Reflect

Finally. A moment alone.

Happy news: my bro suddenly received phone calls from two new students. He’s already met with one who happens to own and operate some rehearsal space near us. My bro was going to check it out before they met; now he’s got a personal invite and loads of interest. Wooohooo!! Things are looking up.

On the other hand, the crowd funding page I set up is just sitting there. I know what I have to do: go out on social sites, create pages, vlog and blog about it. Push. I just don’t have the oomph to do it at the moment.

Back to the gym. Using my bro’s appointments with his students to get me out of the house and exercising. Excellent. However, my back hurts this morning. Either I pulled it during my work-out (don’t think so) or I let it get stiff during sleep (more likely). Do not ask me why, but lately I’ve wanted to go to sleep half on my stomach, lying on my arm, my torso twisted into a weird position. I go to it every night, and every night I think how strange it is that my body feels so relaxed in such a contorted position. I let myself sleep that way the other night, and I think that’s what caused it. Which really sucks, because I still want to go to that position when I fall asleep.

Saw Dr T. He forgot we were going to try my appointment in Dutch; I didn’t. We went half and half: a combination I’m very comfortable with. Dutch until I hit something I can’t say, then English.  Told him about the incident with my neighbours, and how upset I was. He pointed out that it sounded to him like I may have done exactly the right thing, and without my intervention things might have been much worse. He also assured me that it was okay to be triggered by it and totally natural that I may experience bad dreams after it. He suggested a dream diary if I continue to have unsettling dreams.

May or may not have Dutch lessons next week; don’t know yet. It’s holiday for kids, and many people in my lesson have children. I don’t know… The teachers don’t seem very committed. My old teachers would have said they’ll be there and anyone who wants to can come. I always went. These new teachers won’t hold class unless there’s enough people. There’s zero homework, no real work on grammar. While I find it beneficial to listen to native Dutch speakers just go off, I don’t know that listening to two people talk in Dutch for an hour and half once a week is going to do me any good. And, they’re not as tight as my previous teachers. I won’t even begin to correct their punctuation problems; way too many. Here it is coming up to the end of October and they have no agenda or game plan for our class. *sigh* I’m stalling out on learning.

Pain. Pain in my wrists, pain in my damned thumb. Every single day, I get a sensation of burning on my thumb. It’s in one place, and it burns like someone’s got a lit cigarette against it. Lasts up to 10 minutes at a time. My carpal tunnel doesn’t like the grip exercises I’ve been doing; every time I do them, I hurt by evening.  Add into the mix my recent back pain, and I’m back on regular paracetamol. Again.

Current events… Have to admit, I’m worried. The usual thing is for very slow movement. Big wheels take time to turn. Lately, we’ve had large movements in very quick succession. That generally breeds dissent. Dissent breeds violence. Violence breeds conflict. It’s a domino effect, and the first dominoes have fallen. This time, I’m sitting right in the middle of the playing field. By choice, if I’m honest. I figure I’ll either live to see it through or not.

But, that’s life. You either live to see it through or not. Very tired of the age bashing I’m hearing bloody everywhere. Guess it’s always been there. Now it’s just MY turn to go thru it. I only got one thing to say about that: the only alternative to old age is death, so get the fuck off my back. I survived. Let’s see if you can do the same.

…Sorry; that’s just plain nasty. Heartfelt, but nasty.

Well, this morning was stuffed with long dissertations by my bro. Off he went, giving me very little time to say anything. I actually had to raise my palm to him to get him to shut up for a moment. He does that. I do my best to hang with it; I know he’s doing it because he’s set off and upset. But it ends up leaving me feeling frustrated by the end of it. And angry. And unheard.

So, like any human idiot, I pass that frustration off to the next person…

DAMN! When I put it that way, I wonder if I should erase that offensive paragraph. Shi-i-i-it… Yet, I don’t want to NOT speak my truth. Hell’s bells!

I really, really hate it when I become a microcosm of strife. I’m aware my ‘truth’ could be offensive, but not speaking up, not being honest, could be detrimental to me. Certainly, it feels detrimental to me…

When in doubt, shut up. Say nothing. Listen. Think.

Reflect.

 

It’s a small world after all

My world has grown small.

There was a time when I’d closely monitor world events. Liberal amounts of shouting at the tv in some insane attempt to make my words heard by those on screen. I’d be there totally: from my head to my toes, spouting off my feelings to anyone within earshot.

