Throwing hopeful stones 

When I am in the air and you look up,  I’m thinking of you. Not *exactly *you, but someone like you. Maybe purely based on odds, I think of exactly the human you are. Stranger things happen daily,I  assure you. 

My point I’m rambling towards is this:  when I’m on a plane,  I think of someone on the ground hoping to get out of where or whatever they’re going through, because I used to be a little person  looking up at planes and jets and vapor trails, hoping someone was thinking about me. Hoping some window opened up a wider world,throwing my thoughts ( and prayers to any form of god who might pick up the signal) into the unknown blue.

I keep my heart open when I fly so that maybe (if there’s as much strange magic as I believe there is) if you think up to the sky and I think down, my open heart can catch your hopes and carry them a little farther.

You never know. 

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Fact. 

There’s a possibility I cannot believe in absolute truth : There’s no book I take as gospel and there’s been next to nothing I am comfortable fully subscribing to, other than the little voice of self and whatever names I give to private gods I hesitate to call my own. 

Knowledge moves so quickly now and the dissemination of bullshit and fact at light speed. The future of faith as I  see it, is to embrace factual Flux. Keep hitting refresh.

I think.

Ask me on Tuesday. 

I’m in Banff right now, and it looks a lot like this.

Books as a metaphor, or something

I’ve always loved myself, once I learnt what that meant. I certainly wasn’t raised with that idea: I was raised from the school of thought that value is earned, that certain people are born with more value than others and that I was one of those with lesser value. (“you’re pretty, but we’ll not say that, wouldn’t want you to think you’re more than you are, you can ruin people by telling them you love them too much”) and from an early point I understood that this was in fact, stupid, despite many attempts to convince me otherwise.

Still, I’ve loved myself.

I’ve loved the fire that rose up through my chest and through the top of my head like the eye of gods, I guess that’s called inspiration.

Because I wasn’t supposed to.

(You couldn’t tell a child-sized me how I was supposed to be, any more than you can tell the wind to not blow the dust around)

Because I was what I had.

Because when I was crazy, I knew it. (When I was crazy, I was like a bullet  crashing through other people’s lives and they loved me, even as the havoc occurred and bones (often mine) broke, even as I couldn’t stop the disaster and hated them for not seeing,) I loved myself a little, even when I hated myself, when I wasn’t trying to die. Somehow I left that part behind, even though I’m saddled with regret from all the damage I caused in peoples lives.

I love myself because when I should have fractured a hundred thousand times or collapsed like some 5-foot-4 black hole, I had the innate sense to hold the pieces of my soul together.

It is because I have loved myself truly and honestly, that when someone holds me in their hands like a book with scars in its leather, I am confident that he will read the book all the way to the end.

A girl has no name

The results of my tests from 23andme tests should be back any time, and  I’ve been nervous for reasons I don’t completely understand . What is it that I’m afraid of, what answer do I not want?

I do not expect answers to my genealogy: I don’t expect anything but to see that I am 1/100th everything.
This entry was intended to be much longer, more obnoxiously introspective and witty. Instead, I did average things we all do. Make the cat a vet appointment( he grinds his teeth), pick up a check, pick up Alvin, make dinner for him and my *lovely friend. Apply assorted creams. Worry about millennial/human/american things. Tomorrow, I’ll return here with something more.. Something. 

For now,  I must spend precious dozens of minutes of gazing at imgur and drooling gently into a pillow.

Goodnight, you voyeurs. I love you. Most of you.

*you’re lovely even when you leave sad, lonely boxes stranded in the living-room.

 

I come to you from the stripped-down carcass of our apartment in the still-wee (7 am ) hours of the morning, having taken a break from scraping the cat-hair off of everything. I’ve realized there’s  enough excess cat/husband hair to construct a sort of cat-husband Gollum, should I need a Gollum whose  sole purpose was being hungry/hairy/making puns. I don’t.

NOW.

In the past week we’ve had an earthquake in Mexico. Hurricane Irma. Hurricane Harvey, (cute af old people names now ruined forever) and we don’t know what hurricane Jose is going to do to the already devastated areas. Myanmar is on the *brink of genocide. North Korea continues waving around its cock. America flops its tangerine penis back.

Equifax accidentally gave away all our social security numbers, oopsy.

Tee-shirts under tank-dresses have returned to fashion

Clearly it is the end of days. If I were a  religious fanatic, or even just  a reasonably  religious person who took the bible as the word of the Lort Gawd, I think I’d be shitting myself right now because this is some unprecedented BULLSHIT.

Back to cat-hair.

Stay woke,

Dez

 

*and some of us liberal Americans are still shocked that Buddhists kill people. It’s always about the religion in power. All religion is eventually used to oppress.

