You hear me, Santa?


One and a half days up. That’s all I really got. Enough to meet with the theatre group and get to my Thursday language lesson. By Thursday night my throat was on fire and I could barely swallow. I am back, sick again, and under doctor’s orders to sit the fuck down and do nothing but sleep and drink juice until everything’s rosy again.

There are often times when I gaze at our DVD collection and despair a bit – gods, there’s so many, or geez! who needs all that. I do. I need all that. Been burning through the DVDs like mad. Up before 6 a.m., sleeping between 10 and 2, back to watching and resting ’til dinner, then more watching and resting until I fall asleep. Wish I could still play the marathon MST3000 tapes. They’re too valuable to use before getting them transferred onto a different medium, but damn! They’re set up for my sick days. Twelve non-stop hours, edited with loads of surprises and fun stuff. I used to sleep to them. Put them on, lower the volume, and sleep. That’s back when I had a room large enough to accommodate my bed AND a tv. Years ago. But I really miss them now. One of those tapes would last me the entire day, and I haven’t seen them now for years.

Been shielding myself from anxiety over immigration by making plans for the future. One of those plans is to get a group together to do a read-through of my script. Oh, man. I can feel a PROJECT coming on. Not a small thing, but a big thing. PROJECT. I can see my volunteers saying ‘oh, let’s find a way to do this; it’s so much fun!’ and then they’ll all look at me because why not? I’m the organizer. And why shouldn’t I? If I use the people the theatre group tosses away, I’m not hurting anyone. If I find a way to use a room for free, I’m not encroaching on what the group wants to do. If I find people who want to see the play done, I’m not competing for audience members or money or time or space. None of that’s happened yet, naturally. I haven’t even mentioned needing volunteers yet. But I’ve seen the hunger in these people’s eyes. How much they want to participate and have fun. I’ve just got this sense that I may be stepping off into unknown territory. After all, this is similar to the way it started last time.

‘Last time’ was in Ireland. It began with a visit from a fellow poet, who asked about pubs or places where he might be able to get up and read his poetry. It ended with a fully registered charity, an annual poetry festival that included an adult’s night with performers from around Ireland, the UK, and the continent, a room of video feeds from artists around the world, a music room with guests from all over, and a night devoted entirely to children and children’s poetry.

Yeah, I went a little overboard.

I gotta lotta flack for it, too.

But I did find there was a real hunger for what I did, offering performance space to anyone willing to get up and strut their stuff.

It could happen again.

Meanwhile: I might as well put up a desert scene on my computer desktop, because the tumbleweeds just keep blowing through my email. Ugh. Gonna expend what energy I’ve got this weekend on sending the script out to two theatre groups; forgot last weekend, and I do so want to keep my promise to myself of getting it out to one group a week. Really hope this latest phase of my illness passes quickly so I can use my time off from lessons this coming week and get some writing done. I feel loaded up with Hollywood stories lately, and everything in me is concocting harsh tales in response. No, there is no happy ending. There is no justice. There is only dominance, power, and the will to use it. Those are the roads my mind has been wandering lately. Perhaps I should set a challenge for myself. The first script resulted from me challenging myself to try writing in that format. Why not have the second one include all this horrible crap my head continues to ponder? Make a list and include everything – rape, murder, betrayal, greed, drugs, hate, bigotry, racism, sexism. Put it all into one place. … You know, it sounds like a good idea to me. Let it all out. Who gives a fuck if no one ever reads it or does it?

Give myself a chance to write real life.

And that’s got to include some good things. Because my philosophy is that we’re already in Hell. This is it. Hell isn’t pokers up your ass and unending pain. Unending pain can be endured. You’d be surprised at how much your body can carry and forget it’s even there. Nope. Hell is having something nice for a time, caring about it, depending on it’s existence, and then having it ripped away from you. Hell is having people tell you they love you while they beat you down. Hell is facing blind bigotry, racism, and sexism. Hell is being a sane and caring person in this world. That’s Hell.

