Feeling Impotent

A sure sign my brains are rotting:

Bad dream about bad touch uncle. Haven't had one in years. And it wasn't that bad, but he was there, at a family gathering, and the air was hot and damp with summer, the lighting was bad, everything was shadowy and uncertain, and I could see him, sitting there in a recliner. It may have been the 80s, I felt young. He was wearing a ringer shirt; red around the collar and sleeves.

I wondered why he was there, and why no one was doing anything about it.

So I slunk around, afraid to be seen by him, afraid to engage with anyone because I didn't want to upset anybody.

I don't remember if the dream would have been before or after I woke at 5 a.m., panicking a bit and fretting over the fact that I've not heard a word from Chris's sister, my friend of nearly nine years, despite a couple of emails and two texts, in the three weeks since I wrote the first email.

But it seems to work either way. In general, I'm feeling pretty impotent. She avoids conflict (though I'm not even sure what the conflict would be here, so that compounds my impotence), and I've done as much as I should without being pushy.

I'm a doer and a planner. I like to take an active role. There's nothing to be done, and nothing to plan for but two vacations that seem altogether too far off. A month away. I'm too sad to do things at home so I just sit on the couch. I've lost momentum, I am mostly coping with loss, doping myself with Friday Night Lights and Downton Abbey and numbing movies because there isn't the energy in my limbs to do anything else.

I should clean out my juicer. Take out the garbage. But today is not a day where those things will get done. It's taken about all I've got to convince myself to sit down for a bit and start a painting, which I'm all ready for, the tools are in front of me...

So, paint.

Killing Two Birds With One Blog

The goal of late has been to write one blog a week, and make one piece of art per month. Well, I've made two pieces of art this past week, and this blog is three days late. Ah well. I am very happy with both, which is a giant milestone since there has not been a whit of creative energy in me for the past six months, maybe more. Worse, these are pieces fulfilling obligations to lovely, patient people; i.e. they were paid for last...JANUARY.

Someday, I'll be a real girl

I am struggling a ton with the future.

IT IS FUCKING TERRIFYING.

I want to make music. Very specific music. But I do not know musicians who could assist me, and I feel, more and more, that perhaps this is something I will have to do very much on my own. In a house. In the country. In Tennessee. The urge to flee comes on strong about every three weeks, and each time it's a little stronger, more desperate, than the first.

But, perhaps more desperate, is the complete lack of actual creative drive. I feel that there is shit working in there, and that one day I'll paint, or write or put together a tune, but fuck all if it ain't just dust right now.

Things I want in my future (projection of this "future" about three years from now):

At least half if not all debt eradicated (current: approx. $18,000)
Not being a waitress
A complicated, loving relationship that constantly keeps me on my toes; i.e. Andy
At least something resembling a firm plot to have a child
At least something resembling a firm plot to own a house
One solid showing of my art not in a coffee shop or middling gallery
A second book of poetry published (I think next year's the year for that; the first, Chaos to Grace, was published in 2001)
The completion or at least major progress on my novel(la), Sumtime Silver Snippety
At the very least, preliminary work on music project, A Deceit of Lapwings, which will include learning how to record music, accumulating instruments, taking voice lessons to regain my high range and hone tone
A stint in Tennessee of about 6 months to 1 year to refine/do most of the above

Careers I could take on/would enjoy doing to make a living which I'll likely never get in creative pursuits:

carpentry and framing
landscaping
anthropological work in the fields of Christianity and/or pop culture


Now that I've put all that down on "paper", how the fuck do I get there? It's that question which brought me to tears today. So I decided to figure out what I want, put a reasonable timeframe on it, and get crackin'. The debt goes first, and at the close of this year, I expect to have a solid dent in it.

Someday, I'll be a real girl.

Fuck You Meteor Shower, Fuck You In Your Beautiful, Romantic Fucking Ass

As the day trucks on into night I become more and more unstable. I've had a shit fucking day. I've found myself despondent, staring at the floor for half an hour at a time, literally having to tell myself to blink. I'm so FUCKING MAD at him.

The Leonid meteor shower starts in about an hour. It'll be at it's peak around one a.m. If all were right with the world, I'd be in my lover's arms then, parked on some country side road, awaiting the great black sky's meteoric spray.

But no.

I had a pretty good weekend, considering. Spent most of my time in my room. Worked on various projects including, but not limited to: completing the window pane piece, cleaning the kitchen, making a sadly cobbled beans and rice concoction which is surprisingly winning, and beginning a short story mystically related to all that is currently happening.

No tears all weekend. Not a single one. Not really a tear since Wednesday really. I told him I'd leave him alone all weekend, and I did, save the email I doubt he read til today about him learning to combat panic attacks. But this afternoon has been a mess on my psyche; I went from Saturday night lying in bed, feeling nothing was likely to be recaptured and that I wasn't sure I wanted it to be, to missing him terribly last night, which has only degraded emotionally since. Not as many tears as Wednesday, but those were filled with shock and panic. Today's tears are made of pure depression.

