The Body Is A Robot: Elsewhere

I am waiting on the stoop for a sunrise to appear.  I hardly know what to say these nights when I aim to be so occupied that the words in me dry up.  My thoughts are singular, not kaleidoscopic as the work demands.

Where does the need to write go when it goes, if it goes?

It goes in a scrap heap, with every other sort of faith and belief in intangible things.  Go to work, press the start button, buy the coffee even if no one particularly likes the coffee – it’s too bitter, type the emails, remember to check the mailbox, follow the steps, twitch and snort when out of view, taste the salted flesh preserved and simple, and constrain your metal heart.

If it goes, you go, really, with it to the scrap heap.  And the robot runs the work, while you nestle without pain into the witch jar of rusted nails and half-broken thumb tacks and sharp memories claimed to be forgotten.  You dream in the lemonade, you start floating around with the chili pepper, you burn and reformulate.

We do not say I love you afterwards, but it hardly matters when everything is kind and soft and urgent and sincere.  Sometimes I almost do, and I stop myself. We do not say the name so we do not conform with casings and shells and polymers and masks.  But we are somewhere while the body is the robot.  We are somewhere and we are there together.

I find it difficult to remember because I am trying so hard to recall everything about it.  Every breath and the way the voices sound as I make them, the one I lapse into without trying, this coquette, this flirt, this woman I never knew I knew so well.   I want to name her, this persona so casually undertaken, but already she feels like dream dust.  All of this feels like the sort of thing I would make up, with the bends in it to make it seem real even though it’s all a blue caravan trundling through the dark trees along the mountain pass.  Steady and not stopping, no matter your curiosity as to the nature of its contents.  It whirls in my head, that this is happening, and it’s heady like a drink first feels when the alcohol sets in.  It is chemicals, the scientists say, and I say, but the body is a robot. This is me and I am elsewhere.

Today has been marked down as Friday and perhaps the world will end soon.  Terrible things are happening – hate is just spilling out like so much acrid, poisonous sulfur bubbling up from caverns we had long held to be sealed.  So sealed as to be forgettable, paths forsworn, unnecessary for any travel reasonable souls would undertake.   Terrible things and as one of those things, we are given to watch from our robot eyes and these arms so new with such shoddy articulation that we have yet to finesse our grip.

Meanwhile, we are not there at all.

 

 

 

 

Splatter on the Pavement

We didn’t speak at all today.  I know the reason. It’s valid.  It’s real.  It’s nothing to do with me, maybe everything to do with the idea of us, with how he feels inside himself so I care, I care so much I don’t…even…but, he needs time away from me to process.  And I…I don’t know what this means, really means. Just that the only fair option is a few more days of waiting.

 

The Sciences Sung a Lullaby

The things you don’t say are the things you regret.

They say.

But somehow I spout off truths and regret it all the same.

How is it possible to explain that when you want to share a story it is not because you want to hide yourself but because you feel yourself as a teller of tales? To know yourself through the offering?  To pleasure yourself by aligning yourself with the Nile and not fighting against it? That you are the water bearer, that being the vessel of the water which gives life is your thing…is you?

I tried to have that conversation tonight and did not…get far.  It was not a fight.  Still, I did not get what I wanted, so I regret the lapse in judgment, even if to do so requires I ignore the flurry of compliments, of zeroed-in desires, of fixation upon the vessel, the bearer, the teller and not the salvation it carries.  Perhaps it is time for the Riveter to draw herself a new map.

  1. Amazon shopping list
  2. drink glass of water (did remind me I wanted a filter)
  3. send my three images
  4. Pajamas / face washed / teeth brushed / lotion applied.
  5. this post
  6. find the bullet journal try-out journal somewhere about (I did not find this, but it must exist, so I have not bought a new one.)
  7. let the idea percolate

The Ender and Her Game

Life is so wildly unpredictable in 2017.  This is the year of bonkers and inexplicable ends to eras.  The year of hairpin turns.  A year of growing up taking place in a month and a half.

I don’t know how I suddenly am shifting into a new job that I am not terrified enough about and yet, here I am, googling resignation letter samples and deciding that

Somehow, I know that they are really going to demand a sharpness of me that right now is oatmeal.  But while other people can look sharp as a blade and don’t want to do the work, I want to get in there and take on tasks.  I want to try.  Which is something, I suppose.  I was surprised with my ability to express that and convince the boss and her boss that I could do it with what I think was more earnestness than bullshit.

