That feeling when you’re way too fragile, self-esteem-wise, to handle someone the avoidant-obsessive game.   Everything justifies everything else.  I said we needed to know where things stood so we wouldn’t accidentally hurt one another.

Why does he need to tell some British redhead her smile is great?  That “damn…that smile.”  It’s a group for single people!  I don’t know.   He just does.  Meanwhile, I feel as though I’ve crawled out of some terrible, pilled sweater cocoon an even greater, more shlubbier bit of nothing.  Meanwhile, I’ve got a chair half-full of pizza.  I’ve got this exhausted anxiety.  I’ve done what I could.  But everyone’s better being themselves than I am these days.   My feelings always have this edge of plausible deniability until the moment someone tries to deny them.

I want to tear off my skin and tear the bone from the marrow and get back to dust and air and weightless, speechless things.

We aren’t dating.  We’re single.  But we’re not, you know?  We’re honestly not. But we are, apparently.  This is the shit you have to just blink and determine has no power over you.  But it does.  I want to be passive aggressive and shitty like the bad sitcom wives who hold shit over their unwitting husbands’ heads – the ones I swore my relationships would have no single common thread with.  I want to post cold-hearted, snide, acerbic things.  I want him to feel bad for thinking whatever probably innocuous thing he was thinking.   Probably.

Everything is fine except in the ways, you know, it ain’t.

Everything is grand except in the ways you’re actively eating shit.

I’m glad that therapy is tomorrow.  Even if it means I have to mess with running around like an imbecile in the middle of the day.  I’m trying to learn.  I’m trying to do what I can.  Trying not to dwell on how I feel so awful I can’t even think.

Just a momentary vent.  It’ll heal.  Along with everything else.  Fuck.

Famous Ladies

I want to write this post with some modicum of eloquence.
I need to take the trash out and do the dishes, clean the fridge.
I need to read 15-30 pages of my book.
I need to make my bed up.
Play Civ VI
Play Dragon Age.  (Yes.  Was distracted, but yes.)

I begin so poorly because today does not come with a ready-made narrative.  Today had just strange conversations and strange glimpses of the past and strange impulses and strange behavior and I don’t know how to correct for it here.

So, yeah, the oddity of J and I, the pulling apart and smacking far too hard back together again continues apace.  I don’t know how to describe it without saying more than a public blog on the internet allots for.  There are communications between two people which aren’t meant to be parsed and reconstituted into a digital form for the masses to consume.  Suffice to say, that the doubts have not been erased, but they have been duly pacified, though the new possibilities that loom are…not without their own dangers.

Am I a kind soul that can balm and soothe these torments and concerns or am I a woman loved?  I have no clear vision even now.   We’re discussing things I don’t know if either of us want.  I forget all the time that I haven’t met him.  I forget all the time that to plan anything more than a single meeting is insanity.  But he suffers where he is.  He needs someone around and I think so many of these struggles would be eliminated.  Yet.  Where are we, and I have no responsibility to this, I am just a random stranger on the internet. Except I keep arguing as a method of encouraging a few inches less of this endless light between us that is not the case.  That we’re doing all this for a reason.  I am the mouth that says stay, that says I want to help, that means to foster sympathies and affections with its words.

He says he won’t be a parasite when we begin to talk about how I have some flexibility now.  And my heart breaks.  That’s not what I see or want or believe.  It is a time of recovery, but he needs some human support.  He needs some compassion after all he has given the world.

What I want is his ability to mind his shop so steadily that I am chosen and not grasped towards.  I want to free him from this sense that all is dire and impossible and bound as it has been in his painful past.  I want him to have the strength to buoy himself when I am not able to take the call or reply speedily.  I want for whatever time is that we’re actually together, fully together, that we’re not spending it crawling up from a shell of torment.

No carts and no horses.  Just this strange state again all come over me.

 

Caught in the Undertoad

 

 

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Perspective is a rather extraordinary thing. Yesterday, I felt lost and adrift as the monthly tsunami of emotional overload overtook me.

