•block•

 

The writer is blocked. The writer decides to write about being blocked. The writer's brain does not enjoy having it's hand forced and retaliates. Where do we go from here?

(Honest to gods, I'm fine.  I'm just having a strange week.  Can I blame the continuing proximity to xmas?  I'm going to, regardless of how you answer, FYI.)

lies in the headspace

 I don't recommend reading this.  I'm not being facetious.  It's under two slides of trigger warnings for a reason.  I don't really think this should exist, and the likelihood that I'm going to delete it is pretty damn good.

Update: Well. When I wrote this piece, I initially psyched myself to post, and ran away. I fully expected that I'd come back in a few hours and indeed delete out of pure angst and self-consciousness. I did not expect to have it resonate with so many people. And I most definitely did not expect for it to facilitate a few very real and much needed conversations. Thank you, every single one of you that even read this piece. It means more than I can say ❤ And no, I am not deleting. 

The answer to the question is no.

 

•non-lucid dream•

 •non-lucid dream•

i need to stop dreaming about you
i don't know if this is a poem or a spell
but i'm setting my intentions regardless
i'll throw some herbs and stones at it
covering my bases, all for good measure?
i need a solution, a resolution,
i need to be f i n i s h e d 
i keep cauterizing these broken connections
but they just won't stop bleeding
and the constant irritation of anticipation,
this ever-present sense of waiting
it's more tension than i can house
a little more stress to top up the tank
and whoops, here we are, overflowing again
can i set fire to this spreading puddle?
the smell is wrong, but it's pink like gasoline
is that enough? it ought to be enough
i need to stop dreaming about you
and i'm telling you, i'm telling the Universe
that this, here, is my breaking point
i can't afford to cover your rent on my emotions
the fees are too much, and it's way past time
for you, to get the fuck out of my head

•i hate the word together•

funerals

if

please reply

Dear Mom,

I know you thought it was stupid how people wrote happy birthday posts to dead loved ones on social media.  "People don't care about birthdays when they're dead.  And they're surely not checking facebook!"

Yeah, I know.  It's the new version of talking to gravestones (Yes, I know you thought that was stupid, too.  That's why I phrased it that way).  But, the thing is, I finally kind of get the mentality.  Maybe those people are alone, and not sitting well with it.  Maybe they don't have anyone they feel they can grieve with.  Maybe their loss is still too big to be contained.

I don't want to tell you happy birthday. 

I wanna tell you how hard this year has been.  And all the stupid shit that's happened.  I want to tell you that I feel stuck, and I don't know how to get out.  I wanna tell you that I'm scared, nearly every day, waiting for the next catastrophe, and they seem to always come.  I wanna ask you where the fuck your keys and and my damn birth certificate are.  I wanna tell you that I haven't managed to burn the house down (yet), but it came close a couple times. I want to ask you to hug Mamma for me, to tell Nothing and Elwood how much I miss them.  I want to tell you to ask Dad what the hell that weird noise is that the car is making.

Only...really, I don't want to tell you anything.  I just want you to hug me and tell me everything is gonna be okay, even if it's not. 

when the writing prompts get out of hand

{I've been playing around with randomized prompts, and bits of short fiction.  So when I pulled "violin" and "person covered in tattoos" this was definitely not what I meant or wanted to write.}

Ink & Strings

I am not who I thought I would be. Neither violinist nor person covered in tattoos. Do I want to be either? Yes and no. Had I had the money to spare in my late teens, early twenties, late twenties, early thirties, etc etc etc I might have gotten a lot of tattoos that I thought I needed--hard emphasis on “thought”--instead of the one acquired at 42. I have a list now. Of need versus want...and still no funds to accomplish it.  So, I could have been covered in tattoos, though they’d have been the wrong ones.

As for the violinist...as I write this, I sit under an antique violin case hung on the wall. An odd sort of family heirloom gifted to my father by the doctor who delivered him. It is not strung. It has not been played within my lifetime. It hangs on the wall, where it has been for as long as I’ve known it; not even a decoration, just a thing we had. A prop for a story. Valued...but in an arbitrary sort of way.

I would have loved to have taken lessons in my youth. But it was another thing we couldn’t afford, and the violin itself another low priority “should”. As in, “We should get someone to check it out.” “We should see if it’s still playable.” “We should see about getting it restrung.”

When I was a child I thought all of these should statements were things we were going to do. That’s what “should” means in that context, right? Something that you should do is important...?

As an adult, I think should is a curse word. Not like saying fuck or bullshit. A true curse.

I’ve been beaten down by so many years of “it should work” or “we should be able to do it”, “we should be okay on the bills”, “the life insurance should pay out”, “we should be able to get the car fixed this time”, and my all time favorite: “meh, it should be fine”. I flinch every time someone says it anymore. And I cringe and chastise myself on the rare occasion that it comes out of my mouth.

Maybe somewhere in an alternate universe there is a woman who looks like me. Maybe she is healthy and less angsty, and not crippled by depression and anxiety. Maybe she isn’t scarred by cursed words. Maybe she isn’t alone. Maybe she is calloused from years of the pressure of strings, and inked with artwork, only a few of which she feels the barest twinges of regret for. Maybe she has a safe stable house that she loves. Maybe she has a dog, or a cat, or a ferret. Maybe she has a husband or wife or both. And maybe they all have family dinners every month with both blood and bound.

Maybe she has occasional nightmares of another woman, one with her face, but none of her charm. Nights where she wakes in tears, and becomes angry with her bedmate for not understanding why the idea of “everything staying the same” is so heart wrenching. Nights where she wants more than anything to go back into the dream, to hug that other woman and tell her everything will be alright. But she’s also glad that she’s awake, that they are just dreams. Because she doesn’t really believe that it can be okay.

.contrary.

just FOCUS, please

Y'know those competition cooking shows where they throw together a tag team of people who don't work well together?  And the one actually working is just trying their best to muddle along?  While the other is screaming half formed instructions because they know exactly how to do the thing but really really suck at articulating it?  And everything ends up messy and all over the place because the person on the sidelines can't explain multitasking and the person cooking can't think about what they need to do while their partner is shrieking partial sentences and demands at them?

My brain is the one frustrated and yelling from the sidelines today.  And I'm the one frozen and scattered because I can't do ALL OF THE THINGS AT ONCE.

okay.

Y'ever have one of those days/weeks/lifetimes when you are feeling so stressed and overwhelmed and alone that it kind of plateaus into some sort of bizarre false zen and everything is just seriously really FINE?  Yeah.  About that.