Same as Always

This morning I found the cd case that had all the discs I burned during my year eight months in Connecticut. I've been ripping them to my iTunes library here at work. Listening to them totally takes me right back there. Driving the Toyota Sienna everywhere - basically living out of it - the trees. Oh, I miss the trees so much. I miss doing something that made a difference every day. I miss playing "mom."

I got a holiday card from them two days ago... I can't believe how much the kids have grown in two years. I want to go back, I want to go visit before they move on so much they completely forget me. I sent them Beatles RockBand for the xbox Cory got the Christmas after I left as a belated birthday/holiday present. I wanted them to remember all the times we spent playing Rock Band, just the four of us, Cory and Claudia fighting over who got to play the drums until Claude got halfway through the first song and remembered she hated playing the drums. We'd always have her sing. She was good at it. It was awesome. Oh, I miss those kids. I miss feeling like a crucial part of something. Knowing that things wouldn't get done without me, knowing that I got to - and was capable - of taking care of them. Making sure they were okay, and healthy and happy and having fun.

Now I'm back here. Useless and accessory, stuck at home because of stupid choices from my early 20s that screwed my credit. Working a job that takes no brains, that doesn't want or value creativity or ability. My... all of me... wishes I could go back to that year. Go back to being needed and wanted and challenged every day and being able to go to bed at the end of the day with a sense of fulfillment and accomplishment. I think that's why I have so many dreams about babies lately. I ache to be needed like that again, by someone, anyone. I know the things that I'm best suited for. And it's not packing boxes and beings stuck at home like a perpetual 12 year old.

I'm trying not to be whiny, I don't want to sound whiny, but I want to try and express how I feel and what I'm thinking today. Or, this morning. Mornings are slow at work, usually. And I'm avoiding work because I'm tired and I ache everywhere and it's cold. I feel so old. I'll be 30 in a little more than three years. How did I get to here? I remember being 11, and imagining myself at 21, coming back to visit the family from college, with a car and a boyfriend, tall and gorgeous with long brown hair... stylish and smart and funny... and here I am, 27 and a college drop-out, an ART MAJOR drop-out, short, with short blonde hair and still no car, no boyfriend. Not just visiting home, but stuck at home...

Nevermind. I can't write like this. It's all just the same. The same thing every time. These words aren't new.

"Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, 'Where have I gone wrong'. 

Then a voice says to me, 'This is going to take more than one night." 

- Charlie Brown

oh what gems we pull from these coffers

New Music Sun/Monday yielded up some pretty decent finds! Check'em out, yo.

Knockout by Air Waves




Shoeing the Bones by Cate le Bon




Good Evening by The Concretes




Modern Drift by Efterklang




I Met Up with The King by First Aid Kit




Never Come Around by La Sera




Running Out of You by Keep Shelly in Athens

exercises in futility

the needle: pain shot through, naked light
from the hole in the ceiling
where we kept
that single glowinthedark star

to pull our
thoughts
through.

especially, in these
moments of darkness; blinded.

the pull and roll.
skittercrawl into
the lighthole. where

are you kafka? give
me my axe.

let's do this
shit.


of the dreams that vanish with every dawn
i will say this:

(m)hyster(ia)ectomy(oliosisinomaplasty.)


we adore other gods here now
so, next customer please.
twelve items or less, you're

holding up

the line, and the guy
behind you with the
charcoal brickettes

has a party to get to.

do you need ice with that?


and sleep, that most uncertain vessel
writing passage to distances
you can't span when you're
not sleepriding.

can't or can't afford.
no,  no
the cost is too much.

feel them waving.

certainty is expensive,
and every friend is
better in the dark.


of metallic cables
i am too inclined to speak.
here is another long
gash beneath the skin.
i never took automatonomy.
never needed to, i
i had a gift.


music, take me

or

don't.


but the church bells have gone underground
and so have the moles,
religerosity rolls
down the holes
in drolls
to the tolls
the tolls
the tolls.
bankrolls.


with speech coming out of their mouths like writing
the ultimate allure.
if he really spoke like that,
the only thing coming out of his mouth
would be mine.


already for you with sublime tints
blinded by the visceral edges
of geometry, the quick

wit of parallel corners.

rhomboid you can't
hide from me. i see your
blue hue

the green in between and
every edge
in red lines even
as the lines are
transforming. draw, oh

draw me the untold color
of your shapes in
these movements
in the dark.


where my gestures are seagulls who lose themselves
the low fog rolls in
and my grand movements
fly off in the clouds.

shrieking witnesses
loud, lonely over

wavemass after wave
after wav-
ing always
the hidden waving

drowning lonely, white
invisible
in the
distance.

the tiny three-parter condensed (aka: don't post from my phone.)