I really felt as thought this guy was slighting me and it reminded me of past times, past frustrations, past sorrows to the point of physical pain.

Today, cramped and coiled up like crushed velvet, the loss I feel can’t be categorized as loss.  It’s not a missed opportunity.  It’s not anything.  It is absolutely nothing at all.  A conversation that continues, that fluctuates, that ebbs and flows, that is curious to me even if the person at the other end has zero emotional regard for me at all.

And, as it wends and waves its way through my phone and through my mind,  the world takes back another beauty.  Debbie Reynolds, so ravaged by loss and pain and missed opportunities and love and sorrow and grief and shock and whatever unknowable elements exist at the loss of a daughter, left us all.  Left as going was the only available path.  I believe that was the reason, and the medical issues only the method.  I believe there are bonds that require it.  Bodies that can’t find equilibrium.  Minds that can’t rationalize it.  Spirits that are drawn together too tightly to bear parting.

I used to be unshakably certain that my own mother and I were so knitted.  Now, having come to several of these giant abysses and been saved by fate or science or dumb luck, I wonder if the only gift we can give to one another is the best use of our lives.  The only fair expression of love is trundling forward as my grandfather did when his wife and son died a few months apart, but even he capitulated but a year later. Yet, who knows what happens in the face of unexpected loss?  What promises are made and undone.

So, we eat our tacos and watch Unsinkable Molly Brown and think of “I’m Not Down Yet” a song that featured Debbie/Molly growling and rolling in the dirt, sneering under a boot, asserting her indomitable will to survive and thrive.  It’s both the incredible will and the incredible impact of change.  Immovable objects, unstoppable forces.  All life comes down to is a game of War between them.

It’s the middle of this vacation.  If it was over tomorrow, I’d hardly know what to do with myself.  But I have a few more days, both of work at the shop and breathable quiet days at home, so I am going to work hard at shifting my head.  I’ll keep talking to him even if my bold statements are ignored, even if all we talk is turkey.  Because, today, this feels important to mention, but not so important to suffer over it.

Let him chase after me, keen for me, sigh and bite his fist, clutch his pearls.  Let him do none of the above and let me sit here and think up some new world and beautify this one and improve my life.

 

 

 

Killer of Sorts

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I am such a medical marvel.  I feel much, much better overall, just of course, beyond a few instances when I thought my scalp was on fire, I was allergic to strawberries, my face was as red as Violet Beauregarde’s was blue, or that I was having some form of conniption.  Or the subtle ache in my legs. Beyond that, the neck and teeth felt 10 times better than I expected them to.  I feel a little bit closer to what I ought to be, typically.   Just…odd, like something’s radiating out of me and acting weird as it runs through my body.  Still.  Here we are.

Can’t get too hung up on that for now for reasons asserted earlier.

Tomorrow, I am a shop girl and we talk about the future.  My mentor has found another person for me to send my resume to – someone who is not a stranger to me, per se.  It used to be, many moons ago – perhaps I wrote about it here, I should check, that a very elderly man came by the center where I worked.  He was gregarious, chatty, self-amused.  One of those flirtatious old men who could be mildly flirtatious and it wouldn’t bother you because he was both so old and so kindly with it.  And he decided I had a nickname – he called me Happy.  Mostly, I imagine, because I put on the good show and welcomed him and chatted with him and didn’t ignore him as people might be wont to do with someone so willing to hang about and comment on life as it passed by.   Apparently I made enough of an impact that I got invited to his 95th birthday party.  I didn’t know anyone, but that’s never been the sort of restriction to stop me if I’m curious and willing otherwise to respond to an invitation.  There, I realized that his daughter and granddaughters knew who I was, too, and as they were likable and warm-hearted people, I didn’t mind this either.

He was a very nice man, who, sadly, if naturally, passed away a few years ago.  His daughter is the one who will be taking a look at my resume.  I will have to learn tomorrow what she even does.