When we are children, we buy into fairy tales. Magic exists! Then we get a little older and learn that no, fairy tales aren’t real. Magic is only an illusion. Problem is, that keeps happening. First go the obvious things: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny. Then the next obvious: you learn about lying and cheating, usually by getting lied to or cheated in some manner. Later on, you learn about hidden agendas and people who’ll pretend to be your friend because they want something from you. As time goes on, more and more illusion gets ripped away. And you begin to understand why we tell children fairy tales: life is Hell. You hope for some happy memories in between disasters. Loving means losing. Pain is inevitable.

I never wanted a pony for Christmas. I only ever wanted to be happy.

You hear me, Santa?


This is me

This picture is not me; it’s just really cool.

Two nights of uninterrupted sleep. I’m finally on the mend. Still spewing a rainbow of colors out of every orifice, but it’s less than it was. And I can stay awake for the entire day without a nap. Definite improvement.

Ran into a hiccup with immigration. They sent forms, we’re preparing answers. I don’t like that the process is held up, don’t like not having every t crossed or i dotted. Don’t like the fact my ID card is out of date, as is the stamp on my passport. Don’t like being told ‘relax, everything will be fine’ when it’s clearly not.

But I’m hanging on.

Tonight is the long awaited theatre group meeting. So, naturally, we’re inundated with rain. Wet, wet, wet – it’s been banging on the window since I went to bed. To add to my list of things I don’t like right now, I don’t like the idea of having to walk in this wet weather when I’m still not 100% healthy. I’m also in a bit of a dither over the meeting itself. What’s going to happen tonight? Will I get blown off? Again? My mind wants to take it to the extremes. Keep pulling myself back to the now, telling myself to allow things to happen rather than try to predict the future.

Heard from an online friend. We ‘met’ over ten years ago. Been correspondents ever since. He seems a decent enough guy. But it’s been since before the election that I heard from him. Wise man; he was anti-Hillary. Not that I was pro-Hillary; I wasn’t. I was (and am) anti-Trump. Still. He mentioned it, in passing – the whole election, the huge divide the country faces right now – and he said ‘I didn’t know what we were getting into’. Now how the hell am I supposed to say anything to that? Tough titties, dude? It’s one of those you made your bed now sleep in it times. Frankly I think anyone who didn’t work to stop that asshole deserves whatever the fuck they get. Unfortunately, all my friends who failed to stop 45 are also suffering, and that I don’t like to see.

Too bad the world won’t accept the idea of refugees out of America. They should; it’s far from free, and far from a pleasant place to live. But everyone buys the Friends myth: that yes, you can all live in a place like New York working on a barista’s salary. You can all have your hair done at expensive salons, wear the latest fashion, go out, buy things on minimum wage. Yeah (oh, and the apartments are big and rat and cockroach free). The same people also feel real bad about the gang on Gilligan’s Island. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of people out there like that. I’ve met people from around the world who absolutely 100% believe in the American dream – even when I, a native, born and bred, tell them what I’ve experienced. I understand how that happens. I had a very naive idea about what Middle Eastern countries were like, until I began to meet people who lived there. All I ever saw on the news was desert nations, desert cities. Dust. A scraggly tree standing somewhere, small and alone. I didn’t know about the forests, the mountains, the rivers and lakes. No one ever talked about them. No one ever showed them.

What we need right now (and feel free to take the idea and run with it) is a Video Free America. A place where ordinary people could post real videos of real places. Show the slums, the ghettos, the inner cities that look like they were hit by bombs. Show the abject poverty in the countryside. Tell your stories about not being able to afford health care, food, clothing. Talk about the long waits in government offices. Show the cost of food, the cost of things. Really and truly – not the Hollywood version. Because no one out here knows. No one out here can even begin to fathom how much you pay for anything. The only thing on par with costs in the US is rent. And even in that category, I’ve seen nothing in the EU that can touch the high rental costs of America. Not when hovels in the US cost so much, and equivalent rental costs on the continent give you a clean and safe living space. And let’s talk about public transport. I know there are trains in the Eastern US, even light rails in some cities. But can you hop on ANY public transport near your home and take it to the furthest reaches of your own country? I can. I can get to any place on the planet from where I live. Hop the metro, three stops to the train, two stops to Rotterdam Central, and from there the world is mine. Hell’s bells! Do you even HAVE public transport where you live?

