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unable to even

Gypsy Heart and Home

April 23, 2017

My lovers come into me. Opening doors where before I built walls. I am a shitty stone mason, everything I try to build crumbles so easily. Because I want to be conquered, I want them to come in. Because I use the same bricks and the same mortar over and over in different configurations and different locations because this is what I am and I can’t change that, but I can keep trying. Because I am not made of stone, I am much too soft, too yielding, too willing to be taken over. I want them build a fire and stay in the warmth with me.

But they don’t.

Sneaking in windows crawling into my heart and body like I am a bed that feels just right.
Not too hard, not too soft.
Eating my words with sugar and milk feeling, full and sated by the honey that pours off my tongue and into them.
Not cold, not hot, but warm and just right.

But then they get scared of the beasts that reside here and they run somewhere they feel safe, with some other girl who has golden locks and a sign that says ‘live love laugh’ over her bed. The one above mine says ‘open’ and I am. She doesn’t know how to live or love or laugh, but she’ll fake it and orgasms to make them feel better, more like conquering men than wounded boys that were too afraid of a challenge.

I feed them.

I lay with them.

But where do I sleep?

What do I eat?

When my body is home to them but I have nowhere to be.

Four empty walls without a roof.

Sleep evading as they thrash in the night or worse, trying to curl my body around the hole they left so I don’t fall in and get swallowed whole. I have fallen before and it is a long climb out.

Gypsy girl with shining, transient trinkets and house plants neglected because I slept over and over and over in broken beds that were never mine.

I carried home in my hips and keys in my purse but they were temporary. Locks can be changed. The way he looks at me has changed.

Everything changes.

I’m changing. Changeling. Condos, cottages on easements, things you can buy but you never really own.

I carry home with me in the bones of my hips, he feels forgiven if he can just get inside. So I let him in even when I don’t want to because I know what it feels like to be locked out of Eden.

I just want to be let back in the house.

‘Home at last’ turns to ‘hope it lasts’ in my ear depending on the day.

My welcome mat says ‘welcome back’ knowing they leave and they will eventually find their way back by my porchlight shining like moths to the moon. I don’t know where the moon is I forgot to look I was too busy looking at him, his face shining in the glow of his cellphone, hypnotized by everything that wasn’t me searching for other places to be other than here.

I have a toothbrush in my purse, a backpack in my car in case I get asked to stay or forced to leave. Doesn’t make a difference I know I can live just fine outside in my truck under a bridge. I think that is why I always favored trucks over cars, you can fit more, stretch out between bags and boxes in the back, carve out a tiny place to sleep with your back pressed against a box of photographs my mother gave me that I can’t leave behind. Childhood memories of the last of the houses I felt home in.

Once my apartment caught fire when I was sleeping and I didn’t want to get up and leave I just wanted to stay in bed for 5 more minutes thought the smoke alarm was a clock and I could negotiate my way into staying. My 12th house in my 20th year. It wasn’t mine but I had a key. I had a baby in my belly, where he called home for over 9 months and I kept him safe in there.

That is all I am, somewhere to stay safe while a fire rages before they go out into the world and assess the damages out there not minding what has been done to me and I am left to pick up the same clothes off the same floor staring at the hole in the door trying to figure out how to patch this one this time.

“Everyone’s chest
is a living room wall
with awkwardly placed photographs
hiding fist-shaped holes.”

Andrea Gibson

Time to burn it all to the ground and move again.

Gypsy girl in search of a home.

 

 

gypsy travels

Broken & Home

April 22, 2017

 

 

I want to go home,
But home is the mouth of a shark
Home is the barrel of the gun

And no one would leave home
Unless home chased you to the shore
Unless home tells you to
Leave what you could not behind,
Even if it was human.

No one leaves home until home
Is a damp voice in your ear saying

Leave, run now, I don’t know what
I’ve become.

Warsan Shire

I have long struggled with the idea of home.

I think now that it can’t be 4 walls. I have moved 42 times in 42 years. I just wrote it down, counted, I didn’t realize and I’m reeling from it.
We’re moving again, in July of my 43rd year, and I don’t know where I’ll end up. I never do.

The yellow brick farm house I was born into collapsed into rubble sometime in the last few years.
242 East Gier where all my love lived was sold unceremoniously. Houghton Lake cottage torn down and rebuilt into something big and airy and unrecognizable. Childhood wildling pond and gravel pit filled in and built upon, I hear the basements flood in the spring and this pleases me, the water has her revenge.
My lake remains. Sand castles are as close I have gotten. I want to go home.