Got up too early this morning. Couldn't sleep, the familiar ache of lonely too painful to shut my eyes again. Another night of baby dreams and waking up crying. Part of me thinks that this particular child craving is just a deeper arm of loneliness reaching into my subconscious. If no one else will abate the terrible pain of it, dammit, I will grow my own companionship, my own interdependence, and then never be so lonely again. It's a thought, anyway.

mercurial

marigold is the only kind of orange i really like. is it so odd that i see colors in my dreams? someone said people don't dream in color, but most of my dreams are more significant because of the colors in them. i've never dreamt of losing all my teeth, but i feel out of control of so many things all the time... why have i never had that dream? all of my siblings have had it, my parents have, my friends have. when i feel out of control i have dreams of finding random things trapped in ice, big frozen lakes with strange objects in them. like suitcases, flags, spiders, babies. friggin' babies, always in my friggin' dreams.

do you know what i want to do? i want to go home and practice drawing backgrounds. just backgrounds. i was sorting through all of my old high school art portfolios (i don't have any from college... i gave all that artwork away, or left it at school when i quit, or threw it away when i quit, i don't know why. i didn't want it... anyway...) i realized that i am woefully negligent when it comes to finishing a picture with a fo' realz background. i just draw figures, the important symbolic stuff. backgrounds are overrated, or are for people with patience. i'm not a patient person. a histrionic obnoxious person? that seems more likely.

i should do things, more things, with more people, real people. people have been telling me to get married all week. my sister in law was talking about how big the baby is inside her, and my little brother who's 9, chewed me out for not giving him a nephew or niece by now. do you have any idea how much i want to? how much i want that? and his pouncing on me over it... i tell you, it took everything i had not to burst into tears right there. i didn't realize how volatile that subject has made me.

i have a good friend who is a single mother of three, and i am jealous of her. i keep finding myself in my head wanting to be that, to just have a baby, just go find some jerk who uses multi-syllable words and isn't a complete fuggo and get myself pregnant. i could live off welfare. i have good insurance. i should probably get a car... and then i crawl back out of my head and wonder what the hell my problem is. seriously, what is with this? i am craving babies. inordinately, frighteningly. and every time i sit down to write something on this dumb blog, to type out a sordid clipping of my inner monologue, there are two topics i feel like writing about, and only one that i can post here, but it's getting really friggin' old. i'm sure the whole world (meaning whomever even cares to read this damn thing) knows i want kids. and i'm sure the whole world is sick of hearing it. believe me when i say i am too.

how much does it cost to get a sperm donor? i wonder this. i also wonder if using a sperm donor will make me go to hell, if i technically didn't have sex with a guy to get pregnant out of wedlock.

you know, because going to hell is such a major concern of mine, and always has been.

music, music, music. every song makes me cry. every song makes me think of things i don't want to be thinking about, thoughts that i would like to just erase and cram back into whatever infested ridiculous hole they have crawled out of. my subconscious is in love with impossibilities. i think i might be insane.

i also think i might be bipolar, but i seriously don't know how the hell to figure that out, because i am also a compulsive liar sometimes, and can't even tell a therapist the truth... which is not a good thing. it's like a have a filter between my inner self and my mouth that feels the need to siphon away anything i might say that would convey me as helpless, frustrated, confused, angry and frightened.

I AM A STRONG INDEPENDENT WOMAN GODDAMMIT I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP I AM PERFECTLY FINE AND NORMAL AND I AM GOING TO PULL MY EYEBALLS OUT UNTIL I BLEED TO DEATH FROM THE GAPING SOCKET HOLES OH GOD HELP ME I AM SO CRAZY...

see? it doesn't work. i can type it all out here and it just seems ridiculous and a sad attempt to get attention from, what, three people? they already give me as much attention as they can muster, and i'm pretty sure they've already realized i'm crazy, and that's just me, so you just roll with it. roll with the flow because the flow will just go and you don't gotta know if it's fast or slow... mojito... joe...no...so...

I AM FINE NOTHING IS WRONG MOVE ALONG NOW COME BACK ALI COME BACK ALI'S SISTER.

i think i have a chance with this guy. ha! bullshit. i took art, i know the shades of bullshit and its constant variegations. its mutated spiral regenerative webbing. i am a pro, and this pro don't turn tricks and tell. that's a story for another day.

it is freezing in this room. still waitin' for my carpool home... i think we'll be here for a while.

i think my hands look prettier when they're cold, my fingers are long and white and spidery as they skitter across the keyboard.

what's with the spider allusions tonight? i don't even know. spinneret etiquette.

oh justin, justin clayton, where have you been all my life? i could say anything, you could blow out the sun. i count  my blessings, you shoot 'em down one by one. looking out my window, the city lights flicker and fade. here comes another monday morning. all i think about is running far away. and i don't understand, i don't understand this shallow world. it's not worth fighting, the war's already been won. only one thing matters, only time will carry me on. i'll head south to the coast, watch the ocean from the car. and i'll wish upon the waves until the last drop of bitterness is gone. because i don't understand, so help me if you can. find a way. shallow world. shallow world.

fuck me. fuck that. fuck you. fuck getting fucked. you know, i'd make a great roommate. i cook, i clean, i was raised for the domestic doldrums, they're wound around every other fiber of my being. so, there's that. nothing needs to pan out, it just needs a frying pan, a panacea, a panopoly, a pandemic, a pandemonium... pandas are dumb.

I CAN'T WRITE ANYMORE I CAN'T THINK I CAN'T WRITE ABOUT WHAT I'M THINKING BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE THE CONSTITUTION TO SELFECTOMIZE IN BLOOD AND GUTS ALL OVER THIS VIRTUAL PAGE.

i am not that strong. i was never that strong. god, i'm all alone, and it fucking sucks. fuck you, world.

i wish i lived by the ocean. i could drown with a rock and a roll, stuff my pockets full of my poems and wash it all away in the waves and the dark and the water. and then my writing would mean something, and then people would read it, and then i could get someone to give a damn, because it would be too late.

and late is fashionable, and that's what matters.

versus - crashing the afterglow