Still plenty to shout about – that much hasn’t changed. My focus has. Into obsession mode with my new group. Watched a new film last night – one that even had a really hot male lead that SHOULD have kept my attention on the screen. I don’t really know what the plot was; something about spies and betrayal. Couldn’t concentrate on it. I tried. Tried to shift my focus on get into the story. But within moments of bringing my attention back to the screen my head was off again, practicing my little leadership skills in my head, thinking how I want to say something, laying out the work schedule. *sigh* It won’t stop.

Thanks to a new follower, I re-read some of my older work. That’s my thing: if one post grabs your attention, I want to go read it again to figure out why. The post in question was just after a meeting with the other group. It was an angry tirade, really. Useful for me to go back to that moment of frustration. It reminded me of all my gripes about the other group and hardened my resolve to quit them. That’s good, ’cause one thing that’s kept me thinking over the last 24 hours is the manner in which I want to leave.

I realize I’m angry. No big secret. What I don’t know is precisely what I want to say to them. For several weeks, I’ve been thinking of approaching the subject like this: You’re not moving in the direction I want to go, so I have to step down. True, but maybe a little of my anger is showing in that. New thought: I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is I have movement on my writing. The bad news is that I’m going to be too busy to stick with your group. Truth again, just fashioned in a different manner. Honestly think I have to ask my shrink about this. I’m most concerned with ME; am I saying what I want to say? Kind of feels like the second option is the more diplomatic pull out and the option with the most chance of leaving on good terms. But the first is what I truly want to say. I want them to know I’m unhappy and angry over all the crap that’s gone down. I also feel like the second option will result in higher pressure to stay on in some manner or other. I kind of push the blame of my leaving onto my work load rather than just clearly stating that I don’t want to be part of the group, and I think I’ll hear the old: oh, but can’t you just continue to do this or that for us? …Yeah. Run that past Dr T. I’m 50-50 on it.

Did dishes, laundry, and hoovering. Yeesh! The dust bunnies in this place! All sucked up for now. Today I want to crack open my Dutch homework and get in the shower.

Very visual lately. In other words, I’m thinking in terms of film shots. All those fast edits you see but your head discounts as part of the story: close-ups, angles, etc. They’re as important in film as the story itself is. My brain is beginning to pick all that apart. Good. It already ran through the audio version of my scripts. The more I can give my people, the better our work will be. Ah, and I like thinking laterally. Truly great stories should be able to be converted into any format: written, theatre, audio or film. Dat be my goal; work on these until I’ve got all four. Tho my work will be out of order. I’ll do theatre, audio, film, and finally just write the stories out. Better way to go, I think.

Haven’t bothered with Eurovision this year. Had it on my calendar and everything, but when the time came I found I didn’t care. Have to agree with my bro on my unsettled feeling over the host country. More than that, tho. Eurovision is kind of a one-trick pony. The biggest surprise in recent years was the performance addition of live LED screens behind the performers that add in special effects. Very cool, but nothing to do with the music – and the music is very formulaic. I do not consider the competition fair in any sense of the word; a lot of bling and flash can take a song over the top even when there are better pieces, musically speaking. They should do it totally blind: one group sings all the songs, so there’s no ‘he or she is just a better singer’ stuff. If they want onstage entertainment, it should be one troupe of dancers – again, taking away the ‘better performer’ stuff. It’s supposed to be about the songs. Not the cutest singer, or the best dancers, or the flashiest special effects. And honestly, the competition has always been political and right now I just can’t take politics. At all. Total burn out on that front.

*chuckle* I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling that!

😉 It’s a small world after all.

Why?

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POST IS A RESULT OF MY RIGHT WING, FASCIST FAMILY AND AN EMAIL I RECEIVED THIS MORNING. REPUBLICANS BE WARNED.

Fucking goddamn right wing extremists. I’ve shot guns. Grew up shooting weapons, as a matter of fact. My dad thought it was necessary. I never got a thrill from it, it never made me feel like I was someone ‘big’. It was just loud and violent. As an adult, I’ve never had occasion to need a gun…though had I had one, it may have been pulled a few times and who knows? Maybe I would have killed someone with it. It sure as fuck wasn’t necessary in my life. It will never BE necessary in my life. I don’t need something that makes killing easier. I don’t want to kill an innocent animal. I don’t want to kill any person (though I WOULD be tempted).

