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.