I was raised in the mouth of a shark. He in the barrel of a gun.

‘Can’t have clutter’ he says, ‘I was always told we might have to move and to be ready’.

No wonder he can’t settle down. Gypsy kids.

(run)

Cold metal, triggers and explosions leaving holes.

Gnashing teeth and primordial instincts, no emotions.

Killing machines both of them.

What’s the difference between a shark bite and a bullet hole? Not much. If you live through it, there will be scars. Muscle memories of being torn apart or pulled under.

I bring my clutter with me, amass more, purge, collect and move again. I decorate and nest just to tear down and rebuild. I have a fear of perfection, I always have to leave one thing unfinished because if it’s done and beautiful that is when I have been forced to move, when the last nail has been driven into the wall to hang the last photograph, the final curtains, fitted perfectly and sewn just to be taken down and put in a box or a trunk until the next house.

Equal and opposite reactions to the same thing.

He was raised to believe home equaled prison. I was locked out of mine.

You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone…You feel like you can never get it back. It’s like you feel homesick for a place that doesn’t even exist. Maybe it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself…

(Garden State)

That point came early for the both of us. 15. Probably sooner if we dug deep enough.

I’m still creating.

I am proud of my ability to both settle down and move on.

But what if…

Relationships are different for me, I know how he feels.
“We’re moving soon, be ready.”
My shoes stay by the door, purse too. I always know where my keys are. My things are contained, don’t spread out, bring nothing you can’t leave behind. Accept there might be losses, realize they are just things. Breathe and wait for it.

It’s okay if you can’t love me back, I’m used to that. Not sure I would know what to do if you did. Love harder maybe, or try.

We are just two people who don’t know what home is.
No one showed us.
The sit-coms lied, movies too.

We have a solid foundation of epic sex, understanding. It might be enough.

I could pretend.

And I’ll use you as a focal point, so I don’t lose sight of what I want. Amber Run

He asked me to stay, he always asks. I make him, I need to know I am wanted there, in his house he built and bought. It’s his. So am I.

And I stay.

Why? Because the dent in his hand-me-down bed, in his sparsely decorated concrete box of a condo, reminds me of a nest. I feel safe there, warm. I never have to reach too far to know he’s there. I haven’t always liked sleeping next to past partners, but with him…if there was a tandem sleeping Olympic event we would win gold. Perfect form and synchronicity. Doesn’t matter what happened during the day, there I can rest, protected.

Feels like what I imagined home might be.

 

 

 

 

 

men

Don’t Run

April 21, 2017

Sometimes my fingers get so itchy longing for a keyboard.

My muses just love to sit with me in the car and babble sweet somethings in my ear.

Or, like this morning, they were chirping away like birds on a wire as I tidied the things I said I wouldn’t because I want him to come home to clean and peace.

I was thinking, repeatedly and for quite some time now, that I have no idea how to be in a relationship.

But maybe I do a little.

I will tell you right now however, that in the rulebook, if ever there was one written, one of the big bad “NO’s” would be if you are having trouble with your partner, do not, I repeat do NOT write a blog post about it and stick it up on the interwebz.

But I did that.

It’s interesting to me that, from time to time, I have left messages here hoping and praying that they would be read by certain someones. Things I was scared to say out loud but I wanted someone to know. They went unheeded, for the most part.

And then this.

This man who by his own admittance, is not a big reader, checks on here daily to see what is happening in my head. Because he wants to know.

And he read it.

And I got the inevitable text, the one that usually strikes terror in the hearts of most. “We have to talk.”

And I wasn’t afraid. I had already made peace with whatever came because it could only get better. Whether it was to get better together or apart was the only lingering question.

We had to talk. I had to talk and I had to be heard.

So we talked.

He did most of it, I had already said what I needed to say, left it here in black and white to be mulled over slowly. He said more words than he has spoken in a week. Secrets of his universe and inner workings tumbling out of his mouth like an avalanche, tearing down trees and changing the landscape.

It had to change.

After the dust settled everything became so much clearer.

I have been where he is and I know my way out.

Maybe I do know how to be in a relationship because all I have to do is the opposite of what has been done to me before now. Don’t run, don’t judge, hang on, hold fast, listen…really listen and instead of imagining the things about the other person that are different as flaws, recognize them as just a separate set of gifts.