And I’ve never understood people like my brother or my uncle, who are so hard right that they fully believe the ‘you can take my gun out of my cold dead hands’ motto. Do you fanatics really think that a hand gun, a shot gun, or even a semi-automatic is gonna make any difference? Honey, those soldiers aren’t gonna show up on your door. They’ll send a drone to bomb you. You’ll never see a face to shoot at. So what the fuck?

You think you’re safe with a gun? You’re not. You’re far more likely to be killed by that weapon than be saved by it.

Let me tear down a few lies here. ‘Cause I was told that the in Europe no one could own a gun. In Europe, the army roamed the streets in full combat gear with machine guns. In Europe, people were helpless if anything should ever happen.

Plenty of people own guns here, and most are farmers. Each country should know; guns are registered. And once in a while – even here in sleepy Holland – a civilian gets shot and killed. The numbers are way low in comparison to the states. I believe that’s due to the difference of how easy and available weapons are in Europe vs the states. There isn’t a gun shop on every corner, in every town, with a huge selection of weapons. Truth is, I don’t know where a person would buy a gun – and I’m so fucking happy about that. There’s no corner store I can point to and say ‘yes, I’m pissed off; let’s buy a gun’. I’m sure there are illegal ways to get a gun; there always are. But there’s no easy access, no walking out of a bank after opening an account with a new rifle. I think that makes a HUGE difference, and baby, I’m living it. I am not afraid here of someone pulling a gun on me. I can’t say that in the states.

As for that passing by fully weaponized police or army on every street corner, I’ve heard the states is far closer to that right now than here. Of course I’ve seen authority figures with weapons. Of course I’ve seen some army guys with guns. The Netherlands hasn’t been hit by any big horror, but we’ve had one or two scares. But guys with helmets and machine guns are NOT standing on every street corner. And even if they did stand on every corner, I’d bet my last buck that I’d still be able to approach and speak to them and get a civil answer. I wouldn’t have to hold my hands up and say ‘don’t shoot’.

While I can’t condone anything that’s been going on in Turkey, I can say this: the civilians there pulled the army out of TANKS – without weapons. They just did it en masse. They had hands, and planks of wood, and stones. I didn’t see anyone walking around with a gun, pointing it at this person or that person. People were killed. Weapons were fired. But the coup failed because citizens just said no. It didn’t take guns to do that. Yes, I know forces loyal to the current regime were a major player in some of the skirmishes. Not all. And the video of the people stopping the tanks and overtaking them – that’s powerful. Very powerful. I didn’t see one fucking gun in any of those shots. Not one (other than the tank itself). Obviously, you don’t need weapons to stop a tank.

What is it about America and violence? The puritan paranoia from old? Why are there so many people who commit their lives to violence – not just in deed, but in thought and in word? Why are there so few negotiators and peace makers?

As an expat, I can tell you this: Americans are brain washed. America has this way of closing off borders without needing walls. Maps stop at Canada and Mexico (hell, WEATHER doesn’t even exist outside the good ol’ US). I’ve seen those US news reports; grew up with them. The spin they put on things. The subtle messaging, day in and day out. It took me at least 5 years to crack the box my head was put in by American propaganda. To learn the TRUTH.

The United States sucks. I’m not talking about the basic principles laid out in the Constitution or Bill of Rights, I’m talking about the daily execution of those ‘principles’. Everyone gets stuck on certain aspects; freedom of religion, free speech, right to bear arms. And oh, goddess! Why are you treating these old pieces of paper like holy relics? They’re badly written. ‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’. What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean? That it’s okay for a serial killer to do his thing ’cause that’s what makes him HAPPY?

Can you imagine living in a place where most of the population is happy and satisfied with life? I can; I’m here. Why isn’t the world looking to Malta, one tiny place with a very happy populace? Or Denmark? Or even here, in the Netherlands?

Why do we lead with violence and hate?

And why do we make it so damned easy to kill each other?

A little summer inside me

It’s been a few days. I can tell I’m full of unsaid things; it’s hard to figure out where to start. The red is back on my news button. I can walk again without pain, thanks to finding out just how sadistic my physiotherapist actually is. And I’ve collapsed in on myself.

