The perks of being.

If you’re about my age, (which is around thirty) there’s a heavy chance The Perks of being a Wallflower smacked you hard right in your baby teen heart. There’s a line on page two or(I think, maybe totally wrong )three that says …

“So this is my life. I want you to know that I am both happy and sad at the same time and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.”

It’s taken me years, but I think I’ve begun to stop trying to dissect the fact that I’m both profoundly sad and lonely and happy all at once. My heart is home to an ever-expanding universe of love and compassion. I don’t know where all the love I hold originated.

Did I manifest this on my own because I am trying to make my world worth living in, or is it synapses firing without regard to their actual jobs in my brain, changing my thought process? Is it a lie I’m being told by my own brain?

I’ve holed up inside my head so long, digging myself apart and desperate to understand my brain. I pour dozens of scholarly articles and research papers into into it, week after week. I when I was younger, I consumed Timothy Leary, I read Aldous Huxley . I expand my mind and walk down rabbit holes of wonder. I’ve seen shrinks, been through CBT(it’s a wonder) and I’ve gone to see people who claim to be able to see into the universe.I can see myself as an old person, seeking until the end forever.

The ability to love the world profoundly is my superpower, and has likely saved my life . That huge love I have for the world enables me to escape and (sometimes) over-ride that shitty, symbiotic blackness of profound sadness and physical pain of heartbreak I feel daily with no logical reason. I made a personal choice in my very early twenties to not become a part of that blackness that runs though my being; to not let it consume me, but I fight back against it every day. Sometimes, I fight it even to get out of bed or the house or to speak to anyone but my spouse and the one other person I know who gets what this is like, living with that blackness.

Because I know I love the way I do, because I know how deep my sadness runs, I love everyone on the surface, from cat on the street to the lady who owns Veros in Sj. On the other hand, I only allow myself to people I can trust, and despite years of trying to de-program myself, those people are very few.

I don’t know why I’m writing about this right now when I feel like I should be writing about politics, but I don’t want to spend that mental energy when there’s a riot going on inside me. I’ll do that later, when I feel like I’ve composed my opinions solidly, and I don’t sound like some of the rage I’m feeling about the current state of my own country and the world.

I don’t think Americans are very good about talking about love. I think we’re very good at talking about sex and thinking we’re very good at talking about our feelings. But people from the generation underneath us, they’re starting to talk about love in a healthier way, and I personally believe that love and physical touch can be completely separate from sex and I hate the way our culture has mushed them together. Hug someone out there today. Tell someone you don’t fuck you love them. Hug someone.

please.

So this is my life. I want you to know that I am both happy and sad at the same time and…

for now I just know I’m being

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Militant dandelion

I’m standing at the top of Bishop’s Peak, eating a mango like an apple. My backpack is painted in dust with a suggestion pasted to it suggesting correctly that (for me) ‘death can wait’. I am crusted in dirt and a sunscreen resemblent of a thick, white paste not unlike like Elmer’s Glue. I’m basically in my underwear, drinking a tepid combination of water and sugar free monster from a canteen covered with stickers bearing slogans about feminist topics and one or two from the Airfield Supply Company, Twitter, and various breweries. I look like freckled, happy Delores Park Trash. The beautiful blonde Cal Poly kids that started the same time as me, just reached the summit and look like death, with their collapsed and sunburned little shoulders.

