This week is a busy week for people whose birthday is or was February 22, starting with Zookie, who has known me since I was born or before I was born if it is possible to know collective consciousness then well yes, Zookie would be on that list. I never called her because I couldn’t find her number which I thought I had but have not yet located.
The years of disarray, the illness, the betrayal, the infinite anguish I endured just saddens me. the thought haunts me that the ‘therapist’ i turned to to help me sort out my fucked-uped-ness so i could have a chance of surviving til my 75th birthday god-willing, another 1/3 is about right I think i have about that much in me to contribute — if I am lucky i will be like Barry, my dad, who was still alive a year ago.
The pit of my stomach drops a bit, my throat is sore — I smoke too much, which is funny, I never was a smoker, I was so healthy, my life has run the gamut, I have embraced it all. Now I just wish to lift the senseless anxiety – I no longer want to compete for what should be mine – or yours – or whose better at what? Kissing ass is the name of the game and the politics usurped the skill. I don’t honestly know what was wrong with me and I can only assume there must have been something because I finally can acknowledge that my intelligence and talent should have placed me in a much higher ‘category’ of whatever realm I was in by now instead of the constant insecurity.
I just can’t take the misunderstanding anymore. The clearly spoken and precisely said words being heard/translated/believed to be other than their meaning and somehow my emotional fortitude has gotten me only to the spot I most believed in – only because it was the bottom. The aloneness. Caring for mountain goats up somewhere that by now will be more of a sad thing than anything I could have imagined at 15.
I wanted nothing of this — the badness I have seen and known. I could have been one of those professors in the country, had a family and raised horses and been very happy. Instead how the fuck did I get here? I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. It all bores me. All I ever seem to feel is overwhelmed at how much I have to pull together — and somehow find a way to find a way to be someone someone wants to hire – because I honestly don’t know and that’s the scary part, at 50. I guess before I embraced the chaos but now it just feels well not that interesting and I just want meager ability to count on if I show up and do something that is of service–and I’m pretty sure I can contribute. I just can’t pitch myself to anyone.
Too tired. Too much to sort and mail and get birthday cards to my uncle in the mail – I think it’s too heavy for regular stamps so god-forbid I have to go to the Burlington Post Office tomorrow. Plus my mom’s card, she’s his twin. My brother’s twins’ birthday is today – their cards are late. I also stupidly suggested a telescope to which my usually no thanks brother said great idea which obligates me – in my own mind – to follow through.
What would I like to do?
Immerse myself in some very complicated literary and history study; cultural anthropology; teach 56-75 some decent college; next 5 years, get these projects off the ground, their marketable i just can’t do it alone so I guess that’s the thing and I’m not sure how to really go about that so instead I am just going to stick with chores, errands and things like this http://kadavy.net/blog/posts/the-10-minute-hack/
Since I can’t find the meditation that I downloaded and then got barraged about doing my healing reading which wasn’t exactly the only thing in front of my brain – the whole thing is mish mash that I’m not sure can ever be clear enough for a person who was so paint-by-numbers, I could do anything I set my mind to at one point in my life. I know that.
I guess I know that.
Because even as I say that I think – wait a minute – no – because you would not be here, so out of sorts, no novel, no autobiography, prolific in a messy sort of a way. A focus, an aesthetic, no problem. The whole women whining thing a set back perhaps, being gen-x, being a nomad, as my father called me, all those wrapped into one. Being doggedly loyal, very slow to learn that you should quit while you’re ahead with some people, I bleed dry and then somehow am resurrected.
i used to think i was the chosen one.
this was supposed to be about the 7 birthdays (following several last week too) this week – i know a lot of Pisces. they are so emotional compared to my leo sun fired virgo cool scorpio restless gaze upon the universe only to know more than i can articulate and in a method of delivery outside the pre-set categories, which has always been the problem which is why i think i could go away from society and live out my days. this is why i am struggling so hard to take care of business — the unraveling of my life started so long ago, but most directly associated with becoming ‘freelance’ that I feel compelled to write my cautionary tale for the millennials to avoid the pitfalls that elizabeth warren just outlined to a tee–my life. I fall in line with those in Detroit — except this Flint massacre is a new low and that is where my heart wants to go – can I find a way to make a living a way to support myself humbly follow? Oh please god that would be all i ask to tell the stories the way they aren’t being told and just be able to not have to be fucking running scared in the same way as i was over the past 5 years of hellish bosses and people who used me up big time.