…The core of me is so sick with the actions of the elite. Not just now, but always. Still reading Tolstoy, and a few chapters last night mentioned the annual income of some of the characters. Hundreds of thousands a year – and that’s during the 1800s. Imagine. I don’t care what currency you’re talking about; that’s a LOT of money. More than anyone needs. I’ve heard all the arguments: these elites are the patrons, the ones who paid the merchants and workers to make fine things, thus giving them an income and a ‘leg up’ in the world. That’s propaganda. It was the rich pissing on everyone’s heads back then, and it’s the rich pissing on everyone’s heads now.

Too political? Perhaps. It is my heritage.

The one thing I find is that the more I hear – excuses, lies, taunts – the more intransigent I become. It is not the higher path. I know that. But I will not climb back into my cave. I will not re-learn to fear what need not be feared. I will not re-learn to hate what need not be hated.

Been looking for the upside of 50+, and maybe this is it: the surety to stand by my convictions. The firm knowledge of what I’ll take and what I won’t take. There’s a quiet calmness that comes with it. Do what you will; my mind is already made up. And that part of me, that ‘last inch’ as the film V for Vendetta called it, you cannot touch.

This is me.

I just keep paddling


My head is on backwards. My eyes are turned inwards.

Neither is conducive to happy living.

So I am melancholy. Am I in love with melancholia? Wanting to hold it close out of some long forgotten childhood thought that this was romantic, brave, inspiring?

Sometimes I wonder….

I find myself feeling sad lately. Sad because I spent so much time looking back, leveling blame. And that’s not to say that people in past weren’t to blame. They were, each in their own way. Yet I recognize they were all human, all reacting to things that, as a child, I was ignorant to. Am I ready to move on now? Can I let go of all of this and live in the now, feel the now, not react out of some old, hidden trigger that inevitably ends up causing trouble in my life and pain to me and the people I care about?

I want to be.

But I’m not sure I am.

Yet isn’t this life, to take what’s happened and move beyond; to reach for more than we know ourselves to be; to try, in essence, to become what we want to be? Aren’t all our lives tallied up in the minutes we brush our teeth, the number of times we need to piss, the people we’ve loved and even hated?

What is this…coldness that reaches over me? To know that the people before spent their time cleaning their homes and buying their cars and milling through their own lives blindly, all the time never truly believing death awaited them – is that something to be afraid of, or something to give me comfort?

Why can I not settle myself today?

They don’t talk about you. There it is, in five little words. Here it is in one big word: forgotten. Story of my life. According to my uncle, my siblings never discuss me. Never. That cold thought has wormed its way into my heart somehow, without me knowing it. I should have brought it up earlier; I knew it bothered me. But I let it pass, like I let so much pass. Or so I thought. My subconscious latched onto it and grew it into something big and ugly and festering. It seems to me twice the size it actually is, because my own mind is so often filled with the why of yesterday. Is there a day of my life when I do not reflect on my past? No. I think I can honestly say no. Even when I am most present in the now, I am still aware of the past, thinking of it, feeling it shape my dreams and my fears.

Yet I have left no footprint on my siblings.

How small that makes me feel.

How alone.

It makes me think on others I’ve known. Do they sometimes think of me? Or am I truly forgotten? Lost in time and memory, a part of the past – and therefore not to be thought of or discussed?

Have I lived such an inconsequential life that no one’s noticed?

Is it right of me to want to be noticed and remembered?

Haunting thoughts; and I’ve no real power to drive them away. I wonder now, if this moment, might not better be spent. I could be helping to feed the hungry, build homes for the homeless…yet here I sit, whining and whinging on about my mediocre western lifestyle.