Symbiosis is not a state of two identical things making it work, it’s is two separate, yet equal entities thriving off their differences.

I wish he could see (so I am writing this here) that he is a god among men for the simple reason that everything he is, everything he has, he has built on his own, without instruction, praise or examples to be led by.

He is a good man and a good partner because he decided to be those things. Built a house with no foundation, found himself without a map and makes me stronger by proxy.

 

Nothing is the same as it was before you got here Ria Mae

 

 

 

 

Boys

True Colors and Stubborn Love

April 20, 2017

Show me a smile then
Don’t be unhappy
Can’t remember when
I last saw you laughing
This world makes you crazy
And you’ve taken all you can bear
Just, call me up
‘Cause I will always be there

And I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that’s why I love you

~Cyndi Lauper

I was so scared of how I was appearing to him, my messy hippy tie dyed rainbow self that I failed to see his monochromatic repetitive shades of grey.

I am always there. I am going a little crazy, always been prone to bouts of insanity now and again.
I can bear a lot, which in itself, is my cross to bear.
The texts are less frequent now, phone calls? Rarely ever.
Love? I have no idea. He used to say it when he was drunk, but I think that ship has sailed away on a river run amber with hops and malt.

I can’t remember the last time we laughed.

We must have, maybe at the cat doing that weird thing with his tongue when we touched the side of his face. Ya, I think so.

90 days, three months until the honeymoon phase is over and you actually meet the person you are dating.

We made it to 85 if the movie ticket stubs in my wallet tell the truth, and they do.

I never wore a mask and I was just me and I thought he was just him and it was so refreshing like water after walking through the desert, the nothing. He was something alright.

I think so maybe…

Tori Amos once said ‘hold onto nothing as fast as you can, well, still, pretty good year.’

I named a stray cat I had Nothing. He was so tired from living on the street and so happy to be home he curled up in my lap and did nothing for 3 days. I got it from a book too. Poppy Z Brite a changeling vampire hybrid child “His name is Nothing, care for him and he will bring you luck.”

I cared for him.

I cried with the vet when we found old wounds with the BB pellets from some awful human still  in his leg, he’d gotten in a fight and was dying in my arms. She was a good vet, she believed me when I said I was getting paid on Thursday and took us even though it was a Tuesday. He lived. Stayed with me until the antibiotics were done and escaped out the same window he’d gone out 10 days before, presumably to fight with the same cat. Revenge more important than the girl who loved him. He stayed with me long enough to be well enough to leave. I couldn’t change him, I didn’t try.

Cats don’t lie, they love you for your body heat, attention and the food you give them, nothing more. Doesn’t change the fact that they’ll bolt the second you leave the door open. They can live without those things and they know it. Even the tamest housecat is still a half wild thing.

I love his body heat.

I love that he can’t lie.

But just like anything and everything it’s a double edged sword.

He isn’t excited about me anymore, he won’t lie about it. I am just body heat, attention and food that he doesn’t bother eating.

He is or was, a lot of talk and no action. “We’re gonna…” but we haven’t. He was at the same bar eating the same chicken wings drinking the same beer with the same people because he was afraid he was going to miss something. So we missed out on going away, going anywhere.

Now he is mostly face down in his phone. It lights up his face quite nicely. It used to be me that did that. I loved how he looked at me, like treasure.

The shine always comes off.

One.
You know how this ends. There’s nothing you can do to change it, so make peace with it now. Ready your hands for the callus, shred the cloth for bandages, prepare the rosaries.

Lessons on Loving a Prophet, Jeanann Verlee

He isn’t a prophet but the lesson is the same.

My hands are already calloused from endless games of tug-o-war trying to pull back from the edge.

I do know how this ends. I waited 7 long years for honeymoon husband to reappear and as far as I know he is still fucking multiple women, dirty, laying on the couch playing video games. That’s who he was the whole time.

She’ll lie and steal and cheat
And beg you from her knees
Make you thinks she means it this time
She’ll tear a hole in you, the one you can’t repair
But I still love her, I don’t really care

It’s better to feel pain, than nothing at all
The opposite of love’s indifference
So pay attention now
I’m standing on your porch screaming out
And I won’t leave until you come downstairs

(Lumineers, Stubborn Love)

Although my love is stubborn. I won’t lie, steal or cheat I’ll just leave.

