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Scary. New experience, wanting to wither and hide, run from the structure…before it falls down. Yesterday I was in the desert. Now I’m back in the swamp called home. Thoughts have free reign, the boss is on his own head game. And nothing ever remains the same. On two skis in the water I rode free; now I am back in this cube, tied up in neckwear. Wondering why…?
Now I’m worried about the damn word count. The structure falling on me as people at unseen computer screens laugh at my freakish pain. Just wait. I’ll show you something.
Crashing. Post-vacation blues. Back to the desk, back to the necktie. Too fragile to expose myself, maybe next month? Last night was all gossip, which I despise, unless I’m on a rant. My guts are aching and my mind is shot. Hedwig sings me into action. Want to do what she did. Create my own game… hope it’s not too late.
Sex rears its head again. Pulling me downward spiral. The antidepressant seems nonexistent. I was never in love with my mother. Not enough. Bro says return to the Lake next year, but unless I ski again before then…no point.
Friday. The night is almost over. I'm sitting in front of my mixer and turntables. Remembering the thought that passed through my tired head earlier today as I walked from work to the big music store for one of those free concerts that never happened. 'It's not the songs themselves, but the feelings they invoke.'
And yet the two can never be separated. Not by me or you. Like a child learning about the world, that is what listening to music is... Back in college I never had much use for phenomenology. Now I can hardly remember what it replaced.
Insomnia. Rollerbladed in the park. The Bethesda Fountain angel always looks darker than I pictured. Nervous about the gig. Bringing turntables on a boat is risky, but some great tracks on vinyl. Otherwise, things are better. Exercise helps. So does Advil for the resulting soreness. Wonder what I would be doing right now were I someone else entirely. To become a different person is one of many attractions to acting, DJ-ing.
I miss my father. John says the full moon heightens emotions. Nothing about the city reminds me of connecting with Nature. I love and hate it for this reason.
Back to work. The boat party was a success, but the crowd was on the top deck, leaving me spinning for a sparse dancefloor. Whole worlds shifted this weekend. Watched Gone With the Wind. What a study of dysfunctional family dynamics! Who knew that the author was such an expert on psychology, personality disorders, even alcoholism and codependency. My mother being a therapist has obviously colored my perspective, and my vocabulary. Thanks mom!
I dreamt she was cooking something, but was on a diet. Self-starvation, deprivation…I’m worried I’ve missed the Day 5 cutoff; we’ll see if this even gets posted.
My performance evaluation is supposed to happen today. Anxious is an understatement, but I keep it all tucked away in the folds of my cool exterior shell defenses wall fortress. All an act! This morning should have found me sleeping in, next to my hubbie, with some electrical short disabling our alarm clocks. We have separate alarm clocks and covers--my doing. Some adult must have done a number on me when I was sleeping. I ball up into a fetal cocoon of blankets even in summer. Of course then I insist that we blast the AC. Life in suburbia.
I am afraid of sitting with myself, I mean alone with my thoughts as I am now, sitting on a park bench watching anchored yachts undulate slowly to the rhythm of the Hudson beneath their bows and sterns, listening to the whirring parade of passersby as they walk run skate bike through my peripheral vision, as I sit anchored with this blank book in my lap, pen in right hand, the left one gripping the pages on the facing side to keep them from flapping in the breeze, a cooling miracle after a long 100 degree New York City day.
Couples should not let the sun go down on an argument, but we do it anyway. Was it the need to win or feeling ill that made me walk away from him and go to bed? Now the great leveler, insomnia, has played its hand with me. Shall I wake him to apologize or wait until morning?
I let the revelation of last evening get drowned in my addiction. I remember Siddarthas revelation, the tidy reward for all his struggles and spiritual questing: all water on Earth is one, a part of the Oneness. Have I cashed in my tidy reward?
what does nakedness remind us of?
The man’s mother came to his aid
Only a bit too late
Like drifting pollen I attach myself to someone something to help me go on…
Save me from this scattered existence
Bury me till I regrow
Blind me till I see bliss.
This morning clamored with possibility
Back at the desk things look different.
The Internet is down, the presentation over. My belly full of gourmet fast food. These words wink at me, in out of focus, reminding me of my appointment. Dilation.
Incomprehension. Stasis for protection
from violent weather,
Embracing my own path is an idea that infected me late last night just before falling sleep, along with some weird allergy or cold from the air conditioning that is the constant and will be for the rest of this swampy month. The problem is, of course, figuring out which path I am on, or which one I am supposed to be on. I made a mental list of the things I have tried for the pain: sex, therapy, support groups, antidepressants, exercise, self-help books and seminars…all to no avail (seemingly).
Today does look calmer than last night’s panicky pre-sleep musings.