I was born in suburbia, and suburbia still runs strong in my veins. I may aspire to greatness, but what greatness has ever come out of the modern white ghettos of look-alike houses and sprinklers on the lawn? We latch-key children, allowed to run like heathens until the setting sun brought our working parents home to a tv dinner or take out in front of the tv – what chance had we? What were we to think as we sat in front of the evening news and saw nuclear detonations, only later to be told by our coddling elders that it can never happen here, never to you, never to us? And how were we to think, as educations standards lowered and lowered until a degree from a University wasn’t enough, or no! That’s now the equivalent of a high school degree; you must earn a masters or a PhD to be taken seriously now.

What fucking hypocrisy.

I watched the film version of the novel my Thursday teacher had me read. The spoken Dutch was near incomprehensible to my ear – I’m guessing the actors were not from Rotterdam. But I caught a bit of it. Enough for me to understand why I first perceived the novel to be funny: the main character is a stickler for literal meanings. It’s something I can well relate to. For one, my brother has that in spades. For another, so do I, in my own manner. Yet that behavior was thrown, in the film, in a negative light. The main character has emotional problems. He’s violent, and angry. His statements make everyone uncomfortable.

Hm. Been there, done that.

And as I watched the film adaptation, although much of the spoken language was beyond me, I understood more of the nuances in the story than I got from reading the book. That, too, has gone into the pot in my mind and set to simmer. I’ve seasoned my soup with the sharp embarrassment of knowing I’m not that great with reading comprehension AND this idea of seeing one’s self from another angle.

Ugh. I’m uncomfortable in my skin, my life, myself.

Yet I keep telling everyone I’m okay. Doing well.

Maybe just the act of committing these thoughts to cyber space helps. I don’t know. Don’t feel I know much at all right now. Don’t know why I started writing this, don’t know what I’m gonna do for the rest of the day…. I’m afloat in a sea of I don’t know.

I just keep paddling.

Show Me Who You Really Are


Damned pre-set, prejudicial internet! It’s bad enough anything you try to type on these days “corrects” your spelling – often to words you didn’t mean to type in. Yes, that’s bad enough (and I have a deep pity inside me for anyone working on a fantasy novel with made up names and places). But now I face, head on, the problem of my email. Oh, yes. Because I have a unicorn email. I know you think they don’t exist. It’s all just marketing bots now. But once upon a time, they did exist, and I still have mine: a dotcom email. Unfortunately, it’s truly become a unicorn; most people have their systems set to ignore dotcom messages because, well, all dotcom messages are spam, right? That’s what they’ve been for the past ten years, all spam and bullshit. No one’s really got a dotcom address anymore.

Yeah. Right.

And while my messages don’t get returned, they also don’t get answered. Automatically dumped into the trash folder. So I have to go out and use some bullshit online free email because no one believes a dotcom message is really me. But it is really me. And fucking around with other emails is a pain in my ass. More, I don’t care to have every goddamn fucking bullshit “free” system on the internet – which is only “free” so they can garner your information and SELL IT ON TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER – know every damned detail about me.

Why did this happen? Greed. Personal and corporate greed.

Humans are, in so many cases, such a worthless race.

So don’t look at me funny when I try to explain my numerous nom de plumes. Half of it is the internet’s fault. I can’t use this name or that name or goddess forbid, my real name, because someone’s already using it. So make something up.

Guess I have to give myself a pat on my back for being smart enough to start a new email out there just for my writing. No one rejects a ‘’ or other mail system message. Nope. There may be millions of spammers out there using those systems, but no one will automatically block those messages.

After all, it’s not like they’re dotcoms.