If I get on my knees it won’t be to beg.

Consider this my attempt at standing on your porch screaming out, even though I know that will get me nothing but shushed. “I’m scared you are going to come across the street and cause a scene.”

I haven’t been that girl in a good long while.

But for now I will hold onto nothing as fast as I can.

Hope that he goes back to looking at me the way he did before.

He used to think I’d leave if he seemed weak, if he cared too much. No worries there, I thought it was wonderful and I miss it more than I can say in 999 words or less.

The sex is still prolific perfection, so there’s that then.

Still, pretty good year.

And it ain’t over yet.

regular lust

50 Ways to Stay with your Lover

April 18, 2017

 

We aren’t. Wish granted.

Ta da

Abracadabra.

How bow dat?

The gods always smile on brave women.
Granted sometimes they are smiling because they can’t control their laughter when we forget ourselves and we turn into shadows of what we are and become nagging, bitchy things with teeth and claws and tears.

And then my period stops and ya, sorry bout dat.

Consider my shit together.

Everything is as it should be, as it always is. (Dalai Lama)

I lived without him before he showed up, I can do it again.

But the more I push, the sooner that is going to happen. So no more pushing.

Easy peasy. Like Sunday morning with or without pancakes.

No more clinging onto shit that doesn’t matter either.

Granted there was a rough patch, akin to a quick bend in the river, a drop in elevation creating rapids roiling and rolling, but that was then.

Back to our regularly scheduled ebb and flow, I got caught up on some rocks for a bit.

I am back in the water, here I float, unencumbered.

God I need to get back in the water. Willing the summer to get here quicker is futile, it will come when it comes and it is my job to make sure it is thoroughly enjoyed and glorious.

I keep forgetting what my job is.

Currently I am juggling two paying jobs, writing, being a mother, a girlfriend and whatever version of myself I feel like being today.

I am all of those things.

I decided this.

I decided on him, he decided on me.

The only thing making things complicated was an unconscious decision I made to make it so.

I forgot for a week or two that I am my own Captain Jean Luc Picard, this is my starship. I get to decide how this goes.

I walked into this first actual relationship in 4 years adamantly deciding that I wasn’t going to lose myself this time.

But I found myself slipping.
Spending time in places I don’t belong with people I don’t know.
Time I could have been writing, napping, working, with my girls.
Or just being home alone.

That familiar tearing feeling of being pulled in too many directions which makes me balk and want to hide.

I wanted to be with him, he’s awesome. The sex is prolific perfection. He is funny and strange and above all sweet to me.

I was saying one thing, thinking something completely different and doing the polar opposite of both.

Never ending search for the fulcrum.

The secret is all inside your head she said to me, the answer is easy if you take it logically.
Paul Simon 50 Ways to Leave your Lover.

I am not leaving my lover. Quite like him actually.

The answer is logical though. ‘No’ is a complete sentence. So is ‘Okay Baby’. Just gotta find that balance.

There is nothing wrong with him going to the bar and me being home asleep. He’s away right now and sooooo happy. So am I, both for him and for the time spent alone. I was so desperate for me time that I was spending my tiny allotments in unproductive ways. Overthinking being one of them.

We’re good together and we are good apart.

I wouldn’t stand for him demanding I go out, so why should he tolerate me demanding he stay home.

He shouldn’t.

Doesn’t work that way.

But somehow we work.

 

 

men

Goose and Gander

April 14, 2017

I sat upon the balcony yesterday, early evening watching the sky change colors.

Sitting, smoking, waiting.

Just enjoying the warm and the quiet, well almost quiet. Indie playlist on Spotify coming through the screen door. Squirrels arguing over pinecones, woodpecker knocking his face against a tree, grackles cackling and kids playing at the playground.

Couldn’t tell you exactly what I was thinking about, possibly nothing, but unlikely. I am always contemplating something. It’s just my way.

I adulted ultra-super-mega hard all day and needed a brief moment of respite so I took it.

Something caught my eye and I looked up from my phone. A blue jay, glancing over his wing at me, caught my eye and stared at me, as if to say ‘focus girl’. So I focused. I thought I knew what his particular winged portent meant. And I did. “Speak your mind”.
This is the omen blue jays bring. Speak up speak out clear your throat and just say it.

A few hours later I did.

And it was unpleasant.

In the moment I believed I was right.

Adamantly so.

Blue jay shoulda told me to pick my battles. This was nothing but a small skirmish, not a war.