I had a long conversation with a co-worker.  Her frustration is the same as ours and I can only say at this point what I feel.  I can’t continue this way.  So, I’m looking.  She, being another kind, good spirit (I am surrounded by them constantly), says good for you and I believe she means it.  We’re all worn down by this, caring, understanding the reasons, wishing it were otherwise…none of that shifts the reality that I want stability so that I can start pulling together the story of my writing life.

Also, I killed a spider in my shower.  I did it because of Mary Oliver, Nietzsche, and my earnest desire for cleanliness.  I didn’t want to do it, I tried to sic the cat after it, but in the end, it was me.

 

 

 

Hotter Than A Two-Dollar Pistol

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When things have a momentum, mes freres et mes soeurs, I find myself precariously close to something like a positive mood.

I had to tell the boss about the financial issue and that lead to a further conversation about my status as an employee.

And I said I was frustrated, not by her, but by the situation.  She said, tearfully, that she felt she hadn’t done right by me and again, that she hoped I wouldn’t leave.

I wasn’t about to let her sit and cry in front of me, not only because my heart already breaks for the whole past two years, but also because I can’t question whether or not I’ve been emotionally manipulated into offering to stay. I need to say my piece.  To have any peace.  I’ve already thrown myself into the briar patch and I’m at the point where I can’t bear to stand still anymore.  Even if I know that getting out is going to rip my very flesh off.  I felt like in that moment, I was quitting.  Even though, I don’t have anything more than a partial application submitted to fall back on, I was saying, at least in the tenor of the conversation…I am walking.

It was, briefly, like watching myself sail over the Grand Canyon in a tank.

She said she understood and that if I needed to find a new job to get my bills paid, that was okay.  It was okay to look.  I said I just can’t tell her that if something good comes along in that search, I’m not going to take it.  I didn’t want her to be shocked if I came in and said I had found something.  I care, I care, I care, but it’s just not…working.  Then we talked about me being around in some capacity, maybe helping with grant writing or being involved with the event next year, and she emailed me some newsletter about freelance writing.

I repeated that I hadn’t really looked, but I might.  I might just look.   We talked about her daughter’s college applications, I laughed and laughed, like I do when I’m flustered and want to run away and can’t. It felt like the way it used to when I was at my old job, and she just swooped in and was kind to me.

She does, honestly, care about me.  She does want me to be happy outside of whatever that means to the organization.  That means a lot to me.  She’s a good person.  I just feel ever so slightly…freed, like maybe I see a few feet forward where the thorns are all turned toward the earth and the branches begin to part.

In other news, I got a postcard from my boss who moved away to Virginia.  I think that’s incredibly kind, and throws me that she would bother.  There are so many female souls around me, guiding me, supporting me.  I have to knuckle down now and show ’em what I’m made of.

 

Time is a healer, just not yet

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So I kind of fucked up my attempt at assertiveness – mainly by trying to see what my mom wanted before telling the sister to calm her bossy boots down and my mom was all, why are you asking, why what, it wasn’t a big deal? And then it sort of became a tiny bit of a deal.  She did wonder why I didn’t come over and she was a bit lonely with my dad working four days in a row, but she didn’t call me or tell me that.  I said she had to promise to call me if she was lonely and this suddenly had aspects of burdening her with having to explain what she was feeling.

But it’s not.  The lyric goes, if you call, I’ll come running to see you again.  Not if you have any sort of negative emotion, my telepathy will ping and I will teleport/time travel to you so that you never have to feel it in the first place.  More tuneful, too.

But I basically ended up sending a facebook message to the sister back that said I was doing the best I can, I’ve been over a lot, I’m going to be back over a lot, and that’s all I care to say about it.  And there’s been no reply as of yet.  SO, somehow, I am certain, the wrong person has been told the wrong thing and someone’s back is up and I…am sorry for that.  I’m sorry that my mom did, for a few moments, feel lonely.  But it doesn’t change, for a moment, the fact that I am just trying to live and do and serve my many mistresses without malice.