However, I’m pretty sure my message about volunteering where I have my lessons has gone astray. Which means I have to begin again; pick one of those blow off emails I don’t really check and send it out one more time. Then remember to check said blow off email because no, I’m not hooking it up with my real email – you don’t get that info. Just like you don’t get my phone and my email hooked up. Oh, once in a while I think it would be cool to be set up like that, but more often than not I’m thankful. Thankful I’m not that connected, thankful I’m not bothered by the two hundred groups on Facebook I’ve somehow become part of and can’t leave, thankful I don’t hear my phone bleep with every fucking stupid notification or post of the snack you were having or note about how the bathroom at the concert is so dirty you just can’t believe it.

Fucking hell! And people tell ME to get a life!

… No, I have not been to the gym this weekend and yes, I’m wishing this morning that I’d braved the snow and possible ice and just walked over there yesterday to burn off this whatever it is. I didn’t, though. Chose to stay in and super clean a few areas – which led to my hands being burnt out by the end of the day, with me popping my horse-sized paracetamol pills and trying not to let my brother know how much pain I was in. It’s a real joy to sit here at my clean computer desk, with my clean keyboard and clean mouse pad, but it cost me (as did the clean sinks, the shining bathroom, and the scrubbed up door handles and light switches throughout the house).

Fish, Lizard, Chicken. It’s the working title of my new script, and it’s beginning to consume me. I can’t get the mantra of it out of my head. Can’t stop seeing scenes acted out. Right now it’s more sound and color than dialogue and action – which might make it all the more distracting as I try to focus in on what’s really happening in my imagination. Doing my best to prevent it from boiling over. Taking the cover off once in a while to let the steam escape. It’s not easy; I’m a little unstuck in time and can’t conceive of when the next holiday from my language lessons occurs.

Ach! And another thing that won’t leave me alone: Do you speak perfect English? I was asked that on Friday by my language teacher when I said I’d volunteered to teach English. What could I say? No. No, I don’t. I speak Midwestern American English, which is far from perfect. I do, however, know the difference between ‘proper’ English grammar and ‘improper’ English grammar – though I can also give you long argument that the English language is actually divided into several subsets; Southern English grammar is not the same as Midwestern English grammar, and both of those differ dramatically from British English grammar or Irish English grammar. I’m sure the same could be said of Australian or New Zealand English grammar, tho I’m not that familiar with them. Unfortunately, the question was asked of me in Dutch and I was expected to reply in Dutch – so she got the ‘no, I don’t’ but not the rest.

No matter. If the place I take lessons at doesn’t want my services as an English instructor, I’ve got another ace in the hole. My brother’s ex-sensei is hot to trot to have me teach English in the building he works in. I imagine I’ll be in front of a class before the year is over. Now that I’ve embraced the idea, I find myself very invested in it. Helping people to express themselves…that’s always been it for me. Doesn’t matter if it’s music or writing, poetry or teaching, offering a platform to perform or a chance to record your own material. I want to know what’s under the make-up and clothes, the posturing and chatter.

Show me who you really are.



The muscles in my jaw do not hurt. Other than that…. Been back on the cross trainer, 15 minutes full out, half forward, half backward. Then it’s a simple 30 minutes on the bike, another 30 on the treadmill, over to the free weights where all the guys trying to beef up their biceps watch me out of the corners of their eyes as I lift 2 kg weights for sixty reps compared to the five they jerk out. My routine leaves little in my body untouched – and it’s wonderful. Is a two hour work out too much? I don’t think so. Takes me the first hour to break through that muddle that generally sits in me. Then I start to feel alive. The sweat pouring out of me, the pull of my muscles as I work – everything. I feel sparkly and full of energy.

My routine also serves to tire me out. My eyes are already closing by the time they hit the pillow at night. I’m not waking up four times, turning over, wondering if it’s time to get up yet. Just deep, full on rest.

Also not paying much attention to the US and 45. That’s good; he’s proving in his first few weeks to be as big an ass and as much a thief as I figured he was.

Dutch: still struggling through, tho I think I comprehended a grammar rule yesterday. Really got it, with full understanding – went through several dozen examples with my teacher to cement it in. Yea! Of course, that’s one more thing now to make me pause while speaking. Is it dit/dat or deze/die? What’s the article for that word? As an English speaker, I want to use dit/dat a lot; it sounds like this/that. But deze/die is more common, as it’s used with ‘de’ words and plurals. So I’m trying to drill it into me. Make deze/die the first words I reach for when speaking.