tomorrow i have to mail the other twins’ cards.
and here I am emoting
hoping no one reads this, really
but this is where i tell the story of my emotional coming together
my mind is not the enemy
nor is my heart
everyone is trying to help
i broke down today again badly i went there there is no point to me – it’s easy to argue from a purely empirical data way
no one depends on my
my existence is genetically null
that is hard to take sometimes
when I am not leaving behind
any tome to
the depth of the existence
i have actually lead
i feel – overwhelmed
without the ability to really focus
i guess without that balance
on the other side
and I am just divided
and I am tired of that
and I don’t even know how much of this is actually true–and what that even means. I know I mean everyword I say right now but it’s like the truth serum of various substances, pain in my wrists (from writing on the laptop versus the planet of the apes opposable thumb callous i had going on the iphone ipad writing combo – and just the press of time always time time time running out)
Well it already ran out on me for having kids, then my career just went poof, I shit you not, I really didn’t do anything wrong, it was so weirdly political and out of control I had no other option than to take a look at why I was constantly being abused in an industry where to speak up was sure sudden death – but what happened anyway? I got fucked over by bit players and for some reason an editor thought he could slander me and make me lose a job which is illegal by the way by actually recounting a rumor that was a lie. This saddens me.
And so I remind myself of the mantras Progress not perfection
Try not to remember that I cried for 45 minutes and was so distraught
that everything seemed to backtrack
no matter what I do I am a mess
and I was so not a mess…was that just because I was so tightly wound to cover up the wounds of all the secret scars being imposed for too many years? is it to late to unravel and re-bandage up to heal? should it just become some other form of numb?
I don’t know.
I doubt I’ll do the 10 min hack tomorrow in a few hours (I am either constantly anxious like right now with a mix of creative inspiration and dread) or I’m very focused on cleaning or cooking or trying to organize all the paperwork when I feel like Robert DeNiro in Brazil. So that’s a struggle and avoidance piles up.
The lack of focus is not my style either but I’m pretty sure I have cultural ADD.
And worst of all how am I to get over this “poverty consciousness” thing when I KNOW ALL too well that it’s a real thing. Not manifestation. I’m not doing enough — enough of what I don’t know because I’d gladly do it! I submit resumes, I look for jobs — but you have to filter the infinite listings to key words and nothing fits and you waste time and get older and then find yourself developing an anxiety disorder you never had before and that alternates with paralyzing depression, the effects of 46 of repeated emotional trauma, the therapist said.
I guess I will try not to feel like a loser when I can’t do that super-dude’s ten minute life hack when I wake up a few hours from now (I don’t sleep much when I am worried like this –but then I will crash and sleep for a long time when I can relax) – i did sleep in until 1030 am to day and it’s hot in that room – i don’t like feeling scattered and that’s exactly what it feels like and I don’t know really how to fix it – am i just being impatient? Am I that stuck on some aspect of nothingness?
I have been making progress — I have. I just can’t believe how extreme the pain must have been for me to pull a 180 from responsible about everything to can’t keep up with taxes and all the other financial vampire tactics once i lost that first job after 9-11. Never really recovered. But I never really had the mentor a woman with my talent and temperament (I’m not the most politically-minding when in comes to internal games–I find that to be a waste, however I am finely attuned to the forces of the outer enemy, of which I’ve come to find are the majority of the people I’ve worked with.
This is raw, uncensored, needs an edit, but I had to say I am disappointed in myself that I cried so hard to day and it was for long enough to go the the dark place i don’t want to go but honestly i need some help here. i just need some work to do some one must know of something i can offer of i will end up not well because i’m the kind of person who needs a purpose
and checking my email isn’t it
and trying to find the mediation mp4 file i paid for but can’t remember where it downloaded
or the fact that i bought a sketchbookbut i’m a sucky artist
that i have notes all over the place
and it all just represents wasted time to me and that makes me very very sad
We talk too much, Miranda, her feverish sister Sasha said, in her low voice, no secrets come out without silence.