I have had feelings about this that have been subsumed under other feelings and other tasks.  This is how life goes.

Today, I got home, put a pizza in the oven, wondered why I wasn’t suddenly making all these massive changes I could be making for half a second, and then watched women’s indoor volleyball and then…saw a film on TV that caught my eye.  I know now that it was Who Is Harry Kellerman and Why Is He Saying Those Terrible Things About Me?

It caught my ear more than my eye as the film was absolutely drab and the film quality was dated and aged and didn’t look meant to be shown on high-def tvs, but quotes were essential.  Without a time nor place to be bound to, these were top-level truisms.

“Time, mister, it’s not a thief. It’s an embezzler staying up nights, and juggling the books so you don’t notice anything missing when you wake up.”

It’s really amazing.

You should just watch this part.  Maybe you’d get something out of it, too.

Now a hundred words to say that I am playing Skyrim.  I’ve had it for a couple years, but it’s so NOT Dragon Age and that made it pretty impossible to enjoy.  However, I think I might kind of like it.  In a backwards, goofy sort of way.  A hundred words to say that I take a deep breath and I deflate.  That I read it everyday, every single day – what we wrote together.  That’s pointless, but it’s pleasurable so I do it.  I hit these buttons one right after the other so the draft never gets in so long as I never stop.

Hecticklish

[CooL GuY] {{a2zRG}}

Current google search: the history of heat.

All sorts of ideas are being bandied about.  After tonight, we know that there’s a violin and a kaleidoscope and possibly a thermocouple ammeter or something to do with a piezoelectric disk.  We’ll just have to see how daringly scientific we aim to be.   The thieves stand at the ready to assist.  And then, on other fronts, armies and ravines and Ace of Base songs I dare not think of as they’ll become instant earworms.

The horizon features a potential breath of air sort of solution on the money front.  We’ll see.  Don’t quite trust it yet, but it is necessary. Even if it doesn’t happen tomorrow, it should happen Tuesday and I think I have things put together to make it that far.   Further quasi-flirting that also got me some health insurance.  That’s a whole…

Out of the office library, I absconded with a book about the Literary Cat.  Mostly because it had artwork from Chagall, we discovered, and a poem from William Carlos Williams, and something from Ambrose Bierce.

Nevermind about any of that.  I ate poorly/but at correct calorie levels again for dinner, but did run around and do extra exercise to compensate for that.  Kind of starting just crave a big salad.  Build the kitty back up and that actually sounds…amazing.  Tonight, though, I spent some time both on the bike and dancing around/walking. We’ll see what the scale decides is just in the morning for this week’s efforts, both intense and lackadaisical.  This is the gift of 2016.  If it ain’t lower, we just keep going.  There’s no appointment set, just a path to tread.  And these hot feet to figure out and how they got burnt.  Because I’m not sure it relates to the pathless journey.

Tomorrow.  Galentine’s Day.  I have the hors d’oeurves’ ingredients thanks to a little short term loan on behalf of ma soeur and will get to see my old friends.  I may have mentioned this.  Delighted that I know precisely where it is and how to get there.   Not quite sure what to do about this very fluffy, very Mary Pickford hair I’ve got going right now.  Might just hang with it in her honor.  Then, coffee with the mentor and the download of all the hot goss.  I will be getting full up on my estrogen-centric life support.   My social bar should be bursting.

My personal roses are getting painted red.  Feeling a bit relaxed.  It’s Friday of a three-day weekend.  I have to work on the novel, the story, the game, the Tribe re-watch, the X-Files, the, the…you start to think about February 14th and your odd, acid-dipped feet and the way the earth is moving so quickly around the sun and there’s so much to do and buy and be and hope for.

It’s getting a little hecticklish up in this head of mine.  I’m wanting old flames that have long since burnt away.  I have old emails close at hand that I could rile myself up with.

Instead, I am just letting myself be.