Managed to get my hair done on Tuesday. Ouch. The salon raised their prices. I hope it isn’t the last time I get to go there; I’ve been back to the same stylist now for almost a year, and she knows me. Knows my hair. She can even mark my progress with the language. Managed a properly worded past tense question to her – something in the past I would have mucked up, either using the wrong verb tense or something else, but this time I got it perfect. It was noteworthy, and she knew it. Must be odd for her, seeing me once every 6 to 8 weeks. I went from one or two words in Dutch to where I am now – on the brink of comprehending every bit of what’s said (watch out, gossipers).

Finally heard from the local theatre group. We are meeting on 22 February. Just a general meeting, get together, say hi, and maybe find out when auditions will be. I’m pleased. Don’t really care right now if the director says anything to me about my script or not; for the moment, I’m still included in the group and I find that’s enough for me.

Also heard from my friends. They’re turning the corner, feeling a little bit better and more hopeful than they were.

And I sent out an email about volunteering at the building where I take my Friday lessons. I’ve offered up my Tuesday afternoons to whatever tasks they need doing. After thinking long and hard about it, I even mentioned I was a writer and would be willing to teach English. Don’t know if anything will come of the teaching offer, but I put it out there. Don’t know if I’d make a good teacher, either – but I’ll cross that bridge if and when I come to it.

Life is picking up its pace again. I hope I don’t drop the ball.

My head’s been writing, tho I’ve not committed anything to paper – or screen. But I keep buzzing around one of my ideas, seeing different scenes. Thinking it through. It’s about evolution and devolution – how humanity has ‘evolved’, yet our responses are becoming more barbaric with said ‘evolution’. It’s also got lashings of addiction, violence, and political messages. Big ideas for one small play. It’ll take time to sort it through, find the right thread to follow from one scene to the next.

If I could push myself to clean up the dust bunnies on the floor, I’d be well pleased with myself.

But dust bunnies aside, I’m doing well. I realize it’s mostly thanks to the endorphins I’ve got pumping through my system from the heavy duty work-outs. That’s okay. I mean, it’s legal and natural – can’t take that away from me (tho I’m quite sure there are people out there who would make it illegal; anything that makes you feel that good can’t be alright). I’ll even out on some new plateau. Revved up and ready for bear. I’m always happy to be in up mode. Figure my only job is to prevent me running too fast and hot. Other than that; let it pour out me. Let me sweat it out, like I do at the gym. Let the words flow, let the sun fly, let the days pass in a happy haze of work and rest. When I am here, I know this is the me that was meant to be, as much as I know the goth girl with the nihilistic attitude is the real me when I’m down.

Oh. … That means I only feel alive when I’m at an extreme. First impression: bad me, bad for doing that! Second impression: stop judging, and take it in. … It’s not particularly healthy. It might look a little crazy. But wrong? Is a hummingbird wrong to beat its wings faster than other birds? No. It’s just the way they’re wired. Hummingbirds might seem all hurly-burly to other birds. Other birds might gossip; look at that one, flitting from place to place so fast, never stopping, never going back! How awful! Yet in doing what they do, hummingbirds achieve something unique: that quick, darting movement they have, the beautiful fluttering of their wings. Who isn’t enchanted by watching a hummingbird? And that’s me.

I’m a hummingbird.

What have I got to lose?


The weekend was tough. Lots of sleep, lots of not being able to breathe through my nose, lots of feeling almost better so I squirmed and got antsy in between my naps.