 

 

 

 

I used to be a teenage edgelord

A few days ago, when I was young and innocent and didn’t know that the Sarahha app was trying to just get permission to steal of  all our address books, I got a message through there from Jared, asking me when I was going to write again.
The answer to that is now.

While  thinking about Jareds in general, I realize that I know a pair of them. 

I know band Jared and I knows Zahzen Jared. 

  1. Further introspection lead me to the realization that both Jareds  are Band Jared. 

Portland Band Jared might also be zen Jared. I dunno yer life like that, Portland Jared. 

You guys would probably dig each other. You’re both friendly, rad, and dare I say, mildly depressive guys.

In the past month I become increasingly bored of my life. It’s taking a lot of examination to leave me to the conclusion that one of the reasons I’m bored is because I quit drinking. I’m basically having to relearn how to be the person that I am without alcohol. It’s harder to meet people. It’s harder to connect. I’ve never been a sit  home and knit kind of girl, I’m social and add my best Dynamic, and at my worst, manic.

This shit’s hard and I feel so uninspired. I feel like my life is blowing past me while at the same time feeling that I blew through years of my life the wrong way, and all of this is much harder to say out loud than you think. Have any of ya’ll quit drinking and felt like that? Have any of ya’ll quit anything and felt like that? I think in our society, and intoxicants definitely serve a purpose. I just can’t the intoxicants that is alcohol, because we all have demons and the demons that come out when I’m drinking are nihilistic bastards.

That’s where I am right now. Also right now, I’m outside vaping. I bought a smök because I’m trying to quit smoking cigarettes. I still want that nicotine delivery system. I feel a little bit douchey using the device, so I named it  Rachel in hopes of avoiding ever having to use the words”vape stick” or God forbid,” vaporizer”.

I really been slacking off in the writing of anything lately, and I’m not particularly cohesive.

Myself and Alvin are moving within the week, and in between finalizing all of the packing and genuinely kind of loathing myself for being so boring, I’ll muster the focus to sit down and write something moderately enjoyable.

I’ll talk to you then, assuming that we’re all still here caught up in this plane of existence.

Ciao, fuckers

When the wind dances with the water, you can move the world across the ocean

 I’m fearful of sounding cliche. I’ve ingested enough words from enough people who wrote better than I would ever write ,( if I died and came back around the wheel as a writer.) that I feel anything I have to say has been said better by someone else, a thousand times over. 

Now that I’ve gotten that disclaimer out of the way, this:

Sometimes when I look at my husband’s face, it feels in my heart like he is the ocean. Vast and dark and knowable, but difficult and filled with secret movements. 

Then I remember that I am the wind,and I move freely over the surface of the deep. 

Bound 

Nearly all of my comfort has always stemmed from my acceptance of my discomfort. Pain has always served as the invisible needle binding the fabric of myself to the backing of reality. I’m not speaking of the pain that we choose, but of the pain that I cannot avoid. 
Nerve pain, joint pain, the weight of mistakes. These are the things that bind me to the world and keep me from floating away.

Where I have found acceptance, I have always found joy.

The best ever deathmetal band outta Denton

My hair curls up too much for convention on one side of my face while the other hangs straight, as if its  decided to represent differing parts of my genetic make-up. It is yet to be seen how business will go today, so I’m writing this behind the bar. I’m feeling nostalgic and thinking about my cousin with her, long straight blonde hairs, always dyed an extraordinary colour ( long before galaxy hair entered the pop-culture zeitgeist) and the tattoos of gentle things up and down her arms and chest. I wonder if she ever got a “bake cake” knuckle tattoo, but all my Instagram stalking won’t reveal that, TBH.

We didn’t make good friends after childhood. We didn’t make good friends as children. Family forced us together, and as adults it  was me who forced us apart.

I still love you ,Jasmine, and when I find your name on those stupid name-license-plates, laughter comes up.

Also and more aggressively present in my mind is   that it’s been 4 years since the man who taught me about Bukowski, made me love Radiohead and forced me (against my will, sometimes) to love myself passed. Memories come up out of nowhere and beat the dust off forgotten parts of my soul every year, about a month before this date. I feel dread when the radio plays, and a thousand little things that’d mean nothing to anyone else rip at me. My worry sometimes is that I’d turned the man the may have been one of the most militant of Atheists into an Idol in my one mind, some sort of Sacred Sad Boy.  He left a Tribe of us sad kids behind, missing him and (in my case) consumed with the fear that we could’ve stopped something, but did not.

I hope he was wrong sometimes, about everything ending in nothing.

(we all hope for what we need)

I hope he’s somewhere happily scattered around the universe so that he can see that when lights explode in the American night sky in the beginning of the summer heat, His tribe (all scattered ) look up , and see him though all the smoke and dust and brilliance.

Happy July Fourth.

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