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Aug. 16th, 2016

08:39 pm - Onward

I have begun to see mortality apply to me.
Did something stupid and had a week-long meditation about how the fuck I'm going to live what remains of my life.

Is that a call to change?
I hope so.
It is so hard to stand by and watch myself be less. Be shut down. Be scared and drawn away.
But it is so easy. Practice ruts instead of flying.

There you go, Bean.
I put that darker part of the thought here like I used to.
I have the desire to sing and soar.
I want to push past the muck of indecision and foggy forgetfulness.

I miss LJ.
I miss running.
I miss kissing.

Jan. 16th, 2016

02:54 am - Divide

In the era of American politics, this would all make sense.
But here, now, it's strange.

He would say, turn and face it.

Him, David Bowie.
Who we lost this week and some of us knew immediately that we had, indeed, lost.
Age may play a role in understanding it, but it seems many groups in time had their own Bowie.

I remember meeting MaryJ excited about Labyrinth and excited to share.
That was so long a distance from his re-invention that I loved.
Not my time, but so carefully close to me.
The best friend I needed, where some other brand of freak is what I had.

Don't get me wrong. (John, I'm only dancing.)
In a time when I needed to be understood, my best friend said "I think you're gay."
At the time, gay was an epithet.
And worse yet, it wasn't accurate.
I had crushes on worthy yet unattainable boys.
It's just that I didn't feel lines where others thought there were oceans.

I knew who this David Bowie guy was. I had seen a weird little movie where he was an alien, beautiful but strange. I liked it, but I was uncritical of movies and their distance. I am still uncomfortable about music and how it gets in deep in a way that visual never could.

So, yes, when this man sang about being deeply misunderstood by even people who loved him.
John, I'm only dancing. She turns me on.
Before I'd even had a chance to run amok into blossoming, here he was saying...ok.

Whatever freak you are, it's ok to be alive.

I had some point about feeling understood earlier discovering that an introvert girl I like was as devastated by loss this week as many of my tribe were surprised to be.

Not that this was surprising.
In that other, insanely busy world of Facebook, I saw my whole wall go to wailing his loss.

That morning, I had grabbed my phone and crawled back into bed with a plan to read banal sweet easy news for a few minutes and make an early morning. But instead: cried and had to fake a whole day of my life because the news of his passing made me feel such an intense and personal loss that zombie was the only option. A pretend human going about in non-alien garb.

This is how we not-cry. This is how we pretend normal.

Yes, so.
I found my tribe this week, another gift from him besides another album that I can't find the strength to listen to yet.

Here, in all these places in this bit of life that lives online, are all these people that I wished for long ago. One twilight when I felt so alone and I picked up a phone and pushed some numbers in, hoping I sounded normal in a human chat-conversation. That freak became friend for awhile but I don't think she knew what lifeline she was then.

A homing beacon of warm light for a space alien who isn't sure they landed yet.

I hope he is angel enough to have been granted wings to see who he saved.

So, here-now, mortal-for-sure now, I reminisce for all those moments of strangeness.
I am pining a bit for feeling half-measured understood.
A lone freak amidst freaks of different stripes.
It's so easy now to find your exact pattern.
Then, we just found punk clubs and pretended we were all seeing the same.
It broke down too often but even then fighting was part of the fun.

I'm ready to call it a night.
On the end of a birthday celebration of a January friend.
I drove her home thinking of another one who fills that space too.
A normaller freak than me, and measuring herself by measures I don't quite get.

But here we are, in this time, finding sadness and the same shore of lost.
And I look across a great expanse of age and circumstance.
And wonder:
what if we could measure ourselves together across this divide of tiny distinction.

Oct. 22nd, 2015

01:55 am - fandamtastic

So. Uh. All the things.
I didn't admit to the world that I have a new job. It's good but to the wider world I have not admitted that I have begun lying under a rock. Yes, lying not laying. Fuck grammar. Being very still to catatonic. But also, being lifeless to the point of inauthentically human. Occasionally, I would get up and dance like life was in me. Pretend.