Last night I dreamt about eating, gorging myself, in front of my mother. Her parents instilled in her their Depression Era fear and scarcity-obsession, some of which got passed onto me. Not enough love, food, money, time to go around so you better get it while you can. No accident that she went on diets then took food from our plates at the dinner table. In my dream I showed her!
Lawrence is here for a competition, so we watched ballroom dancing tonight--live. Nothing quite like it. Pageantry and odd theatricality, at once garish and elegant. Sallie is ill. Worried.
Sallie is better, but I feel locked into a mentally self-destructive streak today. Defeatism, my specialty. Poor John gets the brunt of my spiraling crappy moods. Actually looking forward to work tomorrow. The structure and routine are comforting compared to todays freeform ennui festival.
Brennan and I read from the Big Book on the phone. That had a calming centering effect. I still feel lost. Some self-help manual said Sundays are the hardest. I have to agree. Perhaps I just miss my late father. Losing him at age nine changed everything. I am a walking wound, a refugee. Thanks dad.
Sick. John makes tea as I type. Vicks Vapo-Rub warms my torso. A Ricola lozenge sticks to my tongue. I am a walking commercial! The ladies who came with us to the drag show were impressed that I had acted in plays here in New York. It is cool to see yourself for just a second through the eyes of outsiders. Odd that I am more forgiving of myself when I do this.
Lawrence and I got philosophical about the future of the Castro. Last time I was there, nothing on the surface was different, but underneath there was a sadness.
Today is the halfway point.
Between breathing and obsessing
Between headache and a cough
Between work and play
I am stuck.
I am a great mimmicker, picking up gestures, intonations.
It comes from gauging my parents behavior before it happened, all an overcompensation
They were hippies, I explain to my coworker and cellmate, the music guru. Dumbfounded laughter is the response.
I seem to be
never what people think.
So what am I?
Memories encircle me like fog
The first time I kissed the first man I loved.
The first time I cried in front of Emily.
The first time
Stuffed cubicle weekday morning slow computer searching for data making millions for the stuffed man. Cough drop coating the sandpaper debauchery of last night downtown corners still buzzing honeybee honeycomb womb tomb room for one more, honey. Yesterday after work went to see the real-life people from Paris is Burning. So much beauty with so much pain, hand in hand, as always. Charles stood me up, OK because I was tired but not too tired to play, dance around the edge of my addiction like Joe at the tip of the volcano, a surfer gliding on the edges of knives.
Must remember to feed Marney's cats tonight. The alpha male (of three) likes to swipe at my hands leaving thin red smiles in my skin. Only then will he deign to perch in my lap, retract his claws and hum like a new engine, blissfully unaware of anything but my touch. Built-in meditation! No gurus or classes or books. Work would be like that except for the work. The desk is my connection to the world outside my head, just like a pillow. The point of contact. Liftoff. Soaring. Mad. Torporific drifting dandelion fluff making random patterns in the ether.
Scale the walls
Bought new clothes yesterday. Catholic guilt prodded me: “How many pairs of brown pants does one man need?” New watch on my bedroom floor, not on my wrist. New haircut sticks straight out. The week went over me like a freeway. Stimuli short-circuit my sensors; nervous energy is my battery, supplying juice that keeps me here typing thinking breathing filling filing flying… flipped.
Got called to audition for that evil theatre company again. Should I continue paying dues part-time or give up? Ambivalence belongs nowhere in showbiz. Left out.
Morning breath. My anxiety dreams still spinning in my consciousness. The faculty of my alma mater was testing me, meeting to discuss my future. A graphic artist at work shared his fear of being judged; he has an opening of his own work coming up. So relieved to know that I am not the only one! Self-analysis cripples the flow of words, the creative process. It is evident that there is a need deep inside me to give the acting thing one more try, but this revelation is coupled with the knowledge that I know I am not ready yet.
Lurking among the patterns of yesterday and its usual obstacles. There is a silent observation deck of consciousness, and from it I can fall or fly, perhaps depending on the wind shear, the temperature, the stars and their alignment. Safety in numbers is what helps me continue this artificial exercise. Because the number is finite, then so is the experience of reaching that number, finite. The soul, however, is something different entirely, whispering its influences into the ear of dead flesh and charging it like a battery, lifting everything upward to the ungrateful sky like a priest making his sacfrifice.
Resistance, roadblocks in my head. Stubborn refusals wrap their tentacles around my will and I am paralyzed by them. The massage today helped. Doug is a master. There was a centipede on our bedroom wall earlier tonight and John killed it. 'My hero!' I said to myself as I held him close to me. I find the most macabre events wildly romantic. The appalling ironies, a sense of the skewed and absurd have followed me from the crib to the cane and back again and still I am here. How could I possible be only 30? I feel eons older.