Doesn’t help my anxiety keeps ramping up. Immigration, no word from this place or that, tumbleweeds rolling through my email and private life – the list goes on and on. Doing my best to keep myself from freaking out. Went back to a Downton Abbey run, because I find it soothing. It’s that or films where everyone dies, and I’m trying to keep positive, so Downton Abbey it is. It helps, a little. Gets me through long afternoons when I got nothin’ to do. Talked with my brother; he’s assured me that no matter what happens the world won’t end. I’m not so sure about that, but I guess he’s right that there’s no bleeding reason to worry about it. If it happens, it happens. Expending energy and thought on future horrors doesn’t do me any good. I can’t solve anything. Can’t do anything to change it. I’m just caught up in the machinery, hooked on a cog that’s spinning around, so I spin with it.

I hate waiting.

Saturday found me just too ill and too bummed to get the script out to anybody. Every time I looked at my list I lost my confidence. No one cares, no one will do it, no one will bother. Very negative (thus, the Downton Abbey). By Sunday my mind hand’t changed much, but I felt a little stronger and was able to work through it. Pick a place from my list, prep it, send it out. Hit that damn button, woman. SEND. The new theatre had an automated response to my email, saying they received the script. Hey! That’s one up from the rest; at least I know my new email works because the message came through.

Was gonna pull back on my smoking today and head out for needed blood tests. Then I saw 45’s face, no messages from my friends, and my will kind of petered out. Just don’t know why I should keep trying some days. Seems like nothing I do makes a difference. So I lit up one, which has led to another, and now I’m just bleeding smoking. Fuck it. Tell me again how my activity is so horrible when we’ve blown up 2000 atomic bombs on this planet. Tell me again how the plastic in our food, the additives, the chemicals in our air and water don’t matter, but it’s my smoking that will kill me.

Fucking liars.

Woke up hating my sister. I always figure I’ve dreamt about her when I wake up like that. Some nightmare, or just a revival of some memory that really was a nightmare for me. Takes a lot of daylight to conquer those nighttime horrors. To let go of the desire to skin her alive. My mind is not inventive with torture ideas, but it is very cruel. I want her to hurt. I want her alive so she can continue to feel pain. It is the basest, cruelest part of me screaming out – and it is also the part of me that is in the most pain. I recognize that. So I did a little chorus of ‘Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead’ – the song I plan to sing when I receive news that my sister is, finally, dead – and pretended she’d already bit the dust. Had a little spark of pure joy at the thought. I know that’s very horrible of me. My own judgement condemns me: I am bad for feeling that way. But if I am to make sense of things, if I am to overcome this base ugliness that sits so constantly in the pit of my stomach, I must confess to all. A part of me looked forward to my mother’s death. Felt very guilty over that for a long, long time. Likewise, a part of me looks forward to my sister’s death. In this, I feel no guilt. She has always been guilty, always been horrible, always been the worst of everything a human being can be. I understand – at least a little bit – that her reaction stems from the same place mine does: my mother’s narcissism. Once in a while I get flashes of understanding from my sister’s viewpoint. I see things through her eyes: the favoritism our mother exhibited, the verbal bashing. I wonder if my sister suffered the kind of neglect and abuse I went through. My mind tells me it’s probable. More than probable. And I begin to see how she may have fixated on me as someone to hate, someone to be jealous of, someone to continually rip down, use and abuse, as a reaction to her own pain. I see all of that in her, because I see all of it in me.

Understanding does not bring forgiveness, though. I’ve never seen her try to change. Perhaps that’s sad; in fact, I feel it so, at this moment. She’ll never get it. She can’t; it’s beyond her way of thinking. At best, I pity her. At worst, I want her suffering. I suppose that’s a step up from only wanting her dead or in pain.

Not a very big step up, though.

Been sketching out scenes for new scripts. Forget actual writing; I can’t call it that. I won’t allow myself to fall into that trance. Too much to do. But I’m allowing little bits to come out, scene roughs. I figure if I do what I did last time, I can take all my little bits and mush them into something when I get another break. Not sure what’s going to take shape yet. I’m not restricting myself. Last time, I wrote specifically for the local group – small cast, small budget, small scenes. I’ve taken those blinders off. Not worrying about HOW something might be done. Here it is; you figure it out.

After all, what have I got to lose?