I feel great. I could keep going, like a small, disheveled mountain sprite .

~~~~~~~Later

I made it down.

On the descent, the rocks were too hot to touch and the dirt radiated heat back up at me, like an asshole. An asshole complicit with the sun.

I need food.

Bishop’s Peak, you’re a beautiful thing.

Cymbalta: a terrible party for your brain. Also, cat litter.

A few months back, a doctor placed me on Cymbalta as part of a course intended to help alleviate some of the nerve and back pain, because I am not living my best life with this ish.

This is the previously mentioned doctor of the rather pretty Russian accent who told me I had fibromyalgia. I very likely do not have fibromyalgia, but do have severe spinal issues.

So of course the Cymbalta worked wonderfully and a great impact on my mental well-being. Right?

Well fuck no, it didn’t work for anything barring me flatulating so so so so much that I had to run all over the place at work in order to not just have a giant stink Cloud around me. (That is the least favourable Cloud to have surrounding you when bartending, BTW.) It also interacts SO BADLY with alcohol. So. Bad.

Ive spent 2 months tapering off of Cymbalta, first going from 60 down to 30, then staying on 30 and coming off. The withdrawal. From this medication is absolutely nightmarish:

here’s a fact-checked article about some of the side effects, many of which I am experiencing.

Just, For the Love of fuck, if your doctor suggests Cymbalta for whatever reason, Especially if she suggests flippantly, then insists that it will definitely work off-label for some unrelated shit, run like fuck You Beautiful bitch because this is garbage.

Speaking of garbage:

My little tabby, Hermes, just walked up my back as I write this from a somewhat tortured version of child’s pose. I now have blue bits kitty litter gently sprinkled on my back. Litter boxes are garbage. There has to be a more effective way of not constantly having your house covered and a thin layer of crystals that may have cat piss on them. Someone desperately needs to invent a better litter box.

I’ve not been very good at writing anything at all lately. My brain isn’t working at top speed, and I honestly have a lot of stuff to do. That last line is a frequently used excuse for not writing. If you want to write, you’re going to write. I just have to get better at making myself, and somehow finding a way to do it whilst Cymbalta withdrawal throws a terrible terrible party in my brain.

Tonight I’m headed over to dinner at a friend’s house with my husband, and in the morning on Saturday, I’m driving to San Luis Obispo to hike and experience an actual Beach.

” Well, doesn’t the San Francisco Bay Area have beaches?”Is something I imagine you asking…

Why yes, yes we do if you enjoy cold, somewhat rock-bedazzled beaches that are mostly for bonfires and walking dogs. San Francisco bay area beaches are pretty similar 2 East Coast beaches: Rocky, full of dogs(bonus) and really great for sitting, staring and pouting. Not so great for being half-naked and playing volleyball, which is the kind of beach that I like to interact with.

So. San Luis Obispo, because I want to be around warm nature, and also because I want to be alone and write a tonne of words that I’ll probably delete.

All right. I have to pack. I love you, and remember:

Dissent is patriotic, organization is key to proper Revolution, and for fucksake, don’t climb the Statue of Liberty, that does literally nothing.

Peace.

There are two instances where I believe it’s totally acceptable to create or experience your own reality: one is your spiritual life, and the other is anytime you’re under the influence of hallucinogenic *medicines.

At all other points in time, Reality is the truth. Truth is based on facts.

We’re living in a world of our own creation, where facts are being twisted it is something utterly ridiculous, and a lot of times, I think we just go along believing them because we like the rhetoric. This is bullshit, friends.

Get the facts. Know them, remember the truth and hold the truth inside your soul.

Y’know.. Don’t believe the hype, to quote Public Enemy.

Right now the American government is attempting to create its own reality. It’s attempting to dictate the news. There’s a laundry list of things happening right now, and I’m not going to go into them, because that’s not my point right now.

We must continue to live in reality.

Fact-check.

Be rational.

Act with our hearts open and our eyes clear.

I personally believe it’s my job to be the candle burning in the window and the light in a dark place. I’m still figuring out what that means in the middle of all this mess.

I love you, whoever you are, Wherever You Are.