I do not have time for this so I will just type until I reach the limit. Only Tuesday and I’m burning out. Writing all day, compiling notes, interviewing people I will never meet, feeling the buzz…caffeine is my only friend today as I wait for the bell to ring, the clock to stop, the judgement to fall. This is what deadlines do to me but I must pay bills, contribute at home, take care of myself and do all those other things for which I was so woefully unprepared. Signing out now. Must be near 100. Must be.
Steady state. Kneeling before the ashen god, avoiding capture. His breath was confirmation enough for me this morning as I punctuated my morning commute with a fix. Taking a different route was the opening I needed, and through which, I ran.
Life is in the wrinkles.
Scared to show too much to you clever reader of these my brittle bones. Around the skeleton of words I support myself; beneath their neutral white I hide. You cannot see me. But I must still be here. Somewhere. James who supported me called in dire need. Feels good having extra. Feels good.
Mike check? The turntables got the better of me last night. They are spinning me. Lust of a beginner. Hope of a veteran. There is always something just beyond the grasp of this my consciousness. Sometimes it taunts me and sometimes it glides against my awareness like a caress from the ghost of a woman wearing opera-length gloves. Remembering my trips with Margi on New Years Eve a long time ago... when we took the bus it was free. Money is too complicated when you are enhanced. A lot of things are simpler though. I miss her pink Christmas trees.
There is a sticker on my head,“Nobody get too close because if you breathe on me I will fall down from the hangover that rests at the place where my spine meets my skull.” It is not entirely unpleasant, which is strange. There is a kind of warmth, a euphoria within the tiny needles of pain. Like being reckless after the fact. When we are born we get pushed through a tunnel and it must hurt like crazy and the world outside is cold. The lights are way too bright and we are never really asleep again. Not like inside.
Saturday. Sleep was divided into two marathon sessions after working overtime most of the week. I dread walking around this neighborhood on the weekend. Strollerville. My new running shoes have yet to be tested on the treadmill. The gym looms ahead. Nervous energy courses through my veins. John is doing laundry. The sun is out but I am glued to the screen praying for muses to work through me. I am a vessel. But there are leftovers sticking to my insides, obstacles from my past, scar tissue formed into sharply pointed barbs. Maybe these are wings growing, as Plato said.
Last night I dreamt of going back to college, the newness and anticipitory fears, adrenaline. Being at the threshold of a long discovery process. For once, not being in a hurry to finish. Not to mention the pristine beauty of the place, the sense of wonder and kinship and an odd mixture of tradition and rebellion from the norm. The thought of going back as a tutor has occurred to me before. I cannot help but think of that now, as I get ready to go to the office in a city that is everything but pristine.
I went rollerblading with Jeff yesterday. Felt good to use all those little muscles keeping balance, keeping me from meeting with the pavement in a bloody heap. We took showers afterwards and I fantasized about living someone elses life. Being with someone elses boyfriend instead of my own. But then it passed. All the happier was I to see John when I got home. Jeff talks without stopping which perturbs me but he is still a good friend. I told him I have been looking for a blading buddy and he mentioned the HP, another twelve-step jargon term but true...
To the dogs with 12 steps
Back where I belong
Back to back with my addiction
My old pal.
It salves my ego when I feel down
Gives me the rush, the adrenaline I crave
And then I feel beautiful. At peace.
Only trouble is, Gee Whiz
It can kill you. I mean me. They say it is a progressive disease
They say a lot of things.
Im smart enough to know
Life is not forever
Im smart enough to know better.
But still I go sniffing around for the opiate of my choice and my voice sings and roars.
I see songs. Sure my parentals were practicing hippies but this is not psychedelic, more like visualization for complete and utter lack of a better word. The lines
The breaks, the coloration of shades of meaning, nuances of inflections of the spirit not the letter and Im off again on some fucking tangent and I dont know where this is going, why I committed myself to this self-reflexive form of public torture. My very own 100 scarlet letters in black and white
embracing contradictions like old kin I am again at the peak of disappointment, the crest of low tide.
Keep seeing you in my dreams
But you are not the first one
Padding up to my door
In the world
Is it that you see,
Or think you see here?
I am not your farmer or thug
Not a little twinkie shining bright
My throat hurts today, worries me, no accident. Work is calm for a change. There is something new I like in my latest mix. Undefinable. I see the place where songs become one and separate again. I feel low. What will it take for me to quit? Skirting an imagined edge. Scared.
I long to be soaked in the songs of childhood, my mother vacuuming to Fleetwood Mac. Amy Flack showing me how to dance to James Brown. She studied ballet, but when Sex Machine came on, she gyrated like she was on fire, becoming someone else. Margi was my first death-rocker. The distinct new odor of clove cigarettes and Aqua Net saturated our first trip to a dance club. From big chunky black shoes, spiky hair, ghost-white make-up to the spinning neon eyeball of our outdoor rave, dropping acid with Jonathan, all flowing into one, or maybe its just my fever.
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