When I have a comfort level, I can rattle off a list of to-dos like a gatling gun.  I can move when I feel trusted and I’m hoping I can get to that point and not get shifted by personalities and demands.  Strength in myself is going to be key.  Being willing to say things are key and use adultspeak will also be key.

The parents are over the moon.  They’re crazy.  They don’t seem to question that I can handle it.  That’s nice.  They’re willing to help me if I need it through this transition (I will) and we’re having celebratory pizza next weekend.  The all-holy benefits.  I mean, life has given me this shot, I don’t want to fuck it up, I am just freaked out about my shitty habits and laziness in a job where organization and promptness is so essential.  So.  Being thoughtful, learning, reading, getting some support about it, and then…letting it go.

One way in which I can be distracted is the guy.  J.

I don’t know what I am supposed to do.  I adore him, really.  Acknowledging our imperfections, the alterations we’ve made in our lives to get by, what is not easily resolved, I think he’s wonderful. But I haven’t found the way in to the conversation I want to have.  It will happen, I know it will…

The thought in my head right now is that we have to meet.  I’ve thought that since early on, but out of the blue, that becomes financially feasible.  It becomes possible for me to buy one or both of us airfare and a hotel room and food somewhere – here or there or just somewhere in this universe – for a long weekend.  Before, it was this frustrating impossibility.  Neither of us can afford leisure travel. But, with the new job, supposing I don’t get sacked or thrown out on my ear, will mean that I can make it happen, at least once.

And I feel like we have to meet because this is so much fumbling and messing around and weirdness that has no organizing principle.  And that’s fine, that’s okay, I am completely tolerant of having an intense flirtation on the internet.  I know that land very well.  But there’s this piece of it where it’s also this other…real life component where it’s mutually agreed that it would totally be happening if we didn’t live in way disparate parts of the country.  It is utterly bizarre to me that I can send a current picture of myself standing in front of a mirror and that doesn’t make the whole thing dry up.  Instead, quite the opposite.

But I don’t have the money yet and this whole gaming project I’ve helped him with isn’t off the ground and so I don’t know if I should even throw out a test balloon and say, do you want to do this…you know, at some point, somewhere?  My Valentine essentially just acknowledged that something was even happening and he hasn’t argued that.

It’s both happening and not happening for us at the same time.

Break for 20 minute call.

…yeah, so that call was the perfect encapsulation of my thing right now.   I want to be understood when I say that I don’t want to stop talking about any of the things we’re talking about – gaming, language, food, jobs, all the endless things he  (and I) know about.  I don’t want to lose this intimacy of connection, the kindness he shares with me, the intensity at times of his feelings, the way we feel…close, the beginnings of trust, but at the same time…the distance exists.  So I draft in my mind how I would write the character’s return to the RP’er and then feel guilty I can’t let that go.   I would let it go, if I could just feel like that part of it isn’t locked away to us for some unspoken reason.  Like, it was okay for a while, and now…no?

Just have a conversation? HAH.  Why do that when I can whinge on the internet?

I am just in such a different, demanding place than I ever have been.  I feel tired and achey and the dancing around things I want is wearing me down.  I will figure it out, I just sometimes need to put words to it so that it has a home someplace other than battering about in my skull.

The tagline holds true.  “I will change.”  I have and I did and I am and I will.

 

 

A Long Post

A long post is not something I want to write.  But I need to write something.  It is striking how easily a habit can begin, how easily it can be dropped.

It seems impossible that it’s been a week since last I wrote, it feels like a hundred years.  Like a whole…bizarre saga has unfolded around me.  There’s been a sense that real evil has re-entered the atmosphere.  I’ve been hungrier than I feel is fair for someone who works as many hours a week as I do.  I have freaked out.  I have calmed down.   I’ll freak out again.

I don’t know if I have a boyfriend.  I have something very close to that if we aren’t concerned with the proper, scientific terms.   I have someone in J. who cares, at least, who listens to me and shares things with me.  And who is into all the other stuff with me that needn’t be listed here.  That’s, yes, I have not fully broken with reality and invented one.  He lives and breathes.  Far away and I am, for the first time, actually sad about that.

This was a week where I found that out and also found out that I’d have to break someone else’s heart and my own.  A circumstance I have never had to deal with in my life emerged and the details of which matter deeply to me, but I do not care to share here as some sort of springboard to personal conversations I am not willing to have.  Suffice to say, years passed and there were no buses to board.  Suddenly, I get a clue and buy a ticket and they all stop at my feet, swing their gates open, and say they’re heading to very disparate places.  I can only get on one.  So I picked and that didn’t and doesn’t feel great…a life unlived that I can see unfolding just on the periphery of this one.  And it’s odd to sit and think, well, maybe I can have both.  Maybe this won’t work out and I can still have access to that other situation.