But I suited up and to war I went.

Much ado about nothing but I didn’t see it that way. I was blinded by prior events.

I hate having tantrums, my stomach ties itself into knots, my eyes sting and my throat burns.

But a tantrum I had. Missed the foot stomping part. Sat on the top step and begged instead. Equally as gross.

I lost the fight, if you could even call it that.

I didn’t get my way.

Revelations chapter one.

Why should I?

He said very plainly “You’re and introvert and I’m an extrovert, I want to go out.”

In the din of my internal struggle against panic and worry, I didn’t hear him right away.

I was left alone to gather my thoughts. I get left a lot. It struck a chord in me and not a good one, like a guitar out of tune with a reverb pedal. But eventually the noise faded and my thoughts became clear.

Alone.

Alone I like.

I’ve been craving it, stealing moments when I can. Being late for things just so I can spend a few more minutes with myself. Getting up at 6 am so I can sit on the very same balcony where the blue jay paid me a visit and just have some solitude before I head back into the world.

Herein lay the epiphany that presented itself rather gently as I laid in the bed, my body held comfortably by the divot we’ve made.

I like being alone.

He doesn’t.

What is good for the goose isn’t always what is good for the gander.

And that’s okay.

I sent a text saying “I was wrong” and promptly and peacefully fell asleep.

He made good on his promise and came home on time. No harm, no foul.

Kissing me and tucking himself into me and the aforementioned divot.

I’ve never been one to mind being woken up, especially that way. I rarely have trouble falling asleep or getting back to it.

All of my no’s from earlier were been replaced with ‘okay baby’.

My natural state of being.

I smiled in my half sleep.

There was no conflict other than what existed in me.

He walked away exactly long enough for me to figure things out on my own and then did something entirely foreign to me.

He came back.

And I let it go.

lost boys

Erasing My Fault Lines

April 11, 2017

Um, all of them Rob
ALL. OF. THEM.

GEMINI (May 21-June 20):
Now is an excellent time to FREE YOUR MEMORIES. What comes to mind when I suggest that? Here are my thoughts on the subject. To FREE YOUR MEMORIES, you could change the way you talk and feel about your past. Re-examine your assumptions about your old stories, and dream up fresh interpretations to explain how and why they happened. Here’s another way to FREE YOUR MEMORIES: If you’re holding on to an insult someone hurled at you once upon a time, let it go. In fact, declare a general amnesty for everyone who ever did you wrong. By the way, the coming weeks will also be a favorable phase to FREE YOURSELF OF MEMORIES that hold you back. Are there any tales you tell yourself about the past that undermine your dreams about the future? Stop telling yourself those tales.

https://www.facebook.com/Rob-Brezsnys-Free-Will-Astrology-133041234078/

 

 

But that is what I do. Isn’t it? Post-game analysis, see where I went wrong…

I was wrong…right?

Rob says stop, so stop I must.

This is the end, my only friend the end. The Doors

I haven’t been that emotionally down in a long time.

How about ‘every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end’ (Semi Sonic)

That works.

I never write about endings on here, or very rarely I guess.
Sometimes it’s because…’and then he never called me again and I have no idea why’ doesn’t really make for a gripping story.
Sometimes it’s because things just faded into a friendship, or with the ones wherein I had the revelation that I was 7 of 9 and not ‘his girl’ like they had promised.

Why would I want to archive that? I pick up the pieces and move on, sometimes slowly… then all at once.

I’ve been left and I have been hurt and I refuse to visit pain on others.

I am rarely the one to leave. End of story.

In the interest of clean breaks and tidy endings…

On a long enough timeline the truth always comes out. Still waiting on a couple but I know they’ll come.

My first foray into dating ended after 3 months of happy when I asked if we could be boyfriend/girlfriend, him saying he ‘wasn’t ready for a relationship’ and me waking from a midsummer night’s dream with a very loud voice echoing in my ear stating “her name is Kayla and she has cotton candy hair.”

It was actually K___ and her hair has been baby blue, baby pink and lilac respectively in the months and years that have passed since then.

18 months later, when she was mean to him, I consoled him. Not like that, just said nice things.

The next one fell into a deep chasm of depression and had to move away atop a mountain.
No great mystery there.
He is as happy on his side of the country as I am on mine.