I do. Somehow I’ve come to believe that the last thing a writer or any artist thinks about is to make himself comfortable while he’s working. Perhaps the discomfort is a bit of an aid or stimulus. Men who can afford to work under better conditions often choose to work under miserable conditions.
He had cited his favorite writer, well at least for now, Sampson was irresistible and he knew it and felt guilty and ashamed of his unabashed pheremones and good breeding (his mother was an angel with a pixie wit and his father was some sort of apostle hero who was actually his uncle because his father turns out was some sort of wandering bipolar didn’t know it cad…and hence, this is how I revisit Perseus, Medusa (the new Molly) and the myths of a new generation based on the hidden meanings in the ancient revolving door myths:
In 1939 he went to Greece to visit Lawrence Durrell; his sojourn there provides the narrative basis of The Colossus of Maroussi. Cut off by the war and forced to return to America, he made the yearlong odyssey recorded in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. Then in 1944 he settled on a magnificent empty stretch of California coast, leading the life described in Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch.Now that his name has made Big Sur a center for pilgrimage, he has been driven out and is once again on the move.
I think these questions are meaningless. What does it matter how long it takes to write a book?
From the meaningless questions to the imagination of the future:
Imagine if sixty years ago, at the start of my writing career, I had thought to write a story about a woman who swallowed a pill and destroyed the Catholic Church, causing the advent of women’s liberation. That story probably would have been laughed at, but it was within the realm of the possible and would have made great science fiction. If I’d lived in the late eighteen hundreds I might have written a story predicting that strange vehicles would soon move across the landscape of the United States and would kill two million people in a period of seventy years. Science fiction is not just the art of the possible, but of the obvious. Once the automobile appeared you could have predicted that it would destroy as many people as it did.
I read everything by Robert Heinlein and Arthur Clarke, and the early writings of Theodore Sturgeon and Van Vogt—all the people who appeared inAstounding Science Fiction—but my big science-fiction influences are H. G. Wells and Jules Verne. I’ve found that I’m a lot like Verne—a writer of moral fables, an instructor in the humanities. He believes the human being is in a strange situation in a very strange world, and he believes that we can triumph by behaving morally. His hero Nemo—who in a way is the flip side of Melville’s madman, Ahab—goes about the world taking weapons away from people to instruct them toward peace.
I often use the metaphor of Perseus and the head of Medusa when I speak of science fiction. Instead of looking into the face of truth, you look over your shoulder into the bronze surface of a reflecting shield. Then you reach back with your sword and cut off the head of Medusa. Science fiction pretends to look into the future but it’s really looking at a reflection of what is already in front of us. So you have a ricochet vision, a ricochet that enables you to have fun with it, instead of being self-conscious and superintellectual.
The experience of great loss appears frequently in his work.
He recently told me he still lives by his lifelong credo, “Jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.”
Francesca’s knees are bruised, from bashing into the car door-steering wheel combo as the Jehovah’s Witness chased her to her father’s Honda, a stoic vehicle in the Ohio snow. The other from the Icelandic Vodka, two brands, his girlfriend supplied in happier times.
She wondered if she was technically a drunk if it was only vodka and only on designated new moons in certain time zones. Who was she kidding? She was a wreck. A train wreck, in a minor key.
Someone said that all the time every night. Do you think he ever got tired of his tagline? Do you think it caused that extra-maddening hard-hitting slam of the glass on the mahogany bar wedged into the corner of John Cassavetes mind meld. I can actually see it in my mind.
Why do things end up this way? What am I doing and have I done, so wrong?
And here it goes, again.
Unanswerable questions. And everything I do is wrong.
I am a Johnny Cash song.
My life is nothing more than tragedy
At the hands of fallacy
And here I go
100 more words to go to get thru this and who will even care when all is said and done? I wish I had is overwrought and, like Bukowski, Poe or Baudelaire, all I want to do is get drunk.
In any creative discipline, commercial success is a double-edged sword: On the one hand, it activates “the winner effect,” the well-documented psychological phenomenon wherein success breeds more success, or, as Michael Lewis put it, “commercial success makes [things easier], and it also creates pressure to be more of a commercial success”; on the other hand, it tips the scales of productivity and presence in an unfavorable direction, catalyzing the compulsion to produce yet more work in order to maintain the already-attained success and gain more, in the process withering the capacity to actually enjoy it.