But. As soon as the world says: worthy.
I am.

Currently, in this moment, I am drunk.
Delivered safely, sweatily, drunkenly home.
The work world involved in the second week a polite going out with all the people.
Drinking and to a cover 80s band.

Freak.
I had forgotten I was one.

I guess they might know me now.
I had my hair all straightened and normal-seeming but I guess now that a dozen-odd people saw me commanding random strangers: Hop! to songs we all know...

I guess curly, messy hair won't be all that big a thing.

Jun. 12th, 2015

11:26 pm - Funny

I'm trying to write on Facebook and it just isn't working.

I think "this is more of an LJ conversation" and then it occurs to me to really come here.

But I haven't been keeping up my share of the conversation.

I have watched Pride and Prejudice on loop for several days straight.
Because I miss my friends.
My real ones but some of those are "TV" and "words."

Anyway, HI.
And now I think I'll go binge Netflix.

Dec. 13th, 2014

12:58 am - Santaland diaries

On the eve of Christmas parties and impending doom of no-longer-employed:
It suddenly matters to me that we carry on this Santa tradition.

This benevolent meeting of friends and strangers under a thin guise of respectable shenanigans.

No, computer, do not stop me with your modern ways of being uselessly useful and stupid.
I want to meet face to face, and ken this misunderstanding of being not in the same place.

I want to be further out, out away, untethered, free to write it all down.


I say this now, when my head is untethered by drink.
Unmoved by expectation in that all those that I care of judged are likewise cast adrift.

I need you know, fellow travelers.
I have been sitting cooped up in a room with likewise stilted movers.
We are all knocked against life, now making new plans.


What comes next?
Will we drink sometime in Istanbul and much later talk of petty squabbles cast loosely into wispy jewelry worn by wiser women. "This is a trinket of then, but let us turn to talk of now."

I just learned of the damage that a futured language can do. I am not now as I was and as I've ever been. How could I not judge my future self poorly against what was, had been, ever will be?

She is/has been/ever was/will not ever measure up.

Tags:

Nov. 18th, 2014

09:15 pm - song of gratitude

Raw, unedited.

It's been so long since I've written here.
It has come, this darkening hour of sadness. This reflection of last year this time, when I lost my mom.
This mother who I had spoken so little of in my life.
Who, here, I recounted the loss-ness of our daily lives.

I never had her to lose her but I am still so sad.

Anyway.

That's clearly what I came here to say but I logged on to sing a song of gratitude.

For the cranky and cantankerous ladies in my life.
Many don't know it, but they make me safe in a way that I have never known.

If this place were what it was, I would magically tag them so each would know that I thought of them this way.

Sorry, gents. Only one or two would pass this muster.
And each of you is married and still, always, and stupidly: we have these rules.

Not that I misunderstand.
I often have the not-quite-warmest feeling about people I like that I would eat them up if I could.
Just devour their essence, and absorb their stories from the whole-cloth, first-person view.

I spelled essence right but did feel compelled to look it up.
In case anyone is listening and needed to know that I was not, but still aspired to, perfect.

Feb. 20th, 2014

10:28 pm - hard one

My mother died in December, the day before Christmas.
I came here for the first time in ages just to say that.

I took a tour around LJ and remembered why I left, once it was mostly interesting strangers and communities of pretty things.
Looking at my user list for people still around, I remembered the warm circle of interesting that used to be gathered.

Then I read my own journal, mostly abandoned.
One of the "recent" entries was about the first shoe falling of having to deal with her hoarding.
We cleaned her house so she could move.
And then, fairly on schedule for my little time-fluxed mind, she died.
It's been two months since, almost.
And just about that between her going to the hospital and being gone.

I had a dream in the first few days.
In it, I was typing typing typing.