Went out for a walk yesterday, the first actual walk in weeks. I got my lotto ticket – plus a freebie because once again my ticket hit a couple of numbers – and made an appointment to take care of my hair. Felt a bit Frankenstein-ish for the first 15 minutes; I kept expecting pain, so I minced my steps and kept my eyes on the sidewalk because the last thing I wanted was to trip over an uneven paving block. I was also just nervous. Being out in public, dealing with Dutch again first hand…I don’t know. It was weird. I felt overly shy and intimidated, though there was no bleeding reason for it. I realize now what I didn’t realize a few weeks ago: my language teacher wasn’t just teaching me Dutch, he was giving me a lot of confidence to continue to TRY to tackle the language. Feels like I did a runner; haven’t used any of my language skills lately and although there’s much more I can read, I think my comprehension of the spoken language has taken a nose dive.

Not pleased about that.

But it’s great to move without pain or some sort of tugging sensation in my back. And my physiotherapist…well, he said some patients call him a sadist, and I get it now. He took my leg, crossed it over my body, then pulled it up so my foot was about the level of my head. HUGE stretch. I thought my leg was gonna snap off. Then there were the sitting twists, with a pain point on my spine that was SO bad when he touched it I really didn’t think I was gonna twist at all. In the end, though, I sat up, then stood up, without pain. Can’t argue with the result.

Yesterday I woke up to a bloodbath in Nice, today to an attempted coup in Turkey. Portugal is just about bankrupt, Italy’s oldest bank is about to go bust. As I wrote to a friend, I was very excited to be here for the beginning of the euro. These days I wonder if I’ll be here to see it break up. I’ve also been following local news, and a pattern has emerged. There’s a neighborhood half way between me and downtown that’s a problem. If someone’s been shot or arrested in Rotterdam, chances are 60% or greater that they’re coming from this location. I’m keeping an eye on it. And the neighborhood. Things get too hairy and we’ll bug out to a new location. Of course, things have to get a lot worse than what they are now before I’d consider moving. I’m living in a land where one shooting will be talked about for days, even weeks, because it’s that rare.

…So I feel like I need to stop lolly-gagging. My bro is nagging me to take it easy and I agree; I can’t go off and start hauling around a bunch of heavy shit or crawling on the floors to clean something right now. I also can’t continue to sit on my ass like I have been. Or if I AM sitting on my ass, I should be doing stuff like language lessons on my computer. Language is weird right now. My reading skills are above my speaking/hearing skills, so I catch far more from subtitles on tv than I do from listening to dialogue. But the written word has become symbols to me; put a few letters together this way and it I know what it means in Dutch, tho I probably won’t recognize the word if it’s said. I’m not reading with that inner narration voice I use in English. I just recognize the symbols. And I realize I could become fluent in the written word and not be able to speak for shit, if I let it happen. Trust me to do it the opposite way of most people.

Keep finding myself saying ‘no, I don’t WANT to smoke’. That’s weird. And I’ve been having a few headaches, too. Don’t know where my smoking level is at because I haven’t cared to keep track. Whatever level it is, it’s going down.

Off the pain killers, too. That’s good; I’ve managed to stop with 8 pills in reserve for the next emergency.

*sigh* Funny how when I’m up I have nothing to say about my emotions but when I’m down that’s all I can write about. Maybe that’s denial. Or maybe that’s just a touch of normalcy. There’s more things going on outside of me than inside right now (or so I tell myself). Can’t tell and I could give a fuck. All I know is that I need to concentrate a bit on the outer stuff. Walking normally. Being able to respond to simple things in Dutch again. Going out alone without feeling weird. That’s tough, but manageably tough. A challenge, but a challenge I can handle. Though I have to admit I was probably red in the face and sweated up a bit yesterday after Dutch this and Dutch that. I’ve got the weekend to walk out some of my stored up mania. I can go back to some language lessons and listen again. Get my ear back. Move forward.

And I’d like to do something summery. I don’t know what. BBQ, swim in the lake, a festival. Something. Something to tell me that yes, this is summer and I did something that only this season offers. There’s a deep ache in me for summers of old. Running thru the grass. Boating on a lake. The smell of charred meat in the air. The taste of corn on the cob, lathered up with butter and salt. Sitting around in the sun, drinking beer with friends. I miss all of that.

Somehow I’ve got to get a little summer inside of me. A little sunshine nonsense to tell me the world isn’t all that bad. People still have fun. It isn’t all red news buttons and pain and work.

Spleen Vented

There is nary a corner of my head that isn’t screaming some obscenity or another right now. Forefront is a rather long comment I received on FB regarding that horror of a stomach pump I mentioned the other day. Oh, yes. Some minion thought it necessary to get holier than thou on my post. I’m not about to begin a war out there; I’m not that type of person. But here, I can be honest.