There was a patented Fuckboi in there, again nothing to be solved, he just was what he was. Well, is what he is. He still pops into my inboxes from time to time. I say hello and deliberately leave it up to him to plan something, knowing he won’t. He never calls back until the amnesia wears off again and he wonders what I am doing or runs out of other girls to fuck. He has abandonment issues the reasons for and the likes of which I have never seen so I refuse to be cruel. Ain’t waiting around neither.

Thai Fighter was engaged the whole time.

Black 19 was incarcerated, again.

The mystery of Lumberjack may well remain unsolved. He blocked me from everything ever and it’s not like I ever saw him. The only thing I was good at was living without him, so that’s a freebie.

Gelfling…well that is a whole other tale along the riverbank. I met his new girl recently and everything suddenly made sense, twice actually, once for him and once for another. A two-fer if you will. A perfect balance of me being too much and them feeling not enough. Can’t be helped I supposed. I refuse to shed my muchyness and they have yet to grow up. The hazards of young un’s I suppose. No great loss in retrospect. Like setting down the Holy Grail and deciding on a sippy cup instead. Better call not-Becky with the red hair.

There is a footnote here.

I am hard to explain to people. I am older and strange. By vocation I am a writer of truths and porn, plus the stripper thing. I am not not-Becky, red headed or otherwise.

To be with me, to claim me in public you have to be pretty brave. You have to give fewer fucks than most about what other people think.

Am I worth it?

I think so.

Nevertheless she persisted.

I cook, I clean, I fuck and I love. I clean up nice and can carry a conversation.

I don’t bitch, steal or lie.

I am already way ahead of most.

I know this now.

Took me a while.

I was mired down in the idea that I had to take some responsibility. But it isn’t mine. I did my part. I showed up and I cared. I contributed to their happiness and well-being. I asked for very little in return.

I’ve long held the belief that I as the common denominator must be part of the problem, even if it was so basic as ‘I felt bad about myself and thereby made bad decisions’. At least I made a god damned decision.

That scene in Good Will Hunting at the end. Robin Williams looks through Matt Damon’s file, sees the abuse and says “It’s not your fault” until Matt Damon breaks down and sobs from his core.

It’s not my fault, these things that have been done to me. It’s truly not on me that they left. I did what I was supposed to, I came all the way forward and stayed.

It’s not my fault at all.

Uncategorized

2 Alberts, some Angry Gods and Britney bitch

April 8, 2017

Sat at a franchise wing place playing that TV bar trivia thing, and we had 15 questions straight on Greek mythology.

I think I got 12. Missed one about Pegasus.

I got Echo and Narcissus right. She faded away because she loved him too much and nothing was left of her but her voice. I know how she feels.

I know the 12 Herculean tasks. Completed a few.

Sometimes I forget who gets his liver eaten daily by vultures and who has the rolling rock.

I got that one right. Prometheus and Sisyphus respectfully.

One must imagine Sisyphus happy. Albert Camus

Oh Albert, all due respect, NO HE FUCKING ISN’T.

I should know. Neither am I.

I just looked up why Sisyphus was punished. He was a fucking asshole. Killed a lot of people, chained Hades so no one could die, stole a river nymph and tricked Persephone into a pardon. He was a fucking douche bag of a king and husband.

Even at my worst.

No not even at my worst.

My Gods are the old ones. I have said this before. The ones that displayed human emotions joy, pain, revenge.

What did I do? Why have you forsaken me?

Not even at my worst.

Yet Like Sisyphus I am bound to hell. (Sad Cat Diaries)

I was bawling all the way home.

I will bawl again before this is over. Wait for it…there it is.

In my habit of doing things over and over even when they make me cry, my new ear worm is Kaleo All the Pretty Girls. It’s on repeat. It’s not getting easier, especially the end…

I’ll wait, I’ll wait, I’ll wait for you. Over and over and over.

Not funny, none of this is funny.

But for now, a little dark humor.

What do Camus, Einstein and Britney Spears have in common.

Me at the moment.

Einstein said Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

Part of the crying is me realizing I might be kinda insane. No matter what I try it turns out the same. And yet tenacious me keeps trying.

Camus is asking me to decide if I am content with picking different rocks that all have the same roll.

Half the time I barely get them started up the hill lately before they roll away on me.

Bullets/boulders dodged perhaps?

I am not happy.

So, how do I get out of this loop?

