But the fly…

Slow. I’m moving slowly. Slower every day. I catch myself going too fast and I say to myself, like the bunny in the back of the car meme “slow the fuck down!” so I move slower. Slow, slowly, and then slower.

I catch my steps, my physical steps. “Slow down” I say to myself. The fly, though, the fly keeps flying.

The fly has been here for days. It buzzes by, a house fly, one of those big ones from my childhood. And it reminds me.

It reminds me of sadness and hoards. It reminds me of fear of velvet deer paintings at the end of the hall and glass that I step on, only to bleed and examine, with fascination, the clots.

The fly knows. Still, I move slow, counting my steps, every step with intention. The fly flies, every beat of its wings with intention, I wonder? How much does the fly know?

Untitled Document…

Better days are unknown.

Historically, when I’m starting to go downhill, I talk about it a bit. When things are bad, I mention it, perhaps in passing. When they get worse, I mention it, perhaps in passing. When they get S level, I no longer know what to say because I’ve already said it.

The flares have already been fired and are dying out. The arms are tired of waving, so they fall limp to my sides. The voice that states “I’m unwell” goes to a whisper, then silence.

What else do I do? During all of these moments of saying “I’m not doing well”, “I don’t feel well”, “I feel hopeless and worthless”, “I’m not sure what to do” I’m also scouring the internet for self help. I search in sentences: “how to be self sufficient”, “how to not rely on other people”, “how to get rid of hopeless feelings”, etc… None of my searches have helped. And I felt very, very lost.

He asked me a question a couple of hours ago, just a simple “what are you doing?”. My voice cracked. I was just getting a drink from the kitchen, but what was I really doing? Internally, I was making a plan. A solid plan.

The tears came and no words would come out when he asked me what was wrong. All the words that I’ve been saying “I’m unwell”, “I’m not doing well”, “I feel hopeless” never registered for him prior to this moment. The depth didn’t, I don’t think.

I gathered myself and said those words again. All of them. It’s partly my fault, I think. I didn’t say them enough, maybe. I didn’t use the right tone. I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t do enough of something. Maybe I complain too much. I know I’m often unwell, maybe I’m unwell too often. I don’t feel well that often. I feel hopeless sometimes.

I will be getting in touch with my doctor tomorrow morning. A healthy plan will be in place.

Since 2019, I’ve tried to be more vulnerable. I’ve tried to share how I’m feeling more often, when asked, and I’ve tried to be honest.

My responses, though, tend to get drowned out by other things. The recipient’s own internal dialogue, maybe. Their feelings, how their day went. The television. Video games. What’s happening on a screen. Etc…

Back I go to searching the internet: “How not to need help”, “how to be self sufficient”, “how to be stable”….and it goes on. At least tomorrow I have a positive plan.

Maybe better days are ahead.

It’s just Joe…

My thoughts on the matter don’t matter, at least I don’t think. My initial thought was one I’ve had for well over a decade. I’ve decided against it and figured “It’s Just Joe” is more appropriate.

As it is. It’s just Joe..it’s just him. But “just” doesn’t sit well with me, because there is so much there, so much to unpack. It’s not intentional and not for show, at least I don’t think it is. It hasn’t seemed to be in the past, so why would it be now? It’s almost like this thing, need/want something that stems from childhood. I just don’t know.

It’s just Joe. Benign, forgiving, receptive, so receptive, but to what end? Where is the cutoff? Where is the payback? Gaslighting? Abuse? My words twisted and gnarled to benefit the other? Things coming home to roost? Etc… When, where, why, how? I understand nothing, and…

It’s just Joe. It just is. I think about choices and decisions and everything in general and it boils down to HIM. It’s not an obsession, he isn’t, but most certainly a curiosity. I’m intrigued and, yet, not. I go back and forth.

It’s just Joe, this person that altered my existence greatly by their mere presence. I don’t know. I don’t know what to say about Joe. There’s a bit of frustration there. Perpetual, absolute perpetual, longing. A near desperate desire for something, anything, and not getting it. But then I remember…

It’s just Joe.

S is for…

Succumbing to shit. S is for secrets. And, yes, S is also for that pesky form of ideation that, at some point, eventually becomes unshakeable.

We’re at that point. By we, I mean me. Of course. All of my intelligent readers, I realize I didn’t have to explain that to you, but I did anyway because my brains are becoming defunct. Headed toward the landfill. Whatever that is.