Happy solstice. Remember to turn your face to the sun like a flower perhaps literally, but definitely figuratively.

* you’re not going to catch me referring to psychedelics or marijuana as drugs at any point in this blog.

Somewhere over Greenland.

The soul of humanity lies in quiet shadows of sadness in old mens eyes, so easily brighted by acknowledging what hides behind them. There’s softer thoughts than you’d expect, tucked away.

It lives in silent knowledge of other’s wounds.

It takes me by surprise on long flights, when everyone else sleeps and I stare at our shared moment, contained by a (possibly) decade-old metal tube somewhere over Greenland.

I’d like to think there is a great web of deities, all of different viewpoints preserving us, ever so slightly. My greatest fear is that we only have ourselves.

Humanity’s soul lives, planted in us all.

It thrives in kindness.

Please, let it thrive.

TimeemiT

I’m doing something I never do.

The  sun cuts through half-open blinds, and the not-yet setting light rays hits my seedlings,(or whatever you call plants that aren’t just sprouted , but too.. wobbly to really be plants) and  my bike,out on the patio. The torn-off fronts of craft coffee bags are tossed around me, and I’m trying to think of how to decoupage them onto the coffee table I’ve been covering for over a year. It’s nearly finished. Mr. Robot is on; I Remember  hearing  Pop Culture happy hour talk about it while I worked out at my old Gym in San Jose. I think that means this show came out in 2015?  It’s good so far. IMG_20180509_182340.jpg

I never watch anything new alone, because it almost feels meaningless to do so, somehow. I’d rather re-watch, but then I end up with pop-culture FOMO. I don’t sit on our couch at 7 pm and drink coffee and watch TV shows I haven’t watched before ,alone, as the light streams in through hanging blinds. I don’t do crafts instead of running errands, reading, or going to the gym, or any number of other things that keep my body and brain moving. I’m trying to slow down and be present.

I don’t think there’s even going to be enough time, somehow. I look at my husband and the sun and all the other brightest things I know, and think that.  I tell My husband this sometimes, Never enough. It’s possible he thinks I’m being morbid, but I hope he knows it’s just how deep down the love goes, how much deeper  I  go. Never enough time.

Maybe I’ll spend more time gluing hipster coffee bags to my coffee table.

Bruised fruit

Throughout my life,bruises have stood as shrines to the things I have loved that have hurt me.

I used to tear the skin off of my little kid shins while running through fence rows filled with blackberry vines, and then go home sticky with blood and joy, purple with juice and bruises.

I’ve had collections of Chartreuse and black bruises from falling down skateboarding, bruises from dancing, bruises from people who loved me, from people who hated me, uncomplicated bruises from sex that left me happy in the pit of myself  when I saw them. I’ve had several people’s share of the bruises from nights that are devoid of memories, nights when I’ve drunk so much I can’t remember details. Some of the things that have bruised me have almost destroyed my life.

The ones below are from trees. I’ve never been able to climb a tree and not be bruised like an apple. I will move my body ,coiling along the limbs and bruising my inner thighs, and slam my shins against the branches until they turn purple. I don’t know that it’s ever been comfortable to climb a tree, but it is joyful and invigorating and wild in a way often forgotten as an adult. So enjoy my bruises, because they will always be here, visible and vulgar.

Who invited all the damn crows

I dream almost every night, and for the past 3 months  I’ve tried with  a reasonable success rate to write down what happens when I’m asleep. This means that a black leather book lives beside my bed, it’s heart  filled with tiny scribbles of varying legibility, the messages running the gamut from seemingly symbol-Laden- probable gibberish, to complex storylines that feel like ghosts around the edges of my waking life. 
I write down my dreams in this book while my brain is in that hazy, San Francisco Fog State between asleep and awake  so I often have to go back and rewrite when fully awake. I feel like one’s brain starts to forget what happens in dream worlds very quickly so it’s important to do it as soon as possible.

Some patterns have emerged. I’ll highlight a few of them.

  • I dream about fully fleshed – out people with names. Sometimes I know them, often I don’t. 
  • I dream about sex  with women. (don’t we all) 
  • I dream in muted colours 
  • I have no idea what my face looks like, but I am very small, my hands remain the same: long, thin, and boney. Sometimes I am aware of my hair, which is long and in my way