Persephone pardoned Sisyphus. But she herself was bound to hell through the winter. Sounds familiar too. Can we imagine her happy? I think so. Prolonged summer days made all the sweeter by months locked away. She is both the patron god of spring and all things pretty and the queen of hell. If the goddess slipper fits, don’t mind if I do.

Speaking of hell…

Went to buy a used car alone. Mercury/Hermes/Daddy has already entered shadow phase, but I love my job and wanna keep it so. Herculean task unavoidable and accomplished. Got turned down for credit, the name on my credit score is that of my first ex common law husband. Beattie. The fuck you say?

Hit me baby one more time.

He was a drunk. And not a fun one.

He did hit me, I left after the one more time.

So that’s Britney out the way.

Which begs the question what of my old ones? The men I dated in the time called before. They were not godlike at all. And to be completely honest I wouldn’t spare a drop of piss if I found any of them on fire. I don’t feel bad about, I am sure they feel the same.

I didn’t love them. I didn’t know how.

Maybe that’s my sin. Thinking I know anything about love.

I am getting better, or I thought I was. Do the insane have bouts of lucidity where they realize they’re nuts or is it just one long boat ride along the river of Denial…hmmm.

“The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.” Again Albert I gotta disagree here.

My heart hurts and this is becoming its natural state of being.
How long can a bruised thing last before it rots?

Maybe I am Ariadne alone on an island waiting on Dionysus.

Sail on by, sail on by for now
They play naked in the water
You know it’s hard, heaven knows I’ve tried
But it just keeps getting harder.

Summer is so close I can almost taste it, the sun will hang in the sky like a golden apple and I’ll play naked in the water and pretend winter isn’t coming.

Uncategorized

Rising and Falling

April 8, 2017

“You have seen my decent now watch me rise”.

No, fuck you. Where were you when I was falling fucker?

You saw me tripping and you just let me fall?  What the fuck is wrong with you?

No I couldn’t catch myself…my hands were full catching him and him and her and that guy over there and oh ya the dog and I was driving with the other hand and moving something heavy.

Fuck.

I am not a juggler. I am just a girl.

You don’t get to watch me rise. Get off my Instagram, don’t read my blog, Facebook is on lockdown.

I revoke my invitation.

No sanctuary for you. I cannot. There is no room at the inn.

 

 

I wrote that a long time ago. 363 days ago to be exact. Can’t remember why nor about whom. I don’t care to.

Past has passed.

No one is coming to save me.

The opening sequence for Florence and the Machine’s video for What Kind of Man reminded me.

Him: I heard you talking in your sleep last night.

Her: What were you doing?

Him: I was watching you, you seemed sad

Her: Why didn’t you wake me up?

Him: I didn’t want to intervene, you seemed like you were suffering somewhere else and I didn’t think it was my place to drag you out of it so I just let you be

Her: So you just let me suffer?

Seriously, what kind of man loves like this?

I’ve had more than my share of them, no more.

There is a term for those people, “fair-weather friends/lovers”. Only want to be around when conditions are favorable. I have systematically eradicated them from my life, the leeches too. I was musing yesterday that if I had back all the money I had spent rescuing other people I could easily put half down on a condo. Maybe more.

I lived for a long time with little to no self-preservation.

I preserved others for sure, I was a human life-preserver, if you were drowning I’d come get you and keep you afloat.

I don’t regret it per say, but the hurt from being used and turned away when I was in need would be overwhelming if I chose to dwell on it.

So I don’t.

I’ll be waving my hands
Watching you drown
Watching you scream

Clumsy, Our Lady Peace

The times I drowned alone with others just watching from the shore were equally painful.

There are 2 prevalent attitudes…
1- Those who have suffered and think because they did, others should as well.
“I didn’t have it easy, why should you.”
2- Those who have suffered and will do anything in their power to make sure others do not.
“I didn’t have it easy, let me help you.”

Guess which one I am.

The amount of money I earned and never saw a penny of at the farm was a lot, the amount of mortgage I paid out for a house I was constantly cast out of was beyond ludicrous.

Today marks the 5th anniversary of me having to pay out $1500 to my ex to get my dog back, I paid $700 for her in the first place even though she was supposed to be a birthday gift. Ex hubby had a penchant for ‘what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is mine’. And ‘forgetting’ when I handed over my paycheques.

But enough about him.

Alice is snoring on the chaise lounge right by the heater in my cute, clean apartment. I have a nice life that I built on my own from old lessons and sheer tenacity.