At 8:11 tonight, I sent him the following melodramatic text:

"In a world where our romance flourished instead of being trod upon like so many dying leaves, I believe we'd likely be readying ourselves for meteors."

I immediately went downstairs and polished off my remaining whiskey (approximately an ounce and a half) while talking out my drama with Russ and Kat (housemate and housemate's girlfriend/my friend). I'm feeling less prone to burst into tears now.

I think listening to Luna Sea's first album is helping. Silly butt rock glam punk.

Aquí, Viernes.

I laid in bed til nearly 1 p.m.
Donned red plaid dress, red hoop earrings, red lipstick.
All are talismans.
Lunch with the lovely Alexis McKinnis at Bryant Lake Bowl(despite numerous email conversations of some intensity, not once had we enjoyed one another's company one on one). She had a breakfast sandwich, I the cream of asparagus...with peas...soup. The soup appears to have contained no actual asparagus. It may have been hiding, knowing already of my voracious affection for it.
A nervous belly (quelled somewhat by one glass of malbec with lunch) awaited phone call from Andy.
A trip to NE (that's northeast, not Nebraska).
He was, by comparison, perhaps an entire solar system calmer.
Love expressed. Panic expressed. Confusion expressed.
No resolutions, but I didn't come for those; I came to understand, to feel safer, to be able to put myself in a position to set my needs aside and allow him the space he needs to put his head together.
Sex was had and it was physically satisfying, emotionally confusing. I would like to not do that again while things are as they stand. But I do feel it had to happen as it did.
It was raining when I left his place.
Rented Doubt at Blockbuster. The cashier, a handsome fellow named Jason according to his nametag, shared a cute moment with me over a strange-acting child which was communicated almost entirely non-verbally. My favourite sort of casual interaction, most especially when it involves a heart-squeezing sort of smile like the kind Jason and I exchanged. These things make me remember that I am wholly married to the joy of living.
Jason provided me with some sort of promotional coupon that will get me half off a new release in the coming week. Win.
Made a pesto cheddar duck confit grilled sandwich thing, as well as a cup of tea. All was delicious.
Doubt was less stirring than I'd expected, but acting by Meryl, Amy Adams, Velma Davis and PSH were unerringly top notch. I marvel, sometimes, when viewing such things, at how in command an actor can be, doling out facial expressions that with the slightest tic convey much more than can possibly be expressed verbally. This was one of those films, throughout.
Ate some pot roast my housemate, Russ, prepared. He used Mountain Crest as a "moistener". It was, despite being soaked in beer that costs $9 a 24-pack, quite delicious.
Downloaded albums by Dirty Projectors and Mount Eerie. I am immediately fond of both upon first listen, and I was about to say that the former will likely root itself more firmly in my oft-played discs, but that seems like a lie. Mount Eerie has qualities of Bon Iver. Dirty Projectors makes me feel that can't-wipe-smile-off-my-face feeling that comes from the first day of spring, or new love. Except without the actual smiling, if that makes sense. There is too much going on to simply smile; it must be paid attention to.
Made some art, or rather, began a piece while listening to Dirty Projectors, for now involving a window pane, tea from tea bags I saved for a year, and my best friend, Mod Podge. Piece will later involve polyurethane and fox fur.
Lamented having not seen Dirty Projectors this past Wednesday, which might have been surprisingly easy, given it may have been possible to be guest listed through a small series of connections. Further night time marveling at the random coterie of art rock and Pitchfork darlings I seem to be finding myself associating with these days.
Plans to read a bit of The God Delusion before retiring put on hold by blogging.
But I'll do that now.

All in all, a productive, beneficial, positive day. Let's hope the forward motion does not sway.

I feel poetry coming.

Oh god, I didn't even realise when I typed that sentence that the previous two rhymed.

I'm ridiculous.

This Is What Happens When You Roll Into SA With A Hammer

Shit gets fucked up, yo.

Dudes try and talk to me when I'm enjoying my Kings of Leon, "Why you got a hammer, girl?" People buzz with WTF a little lady like me is doing with a hammer. The counter woman leans over, exclaiming, "Hell, she does have a hammer! I thought you were pulling my leg!" I smile coyly as I choose my milk chocolate Hershey's.

"Sincerely, folks, I was just hanging my art across the street at Caffetto. I'm not here to give anyone a beat down."

But counter woman is flustered, joking with me about my hammer, unable to properly execute the transaction with the lad in front of me purchasing two Powerades (so cute in the face, such terrible clothing, that one), and she winds up inadvertently cancelling his purchase. So he has to come back and do it again. And then she charges him for my Hersey bar. Lol. I wind up handing him a dollar just to keep shit simple.

Don't bring a hammer into the SA, kids. Shit gets fucked up.