  • I dream the same dreams often . Some of these dreams have been recurring since I was a child.
  • There are, so far as I can see, 5 worlds  that are connected to each other but don’t exist in the same time. They seem to be connected with a subway line of sorts that I can exit at any point, and the train is also a part of different times. My   real-life fascination with fashion seems to mean that my brain is created wardrobe as an identifier for time-period.The worlds are as follows :
  • An apartment where a number of people who reoccur in these dreams live. I don’t know how many floors it has but it seems endless and is More or less in the present. Sometimes there’s a fire pit in the common area. It’s very gray and always night. 
  • My own childhood time-period,during the late summer. 
  • A junkyard (I guess) but in a sort of soup ladle  shape, basically hanging in nothingness. 
  • The weird-ass Subway 
  • An old west construct.(this makes no sense because I have zero attachment to the Olde West, western films,ect. Even while I’m having the dream, I feel like “wtf is this corny ass shit”. 
  • Somewhere that that feels very old,  is slightly cold but not so cold that I am uncomfortable, and has no noticeable buildings. I have been inside structures on this world, but I couldn’t tell you what they look like from the outside. This is the one that bothers me because when I’m awake I feel like I remember it randomly and it makes me feel as that I’m out of time. It seems to be nothing  but trees and cliffs and I feel very very small, physically.

 Some other noticeable patterns are these:( at this point I’m going to point out that I practice lucid dreaming so I have decent amount of control in some situations. I’m not great at it and I’m off and lazy and don’t try to use it) 

  • So many crows, why all the crows. Who invited those  assholes. 
  • I am completely capable of using the internet in my dreams. Or at least my phone. I don’t see the face of it or anything but I know that I’m using it
  • Sometimes there are clear messages that are just one sentence. Sometimes these repeat themselves and they always make no sense within the context of what’s Happening
  • The most noticeable is this. I am helping people in my dreams. I am always helping people do something, find something,  get somewhere, Etc. Sometimes I know them, usually I don’t. And often times it’s something sad. I realized  this a long time ago: That often the dreams that I dream don’t feel like my own. They feel like something I am doing for someone else,  whether or not I want to.

I’ll write more about this later. But I wanted to get the outline of how I’m dreaming out there first before writing about this further here. This probably seems strange to you, all this listening to what happens when I’m asleep  but as long as I can remember I have been dreaming dreams that that are big and strange and pointed and recurring.

Its 6:30 right now and I’m slightly jet-lagged. I desperately want to grind coffee but I also don’t want to wake up Alvin who is so peacefully asleep in the other room. I think I’ll probably just poked my head in there and see if he’s on his phone or not and if he is, then all bets are off. I’m grinding. It’s the second day of the new year, and I’m wishing  that you’re having the best  start to your year  possible ,  and maybe, maybe, I’m dreaming about you.

Bunions! 

 

 

Back on October 19th I had a surgery to correct a bunion.

Over the past couple of years, it’s become increasingly painful to wear shoes, and the swelling from the bunion caused reduced flexibility in my foot along with burning and aching if I stood for more than 3 hours. I couldn’t wear heels  at all.

Now, I deserve this bunion. It represents a handful years of dancing on feet bent in unnatural positions and more than a dozen years running back and forth serving assholes and stunners  like you drinks in strip-bars, gay clubs and dive-bars. I have insurance now so I, with urging, decided to have my foot-golum corrected.

There exist a  few different surgeries to correct bunions. One’s mostly cosmetic and involves shaving down the Sticky-out-y bit we generally associate with bunions. I didn’t have that one. In the  particular surgery I had ( called an Osteotomy) the surgeon  basically cuts your toe in half and pins it back together. Basically. I’m not a foot-scientist,nor am I going to deprive you of the joy of googling the procedure. I went into the whole thing thinking I’d be *healed up in about three weeks, and just go back to work. LOLNO

I won’t be able to go back to standing on my feet all day until around the 7th, per Doctors orders.

