fact #77

seems to be the case that, whenever you go looking for something, you never find it. so, it stands to reason, don't go looking (wishing, dreaming, yearning, expecting). 

fact #76

the weight

of a father's hate

is crippling. 

i think about 

the grace of death

more often 

than anyone

will give me 

a mimosa 

cheers and say

"it's okay."

it's not okay. 

we'll make it alright

i get drunk and smoke cigarettes, feel like my 15 year old self again. and it's a good feeling 

to get back in touch with that girl. Little Ugly Angela. the throw-away who stood her ground, protected her virginity despite the rough crew she ran with. the avenger, of herself and of others. my woman-self is so proud of her and so glad she is still standing. so,

if at times, i seem a shitshow, 

glance backward over your own shoulder and remember the dead mother who wasn't the nicest before she died, 

the absentee father who cast his children into the role of caretaker, 

the total subjugation of a creative spirit who only ever wanted to scribble and sing... 

who am i now? beginning my life again. or is that even a thing? how many times have i found myself in the same, small, white room... possessions crammed in, wondering who i am and what to do. at least now, after having seen similar walls, i know i can survive the reconstruction time and shirk the outside opinions of should, woulda, coulda. 

who would you be, if you had my story? always set up to run because home was never safe? who would you be?

my mother's death does not render her an angel. milk thrown in my face at the breakfast table when i was 4 years old for having made the mistake of spilling my glass. my mother telling me to my face "if you run away again, no one will come looking for you," then holding true to those words, finding me inadvertentley when she was looking for my sister who had run away too. all i've ever wanted is the same thing every human being wants: to belong. 

i look for this feeling in degenerate friends and the hands of strange men. along the way, i've lucked out and met angels. the love i am given is the best there is... still, i feel outside and other, wonder if i am, in fact, so damn damaged that i will never again be able to appreciate quiet and calm. 

i sit on a curb and listen to Duran Duran and wish for a man's eager hands sliding all over me. put me in the shower and drink the water flowing down my neck and nipples. clean me up, with soap and tongue, and make the hours meaningless. all i want is for time to stand still. i'm tired if having to make decisions. i'm tired of the accusations of what-might've-been, tired of the mirror and the clock. 

a full

grown woman who does not know the address of her husband or father or sister or brother. if i sometimes feel sorry for myself, excuse me. be graceful and benevolent. as much as you are able. 

"who do you need, who do you love when you come undone?"

my eyes fire at the memory of scruffy necks and large hands and hard cocks and loud music playing, a soft bed and a stopped clock, enough booze to kill a regular human or a small horse... just get me out of myself. just let me be myself and let me feel accepted and loved and wanted and let it last for more than one fucking night. 

fact #75

one need not feel bad about the ever-present, realistic need to perform checks and balances. 

you, i, anyone

we are not beholden to keep rolling down the hill of the familiar. 

fact #74

i miss what we didn't become. 

catching glimpses along the way,

i clung to possibility and potential.

making a dream die

requires a death in me.

i feel the dying parts of who i'd set out to be. 

fact #73

the only real philosophers are orphans. 

fact #72

it isn't true what they've said. it isn't true at all, thought they continue to say it. in fact, it's been said so often, it's become an obnoxious cliche and every time i hear someone actually push this phrase out of their mouth, as if it isn't a total lie or is even marginally helpful, it takes all i've got not to roll my eyes so hard i snap my own neck. 

"Whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger." 

even typing this insipid phrase makes me nauseous. i can attest to the fact that experiences which did not kill me, but which could have due to their severity or brutality or even just the slow, chipping away of the Self over time, did not make me stronger. these events might not have killed me, but they have undeniably resulted in an increased fragilty; my original strength having been spent and my resilience depleted. 

some things take much more courage, fortitude, or a higher tolerance for pain (physical or psychic) to survive than we like to admit. and, even if one does bounce back, it is often true that the pain of such an experience is so great that it creates a fundamental and lasting change. sometimes, this change is a the development of a fatal flaw, an achillie's heel, a site of weakness or instability which one did not previously possess. an event which results in the creation of such a weakness may not have been deadly the first time around but has an increased likelihood of being exactly that should there be a Round 2.

Familiar

There’s this little squirrel that runs back and forth across the powerlines outside my window. All day, back and forth. His tail, damaged, short and sparse. And I wonder if it’s due to the track he takes, an electrical event which has robbed him of his plume. But there he goes again, sure-footed along a dangerous line, a high-wire act that leaves me speechless. Why not abandon the familiar and take to the trees, little guy? The sting and singe he’s known somehow safer than reaching out for the nearby, unknown branch.

fact #71

maybe i don't even care to be liked.

i care to be loved. 

fact #70

good days are so goddamn good

fact #69

there is no longer any part of me that feels like a daughter. 

fact #68

funny how things just turn off...

fact #67

i've been an incredible asshole. 

fact #66

everyone is adept at finding a train of reason that lets them off the hook. 

you.

me.

and false logic is a thing. 

fact #65

writing doesn't have to be anything more than a way to reconcile oneself to one's Past. 

fact #64

unhealed, deepening resentments or feelings of victimization lead to habits of animosity that are tantalizing, hard to resist, and easy to excuse oneself for.

the cycle of hurt continues. the band plays on

fact #63

shared oblivion is not a bonding mechanism. 

there you each are, alone inside your individual experiences of escape. 

fact #62

today, i learned i can go 10 years without seeing someone and not miss them any less. 

fact #61

grace is not perfection. 

fact #60

i am aware of my moments of cowardice, as they are occurring. i either talk myself out of the correctness of the emotion, making extrapolations and excuses, or i sit with the emotion and let the anvil of it bear down on my heart. every now and then, some sort of false childhood lesson pops up and complicates these moments but, in general, my experience of my own cowardice is correct and here's the deal: when one feels themself slide into cowardice, that is the call to action. that is the moment to stand rather than slump. that is the instinct meant to call your Better Angel forth. 

and so i accept that if i am able to correctly identify moments of my own cowardice 99% of the time, so, too, can others. whether or not one answers the call to amend their own behavior in the moment of experiencing this emotion (an instinct to ethical dealing) is a choice. having a substantial enough apparatus of integrity necessary to enacting that change might be the real issue, but responding to the initial call to combat ones own cowardice with real movement (in deed and word) in an ethical direction is one of the big methods by which that apparatus is built.