I am surrounded by friends who ebb and flow with me. Picking each other up out of harm’s way or whatever messes we find ourselves in and gently setting each other down. Rising and falling like the tides, mostly floating. And so it goes.

No one can take these things from me.

Same goes with my semblance of self.

The things I have become.

I am incredibly self-aware. I know exactly what I am doing 99% of the time and I know why.

I also know my shortcomings and I work to tame them, lest they have a negative impact on others. I know I am prone to being late so I set several alarms and all clocks are set to slightly different times so I never know exactly what time it is. It’s kind of fun to time travel between the kitchen and the porch.

And I am still late sometimes.

I still falter and fall too. There are things I cannot control, I have a handle on my emotions most of the time, but on occasion they hit like tsunamis and all I can do is grab onto something and hope.

Or this

‘My mouth is a fire escape. The words coming out don’t care that they are naked. There is something burning in there.‘
Andrea Gibson

Fires and floods, acts of god and mama nature.

I am what I am and a massive part of that is authentic. I allow myself to feel what I am feeling, I let it come and confront it as is.
I don’t hide or seek outside help or validation.

I spent 40 something years trying to love myself… I don’t have that kind of time to convince someone else. (Unknown)

 

men

Mountains, Monsters and Men

April 6, 2017

I wanted to write something.

I had it in my head and it was a good idea but…

I am on day one of flipping my schedule from days back to nights and I was up, bleary eyed at 6 this morning.

Logical me wanted to go back to bed.

Smitten kitten me wanted 5 more minutes with Mister.

I saw a thing once or a million times, in movies or on TV where the man cups his hand around the back of a girls neck, with his fingers lightly tangled in her hair and he pulls her ever so gently towards him and kisses her forehead.

Ya, that happened this morning.

I floated home.

Felt as good as it looked and seemed to me it would.

It’s funny, after everything…there are still new things that haven’t happened yet.

It’s the little things.

Always the little things for me.

Big romantic gestures make me squirm. Flowers, although lovely, end up dying. Gifts are just things, words are just words but a kiss on the forehead can feel like the whole world, when the whole world is still dark and he climbs back in bed for one more minute with me.

He pulls choice phrases and words from old posts on here.

One of them claimed that I had ‘copious amounts of sex’.

I thought I did.

Seemed like a lot at the time…but anything compared to nothing is something.

He is something else.

Copious has found new meaning.

Many things have found new meaning.

I wrote once that the only trouble with making something out of nothing is when the nothing starts to show through.

I had a whole lotta nothin’.

I used to make mountains out of molehills and monsters out of men.

“I only date beasts” I said.
“Tell the wolves I am home” I cried.
“Fairy tales and parables about monsters” I wrote.

But what kind of creatures aren’t brave enough to stick around?

Beasts, wolves and monsters don’t run. Well they do, when a hero shows up with a magic sword. And that is exactly what happened here.

These boys I made out to be something they weren’t, weren’t nothing per say…but they weren’t what I made them out to be.

Little did I know that eventually even the heaviest gilding fades, the nothing would show through.

Me and Jon Snow, still don’t know nothing.

Except now I have an inkling.

It was like when Buffalo Bill has Catherin Martell down the well, she’s snagged Precious in the fucking basket and says “I think she broke her leg on the way down…I think she’s in a lot of pain mister.” And he yells back “you don’t know what pain is.”

I used to know exactly what pain was. I also knew a hit could feel like a kiss when the body is starved for attention. (Unknown)

I used to starve.

I was Catherine Martell, living on scraps, down in a hole, in a madman’s basement just trying to find a way out. Rubbing the lotion on my skin when told to do so. Attempting to communicate and negotiate with varying someone’s who mocked my pain and dehumanized me to justify what they were doing.

Now I am out.

Been out for a while now.

But like most prisoners, I kept reoffending so I could go back to the “comfort” of what I knew. Yep, you guessed it…nothing. Or very little at least. Another word for a hole in a crazy man’s basement is oubliette, somewhere you put things you want to forget.

And there I sat, remembering them.

I suppose it makes sense, all I had for company was memories. Little moments and snippets of happiness stitched into a quilt to keep me warm.

Now the quilt is threadbare, slowly becoming the nothing it was made from. Pretty soon just my own indestructible, red thread will be all that’s left. As it should be.

It was a security blanket and I don’t need it anymore. I have a good man to keep me warm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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