I grew up with an obese sibling. I heard all about how horrible it was to call a spade a spade, to actually say to her face that she was fat or overweight, chunky, obese, or anything along those lines. Meanwhile, I watched her stuff her face with full plates at each and every meal, chow down on bags of munchies, eat Magnum ice cream night after night – yet I would be a ‘bad guy’ for even mentioning any of these factors, much less that she NEVER got off her fat ass to exercise unless she was trying to lose weight.

Get a grip, people. Of all the obese persons on this planet, probably only .001% actually have a medical problem that’s causing it. The rest of you DON’T have ‘big bones’. You’re FAT. Deal.

On the other side of insanity, we have these people who are walking skeletons. You. are not. beautiful. Your body is ugly. I don’t want to see it. The human form shouldn’t like you unless it’s been in the ground decomposing for six months. Get some goddamn help because you DO have a real body issue.

Fucking madness.

My body is in no way skinny. Nor is it obese. It falls into the ‘normal’ category, something that’s being lost from humanity.

Ever read 2000 A.D.? I’m thinking of those blobs they put into their future stories…People so fat they run around on electric scooters full time. Yes, it’s happening NOW.

Yet the image we see on the screen – big and small – is of an obviously semi-starving person. Ladies and gentlemen, this may come as a shock to some of you, but you really shouldn’t be able to count each and every rib in your body. They shouldn’t show like that. You’re dangerously underweight.

And along the same line, if you haven’t seen your collar bones since you were a kid you’d better shed some fucking pounds.

Can’t we ditch this diet shit and just try to be healthy? Good old fashioned healthy. The kind of person that can lift, move, and stretch freely and easily enough to be able to complete every day tasks. I realize there are people out there who actually DO have a mobility problem. Someday I may rank among them. But for the REST of you riding around on those fucking mobility scooters and then getting up with ease to open doors or pick things up or whatever, YOU I have a problem with. You get in MY way, beep at ME, when YOU’RE too goddamn lazy to get the fuck UP out of that seat to actually MOVE. Fuuuuck you!

And can someone PLEASE explain to me how so many of these ‘refugees’ I’m hearing about can come up with the tens of thousands of euro it takes to get smuggled across the borders? Now that Calais is getting dismantled, groups of refugees are camping out all along the beaches in France and Belgium, waiting to pay thousands of euro to board a small ship illegally and reach the UK. Which seems odd in and of itself; just yesterday they blocked the Eurotunnel and shouted ‘Fuck the UK’ while trying to get there. But how do these people get this kind of cash? From what I understand, to get in a boat across the Mediterranean cost around €10,000 per person. Then there’s the cost of getting to whatever country they get caught in. The cost of their tents. Their clothes. All the trash they left while walking there.

If I sold everything I have, I couldn’t come up with that much money. And we’re paying for these people? How is this happening? Why aren’t they just getting in the system and getting a place to live? They OBVIOUSLY have enough cash for it. I know it’s not everyone. But why aren’t we stopping the ones that DO fall in this category? Doesn’t seem to be difficult to find them; news crews are talking to them every goddamned day.

And why don’t I hear about the prosecution of the people that DO the smuggling?

Why aren’t the damned football hooligans ALL getting jail sentences? There’s enough footage of every one on line to use facial recognition and nab every single one of those assholes. And can we speak the truth for once: England carries a LOT of responsibility for the riots getting out of hand. Just because everyone wants to pussy-foot around the Brexit and not cause an upset right now is NO reason not to go after the mother fuckers responsible for all the damage. Like France needed any of THIS shit right now.

I see it’s business as usual in the states: profits above people. Fucking pussies in that ass-wipe fascist government! Yeah, real representative of the people. Great fucking democracy you got going (not).

And yes, I’m gonna say it: sad to see that The Trump still lives. All these people getting murdered every damned day but you can’t kill him. Well, they say the devil IS notoriously difficult to kill.

*sigh* There. Spleen vented.

Truth Works

One hour and twenty minutes.

Just back from my morning swim; chose to go early and get the hour and a half lane swimming in rather than my aerobics class and half an hour dodging people.