I had read in some reddit-soaked hour people opining on whether you could read in dreams.
I remembered that as I wakened and read my dream poem.
It was a mind on automatic, throwing words down. About the raw despair, about the shock.
About the shadow of her life on mine.

I kept a few lines in mind but it all seems to be gone now.
There have been so many cries since then.
I had really, foolishly thought that because I had hardened my heart against her that I would not be heartbroken and hurt upon her death.

I lost her so long before that.
Lost so many years and so much of her.

A kind acquaintance said something nice about the obituary.
She does sound great on paper. So smart and good, such a maverick.
The friend lost her sister last year, so she knew the shock of suddenly summed-up meaning.

I have the Olympics playing on my mother's TV that now lives in my house.
A girl in red just fell down.
She looks disappointed. They are saying as she skates off the ice: she is processing.

Okay, now I have written that down.
I have spoken up and written down.

Another small return.

Processing.

Mar. 2nd, 2013

12:02 am - unexpuragated

Indolence and insolence. Two things I am generally trying to live without.
I have come here to write a while, unedited. To spit some words out on a page.

About priests and things, the odd world where I want to write a biography of gay popes and guilt.
And read of my friends and their sick ways spread in to print.

I am almost liking the weary world of work but find I miss the connection with the mayhem.
I may have given up the ghost of caring.
It jumped alive in me at six am and it was a strange unwelcome thing.
I rose reluctantly and went into a day filled with words and tears and daffodils.

There is so much beauty if only I would stop looking at anything else but see it.
There it goes, on a whiff of smoke.

And I settle back into doing some strange role that I feel so fake in.
Til red wine or better more occasional, the simple flash of laughter burst above into real.

Am I chained more by job or by outlook?
Can I dare to dream about a change of either?

Dec. 31st, 2012

01:15 am - onward

Wow. It has been so long since I posted that my computer has no idea what shortcut I mean.
Eh, that place I used to pour out thought and emotion with an expectation of audience.

Several people have mentioned that they miss it here.
I have to agree. One of the best things about the best time of my life has to be feeling connected to people I saw all the time on a level deeper than small talk. Because man do I suck at being outside myself.

In fact, as I sit here, hours alone and admitting at long last that I like it this way,
I have to say that I'm terrible with keeping people.

Which is really too bad because I've been so fortunate in gaining them.
The homing beacon to real and beautiful functions well.

It seems right that I would spend the almost-last night of the year alone, wandering around my house reminding myself that it is beautiful. I get so caught up in what I don't have that I don't stop and pay attention to what I do have. Until late and a special occasion and a bottle of wine.

Whee.
Wee.

Resolution: I am back to LJ at least sometimes. Maybe for poetry.
And I will have events at my house, my beautiful domicile, and I will invite people,
even just a few of the beautiful friends I am lucky to have.

Even if the next year brings less in worth and wealth, let it bring more in appreciation and gratitude. And showing up with fingers to keyboard, words into the world.

Aug. 3rd, 2012

02:04 pm - pomodoro needed

It's too bad I don't LJ that often. I keep noticing that the "yes" icon of Dr. Horrible fits my mood perfectly every time I wander in.

Took a break from packing to capture an idea for a poem.
A pretty imperfect version and some haphazard rhymes and a skeleton of theme.

I am getting ready to move.
Always with me is that fear of sadness over passing time.
I will no longer be here but am not yet there so my mind gets all liminal loopy.

I had Lou Reed's Perfect Day stuck in my head every morning for days.
Nothing in my life even approaches the need for that earworm.
(A mashup of Cee Lo's Fuck You and My Girl finally killed it.)

Packing so slowly. I think I'm going to have to resort to all day coffee.
The new place is so amazingly opposite to the palace.
White, cool, airy, full of light. Potential for Zen?
I consider all my pretty things that I don't appreciate enough but still have.

Hard to keep up the urge to streamline.
All my things have strings holding them to memory.

I can feel a potential filling up ahead. Break into new habits.
Noticing alive. Excited.

OK, now pack.

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