I’m not quite there yet. I will say, I’m waiting to catch my breath, though, and I’m not sure how much longer I need to wait. I’m a very patient person, or so I’ve been told. So I wait…

In the meantime, something that cheered me up a bit today: I was listening to my Spotify playlist aptly titled “For Funsies” and George Michael’s song “Too Funky” came on. Oh, the thrill. I love that song. What I loved even more was the video. I haven’t seen the video in years upon years, but I remember it heavily impacting my 12 year old self when it first aired on Mtv. It helped define my interests in women, fashion, the obscure, music, well shaped facial hair, and androgyny. I loved that video. So, because it played on For Funsies, I jauntily clicked my sweet ass over to YouTube, found it, and watched it. And immediately was taken back to the early 90s and I just loved every minute of it.

That was today’s Hooray.

What will tomorrow’s Hooray be? Tell me something interesting, anything, and give me something to Google tomorrow.

Perhaps a stumble…

Falling, tumbling, etc… My brain is nearing done. I don’t know what form or type or anything, but…..fuck. it’s been a rough go and I’m tired, man.

I don’t really know what to say about that or anything, really. I have plans to do stuff, art related or otherwise. But I’m getting some pretty gnarly input and it’s stating to override, if you get what that means.

I can take a lot. I can take on a lot. I can handle my shit and I can handle others’ shit and have done so for decades. I know this. I got this. But, fuck it’s heavy. I want like….I don’t know. Just breathing is laborious, if you know what I mean. My own inhales and exhales carry weight that’s not solely from the fat gut I’ve developed over the past 19 months.

Pancakes and Booze is on the 22nd of this month. And I was looking forward to being a participant this year, rather than an attendee that scored some good local art. My “looking forward” feelings are dwindling, yo. I’m not well. I know this.

So, tonight, I’m going to lie down, put my head on a pillow (I’m so lucky to have that), try to rest and, maybe when I wake tomorrow, things will be different. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for life. I just need to say that I practice gratitude daily. Seriously. I’m fucking lucky and fortunate. I have a roof. I have a bed. I have a goddamn pillow in my bed. I have cozy blankets. I say, into the ether, every day and every night, how lucky I am.

Shit’s just bad, though. I have a lot of “input”. You know. The voices, the visual shit. My meds are being adjusted (I’m lucky enough to have meds). I don’t want to go on more. I don’t want to go back to the heavy ones. I just really wish I had more control over my brain and the operations there in.

Alright, enough whining and rambling. I’m out. Sleep well, y’all.


A is for…

“Anhedonia”. Not really, it just now, at this moment at 4:31 a.m. EST, popped in my head. No, A is for a different thing. Well, actually, anhedonia is also relevant. Quite. But that’s not what this is about.

Today is…Saturday, now. August 20, 2022. Today is the very, very last day of August 20, 2022. I have nothing to show for it. I’m not thinking about kicking off, just so everyone knows. I mean, yeah, sure I do, everyday, but I mean not taking myself out. That’s what I mean. None of that right now. I’m just thinking. You know what? I would actually like to make it to August 20, 2042 and see what’s up with that time period. I’m down for this. New goal.

Ugh, goals. It reminds me of that thing in interviews: “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” I fucking hated that question because I didn’t see myself, period. It reminds me of my senior year in high school. For some godawful reason, they decided the students had to give a panel of teachers (I think there were three) a presentation of what they planned to do upon graduation. The catch? The presentation had to include which college the student intended to go to. I had no intentions of going to college. I know I was *supposed* to. It was drilled in by teachers and the guidance counselor. I knew I wasn’t, though. School was so hard for me. I struggled so much in school. So much. I barely graduated. No joke. I did really well in art class (except for the year where a teacher came in with a background in commercial arts and….I got kicked out a lot), so that was fine. I did well in Speech and Creative Writing, for the most part (read: I passed with a grade in the high 70s). The “speech” part I failed miserably at and couldn’t do, but the “creative writing” part was fine. Everything else, though? No.

Getting back to the presentation that was mandatory: I said “I’m going to go to X college for [insert art shit here] and do that”. I illustrated, literally, my plans. I figured if teachers from my other classes, like government, social studies, history, english, etc… would accept artwork I made relevant to the class for extra credit so I could at least pass, then fuck it, I’ll do the same for this gig. I only remember one teacher being on this panel o’ three and it was Mrs. Kirby. Her face was lit up the whole time. She was delighted. I was allowed to graduate.

I didn’t go to X college and study [insert art shit here]. Instead, I worked and did art and then went fucking teddy bonkers. Full blown teddy bonkers. Goodbye 2004, hello 2022.

Here I am. Why is any of this important? I’m not totally sure. There is relevance somewhere, I know it, I feel it, but I’m not sure how to relay it. Next month I’m going to be putting my artwork on display, in public view. Local public view. Raleigh, yo. I haven’t done that since my early twenties when I was in Erie. Yo. Maybe that’s the relevance? Maybe that’s what has stirred up all of this shit? Idk.

No sleep til…

I got nothin’. I’ve lost track of weeks, so I’m not entirely sure the last time I successfully slept. Like, really slept.