And that is depressing because life, I believe, does not work that way and…I don’t want it to work this way, because I have this whole other weird and intriguing and challenging and good path to follow.  It’s just a trade-off that I had no idea I was making.

There’s a lot more detail, I have documented it elsewhere for myself, but this has been a bit of a big one personally.

This was a week of hard conversations and good conversations and the “president” losing his mind, or if not losing it outright, giving it away to one of a cadre of dark overlords.   Work is driving me to antipathy.  No news on any jobs I’ve applied to.  I spoke with my cousin and that was mostly regarding politics, and my limited knowledge of online “culture” such as it is and eating hot dogs and pickled apples.

I need to call my mother.  I need a bath.  I need to charge my fitbit and get ready for an early morning.  I need things I cannot have.

 

 

 

 

Knowing What to Say

He likes to push.

But it’s never in a way that I have room to huff over.  Complain about.  I have no moral outrage allotted to me.  Never in a way that says, do this or I will take my ball and go home. It’s not a pressure.  Just: Oh, we should do this because you’re wonderful to me.

Which?  Is nice to hear, if you can get back that rolling sneer of self-doubt that hits you every twenty minutes on the hour.  If you’re overwhelmed already, it can feel almost cruel that someone is interested in what feels like so much more.

There is a universe of calamity falling around me, a world gone mad, and this, too, feels like something out of the Cheshire Cat’s boiled taffy mind.  Yet, I…

He wants what we are now: locked up in the computer, trapped in the phone…to be real.  To be video, to be meeting up.  To be fingers in hair, bodies intertwined.

For me, this feels extraordinarily real.  It’s been three weeks of excessively regular contact.  A few days of not talking as much, and then, renewed interest right away.  I have begun to miss him when I don’t hear from him, when I have to do some task that precludes responding to some comment, or listening to some new video.  For me, who has spent such time pining and mooning and imagining, the mental labor of conversing feels like it demands so much of me as it is.

I am like some schoolgirl who turns her life upside down because of the presence of a boy.

I still feel as though he could give me up tomorrow and I’d be fine.  Fine enough, mostly because I have refused to allow this to be fully real in my mind.  Not real in the way of Oh, I have to go to work tomorrow! or Oh, I have to put on pants! or Oh, that light is bright in my eyes.  Definitely not, Oh! There’s a guy who is angling to be my boyfriend and for all intents and purposes, pretty well is.  Instead, it’s like I have to tell him this.  Or, oh, I need to reply to him, or oh, let me hurry home so I can get comfortable and tell him things and reply to him.

But then we have conversations and things…come out of my mouth that I didn’t anticipate saying and he responds in ways that pull us out of our shells and toward each other and I have both nowhere to run and no panic, in those moments, about needing to.

But there are senses, awarenesses…we live very far away from one another.  I am as broke as I ever have been.  He’s trying to keep every penny pinched.  It’s not going to be any time soon if it happens.

The oddity of it all does not shift the perfectionism out of the way as much as I would want.  He is not the person I was expecting.  He is not the one I crafted and molded and facelessly shined to a lustre.  He is not the mannequin, the Harry Kennedy, the excessively handsome, wan, drawn, slightly-tattooed guy who was emotionally resolved about everything and just slyly grinned all the time in the corners of my mind.

It is hard for me to let go of these assumptions about the way a thing that would work…would work.  It’s hard to not determine a thing as broken or wrong because it’s not matching up with these youthful imaginations.  Even if, when he talks to me, I feel cared about and I can’t turn off the way that becomes volatile, how it conducts heat inside of me.  It just does.

So…someone should tell me something else.

Floating By

Tis my birthday.  Yay.  I am old, older, but not yet oldest.

Not yay: spent way too much money just trying to live today.

Applied for a job that is close, am not desperate to have, but at least broke the pattern: yay.

Had to spend way too long at the old one: not yay.

Was a bit vulnerable again with The Guy, who I think I have to start calling by his initial, J, because so much of this is about breaking through these layers and barriers and shields, the vagueness of a person.  He has a name.  He is real, if real far away.  Yay.

Had a panic attack (minor-ish) in the car.  Not yay.  Had my fitbit heart monitor on so I could see how fast it was racing.  Not yay, and did, in the short term, make it worse.  But informative so…yay?

Made my therapist appointment for a week from Friday.  Very, very YAY.

Going to try and do some actual writing tonight.  Yay again.