The surgery only took about an hour: They put me to sleep, did the damn thing and I woke up about sixty minutes later, said some weird stuff and went home with drugs.  I don’t remember the rest of the afternoon, but I know My girl Sarah showed up later that night, slightly toasted after drinks with her dad, I put myself to sleep, and woke up the next day in a world of fucking pain, as if someone had sawed  my food open and filled it with hot shards of murder. Sarah and I drank coffee. I called my DR. and informed him that the drugs for pain (hydrocodone) were not stopping the burning murder-shards. He changed the drugs.  I stayed on pain-killers for two weeks, at which point I was literally sick of them and dying (not literally) to poop normally again. By that point (around the 1st), the swelling was gross, but the pain had died down, I followed up with my foot-scientist and he told me to come back in two more weeks and put me in a flat shoe and told me I still couldn’t drive.My soul begins to atrophy along with my muscles. I read a lot, I whine more.  I do one hundred foot-bendy exercises a day.Two weeks after that, (about 4 days ago) I went to another follow-up, and He tells me I can’t wear normal shoes yet, nor can I drive. I disagree, and now I’m stuffing my still weird-shaped foot into the only 3 pairs of shoes that fit; Uggs (stfu, Uggs are fine, we can stop hating them now) a pair of platform Tevas, and my solitary pair of Nike trainers. I’m driving. The joint in my toe isn’t activated by the activity. In short, I’m very glad I did this. At this point, the pain in the joint is less than it was before the surgery and it’s noticeably smaller.  I can walk now, with mild discomfort and many breaks. There’s no way in hell I could put in even a six-hour work day at this point, though. My doctor’s conservative estimate of my going back to work on the 7th-ish is totally valid. If you need bunion surgery, get it. Yes, it takes over a month to recover from: Admittedly, it hurts quite a lot while healing, but there’s a rod holding my Growing-back-together toe in place, FFS. The worst part of the whole thing is the solitude: The sitting with myself, the house, every day. The not being able to really go anywhere alone. That’s my problem . I can’t sit still or in stillness, but I learned to do so.

Alvin, if you’re reading this… I couldn’t have done this without you. Literally. Thankyouthankyou and I’m sorry I’ve been a whiney dick. You’re everything. A Bunn-ion, even.

My ass is asleep, you guys.

Bai

*heel pun here.

Not your sacred Sad-girl.

dscn03561

My generation seems to hold its sadness sacred and romantic. I’m one of those Millennials whose adolescence held awkward court in the early 00’s.

We spent our teen years with Fallout Boy and As I lay Dying and in basements of our grandparents homes with Bob Dylan and Quiet Riot on Vinyl and in my case, hiding behind my insanely religious step-fathers shitty house listening to Nirvana on CDs borrowed from older friends who, in hindsight, someone really should have made sure I wasn’t alone with, but I’m wandering off topic. We started studying for SATS at 13. We went to therapists because our parents/guardians didn’t want us as emotionally inept as they were. We learned about sex in chat-rooms, lying about A/S/L.

We got good at talking about our feelings with people who might have been nothing like us. Somewhere along the way, for different reasons, we got really good at dying. Really good at falling in love with our own sadness and desperation and romanticizing the silver ribbons of scar-tissue on our wrists and upper-arms and thighs.

A decent portion of us left institutions of higher learning and fell into the dark maw of economic collapse because Fuck us, right?

We Stayed in the university towns we moved to and tended bars, went back to the places we were from and opened vintage stores and Occupied Wall Street. We went into our Fields and became Vegan leaders of today who participate in less damaging consumerism. We took Jobs in the Tech-sector and made shitloads of money we lovingly toss into burning man. We also became the new, Hip face of the Alt-right too, unfortunately, and a myriad of self-serving shitty things. We became adults who strive to make the world something it wasn’t when we arrived. We done good for Hipster Scum, you know?

Maybe it’s time to stop romanticizing our sadness for other people’s consumption. I am not proud of the scars I walk around with, in the same way I’m not proud of the terrible Self-Tanner and Black-eyeliner and dresses over jeans and liking Dane Cook. I want to shine brightly until I blink away, something I never thought I’d feel when I was younger.

As usual, I don’t have a suitable ending here.

I love you, scars and all.

D