It’s mania, of course.

On to something else, a discovery: I have an ello account that I completely forgot about. I made it years ago and just posted there for the first time a few minutes ago.

I have nothing else to report.

PT Cruiser…

2:35 a.m. EST. My husband is asleep in his chair, the precious person he’s seeing is zonked out close to him on the sofa. My partner is in bed, equally unconscious and I’m wide awake. Three people snoring, loudly, in my house, so I came outside to not disturb them, lest my head gets loud. I sat down in my cheap plastic chair, brittle from age and weather, and was greeted by the strong odor coming from the trash container. It will be picked up by the city on Tuesday. My buddies, my little ones, the smoky brown cockroaches, are running about, yet no one has stopped to say hi. The windows are behind me, Gabriel frantically scratching at them, wanting to come outside. That’s a hard No. The tag on his collar says “Escape Artist” for a reason. I’m looking at my immediate surroundings and I see several thin tree branches scattered about. I think about my former projects involving branches and gold spray paint. That, in turn, makes me think of Pet. The shared laughter, tears, and various creative pursuits. “Good times”.

Good times. I am drawn to….a time period. Maybe 2008. I had a blue PT Cruiser, turbo/convertible. That car was fun, but a massive pain in the ass when it needed repairs. No wonder they don’t make them anymore. Anyway, good times: I’m remembering driving, top down, from Coudersport to Austin Costello, Palsie sitting in the passenger seat. We were blasting Saves the Day, singing loudly for, well, no one to hear except each other and whatever wildlife milled about. We get to the intersection where, if you turn left and go up the hill, the road is still paved. If you go straight, it’s all dirt. I asked him what he wanted to do. He looked at me with those huge blue eyes and then RAIN. Rain just started pouring down, with no warning. We shrieked and laughed as I fumbled with the knobs to get the roof to unfold and cover us. It didn’t work. Like I said, there’s a reason they don’t make them anymore. We hopped out, getting soaked, laughing louder than thunder, trying to get the top to manually unfold. Palsie’s solution was that he would sit in the car and “fuck with that shit” and I would keep pulling. It worked. I hopped back in the car, which was soaked from the surprise downpour, and we watched the roof slowly crawl to the point where I could secure it. We cackled like banshees, stopped at this intersection in the middle of nowhere. I got the top secured and I looked at him and said “now what?”. He just smiled and shrugged. I told him to get out and switch me. So, back in the rain we went, switching seats and he plopped down behind the wheel and mentioned the turbo, asking what the pickup speed was like. I told him to just do it, so off we went. He decided to stick with pavement and we climbed that rural, bumpy hill fast as hell and I thought we would just launch into the sky once we reached the top. We didn’t, but my god was it a fucking joyride. Good times.

We’re all capable of being ants…

I’m sitting outside and the small black ants are around. Climbing on my feet and legs. I am the ant hill…nothing more, nothing less. They climb over me to get from one place to another. Occasionally they bite. It’s a hot, burning sting. If it’s hurts enough, I quickly smash my heel into the opposing foot, just to stop the pain. Thus killing the ant. For biting me, unprovoked. It’s not justice. It’s unfair. The others, they bite sometimes, it’s mild and I simply brush them off, gently, so they can continue their journey without me being a part of the terrain. Still, the ones that bite and bite twice, I kill as a reaction to pain. Not thinking, just a reaction. I’m left to deal with that. We all bite hard sometimes. Like the ant, it’s in our nature. We will all end, in some fashion or another. I just hope I don’t bite too hard.

Early morning safety…

I’m sitting in my backyard tonight. Befriending the cockroaches and having various insects land on me as they flit about my purple porch lights. Some are junebugs, they’re wonky, clumsily flying about, getting stuck in my hair or banging against my skin like an inexperienced drummer. I’m not sure where they want to go or be, I certainly don’t want them on me and I’m certain they don’t want to be either. Alas, I gently brush them off, untangle them, so they can continue their awkward existence. I would hope the same for me.

It’s 2:39 a.m. EST and a dog is barking. I wonder if it’s one of the dogs the pervert neighbor owns? I’m not sure. I know for certain that the pervert neighbor stays out late, eyeing the area for available pussy. Willing, I suppose. I hope. Bad vibes, dude, just bad vibes. Avoid under all circumstances.

There was a glimpse of a bright spot in the sky tonight, near a cloudy moon. A satellite? I’m not sure. I’m alone, but it stayed with me for quite a while. As I type this, it has drifted and gone on to do better things.

It’s okay, though. I’m successfully befriending cockroaches. Some sit and stay near my toes that I have mashed into pine needles and concrete. I assure the roaches, though, that I will not step on them, while also begging them not to climb on me. Like most everyone, I’d like to keep them at arm’s length. It’s just safer for everyone.