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I have a white spot on my forearm and the elasticity is gone. It reminds me of my mother's arms when I was a child and worshipped her and absorbed every nuance. She's always surprised at what I recall. I was a genius child who moved all the times and she was safety/god/harbour/boss. . . daddy was well who really cares...
I got a library card today
ok. he was folly beach and Charleston
which is why it cuts so weird all the shite that went down in June July 2023 with me. Good lord the earthquake of my mime.
I still get pokes of him, yet used to the new prison vastly more than I used to be - still the same wretched misery here, yet I was also wretchedly miserable in hotlanta as well. the ways I have not been wretchedly miserable traditionally are when I've had safe harbors to still my soul. Besides that, it's been stormy stories.
and a lot of bland blah.
years of exile. it was fun to rattle the bars of the beautiful old cage.
Now, I worry about death and despair.
being alone. I am alone.
always seems to very much exacerbate a state.
most of the times I remember from the times past - the in-betweens has been - tremendous sadness and pain. feeling wretched and ridiculous. last night's dream was 'pretentious paragraph' and Metallica. It kept wavering over and over in my head. a backstage waiting room for the band and the remembrance of 'pretentious paragraph'. I of course had thought it was them whilst in the dream and now out it reminds me to be less aloof.
I grabbed a fucking go fund me off of my public book of faces just now. as if my legions of followers there would tweet it as if I'm a celebutante. it was humiliating to have it on there for three tenths of an hour and not a single thousand dollar bill - hence the pull.
let's be real.
much of me has built this cage prison for
myself because much of me fervently believes
I deserve it - this wallowing in poverty filth. for the embarrassment of showing my ass out loud.
the poignancy of life can really get you.
I take three sets of pills to not let it get to me so much that I
want to die every three seconds of breathing.
now it's just once a day and I can usually tamp it down.
it's always about moula.
I wondered the other day what it would be after I get over this? would it always be something unless I just opened up and let go into my shame. Time clicks.
I think of my mother and my stepfather - they are having happy hour and he is telling her all about his day while she sous chefs or sits in the sun room and listens to him. I used to think it was the most boring life in the world, now I recognize it as love.
The last time I felt safe and somewhat ok was at their home when they both appeared to love me. I think I must have been a pathetic case. Few would kick the shell of someone who openly weeps at butterfly bump. I would know.
And the Andrew story I keep trying to get out of my head and can't quite make go in the rear view mirror or compartmentalize - his son's birthday then the daughters on the anniversary... it's going to be a hard time for me. I'm grateful to have Amelia Island now.
I'm so fucking grateful to have the memories of Wilmington the most though. Although I went out with the kindest and coolest of people yesterday; it was not the safe clever feeling of being with the only ones I've ever known as real family - the people I've known since college = the men I've been the girlfriend of the drummer with.
so much of me is packed up in the sheath of a falice or is it phallus .... it's strange to come alive only in the mirror of the other, yet as I've screamed as nauseam so many of us are and for me, it's my south node.
I had rice and beans today. Now my only pantry/fridge meal is tofu jalapeño and or noodles with sun dried tomatoes garlic and parm and olive oil.
In the olden olden days, you didn't have money so much so wealth was measured in your stock - in your ability to not starve - your ability to eat.
It was a hoot going into the public library today. I had been scared it would be a homeless shit fest but it was actually rather lovely. I found a book to read. a mystery.
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