My mouth has been letting loose with curse word after fucking curse word. Walked in to full news on; my bro’s up and having his morning coffee. Fucking hell. First news item set me off. Then came a fucking advert; you know the kind. Give money for this, so we can save these people for another fucking day. Did anyone ask these poor citizens if they WANT to be saved? I doubt it. I doubt that some of these young girls or undernourished babies are really going to be better off if we save them. What are they growing up to? A fucking harsh fucking life, that’s what. Yes, let’s get them through their childhood all namby pamby and then we’ll toss them out to the wolves once they reach 16 or 17 or 18. Fuck you. Fuck you with your goddamn fucking charities that only line your fucking pockets. Fuck you with your goddamn fucking GUILT manipulations. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

I’m all riled up today rather than zen after my swim, and I can only chalk that up to the last 24 hours.

So. Got the counseling phone call. Talked for close to 45 minutes; it was fucking tough to open my mouth and form the words even though I’ve written them down in my blog posts for all to see. Rape, violence, abortion, mom, trust, fear, mania, depression – every topic came up in a clinical manner; a question to be asked and answered but not explored. Felt raw. I felt raw, the phone call felt raw. I wanted to lie when asked certain questions. I did my best not to, and it took a lot out of me. The upshot of everything is kind of what I expected: I must stop smoking marijuana for 30 days before beginning treatment. I have been offered assistance with that, and must see my GP later this week to get a referral letter. I’m still vacillating…I know I can kick it myself, but I feel like I should take the help offered. I may fucking well need it for my head space if nothing else. Happy to hear I didn’t have to kick it ENTIRELY; I was told I could smoke a J now and then in the evening. They just want me to stop smoking 8 J’s a day….which I can understand. I know I’m smoking too much. But fuck! Now I have to face it. Face it and keep it together; not go off the deep end and become a witch from hell. Face it and not stuff my face. Face it and not drive myself up the fucking walls because I’m so fucking bored out of my fucking brain. So even though I’m sitting here toking away, my head is contemplating NOT smoking. Goddamn. This is gonna be fucking rough.

It’s gonna happen through my birthday, too. Fuck.

Consolation prize: I’ll have more money. Which is good, ’cause I’ll probably spend it. On pool visits, on more metro rides around town, just on more STUFF to keep me occupied. Right now I can toke and be pretty well satisfied playing the computer games I’ve had for years. Take away the toking and I’ll find them all dull and boring; played everything too much. I’ll need NEW to keep me busy.

Who the fuck knows where this is gonna lead? I sure as fuck don’t. I may get all busy with doing my hair and my nails and goddess only knows what else just to waste away all the time I have. One thing I’m worried I WON’T do is write…

Yeah. I’m worried about that. Worried I won’t find the flow. Worried I’ll find a different flow than the one I’ve been using, which I really LIKE. Worried I’ll flip and become some rainbow spouting SHIT just to deal with the day to day. If I fucking do that, please pull me up by the goddamn short hairs. If I stop cussing, please swear your heads off at me. I do NOT want to become insufferable. I LIKE my edge.

Trying to live up to the example my brother has set. Trying to do my best. Fucking feel like they just cut my feet out from under me, though… I do not understand why they won’t even talk to me…Fine, don’t give me medication while I’m smoking. But how about talking? Wouldn’t that help? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course, this new place I’m being recommended to (I’m beginning to feel like a case no one wants to help with all this fucking referring going on) may be set up to do just that; like an AA thing. I don’t fucking know, and I won’t fucking know until I fucking get involved and by THEN it will be too fucking late!!!!!

I’m scared to give up my crutch, no matter how much I know I should.

‘Kay. I can sit here and be a bitch and angry all day. Yes, I could do that. All too easily. Or….Or I could just relax. Not change up my routine too much. Be aware of how much I’m smoking without asking myself to stop. Just asking ‘Do I REALLY want to smoke that now?’. Yeah. Raise my fucking awareness a bit. Listen to myself…I’m obviously out of sorts scared. I don’t need to fall into anger to protect myself. There’s nothing I need to protect myself from, no threat outside my door. I’m just afraid. Wait – I FEEL afraid. Better. I feel afraid like I feel hungry or tired or happy. I don’t need to fear my fear.

Yes. That’s where I wanted to land. I don’t need to fear my fear. It will end, it will pass over me and through me and I will remain (I KNOW I’m paraphrasing Dune from Frank Herbert. Sue me.) It’s truth, and truth works.

Back Burner Boil

I did well yesterday. Very well, in fact. Enough to put a gold star on my forehead today. I went out THERE for 3 hours – three whole hours – and never bit my tongue. I never even felt annoyed at anyone. I also didn’t stop writing.

Waiting for the metro. On the metro. In the stations. Up the escalator. Down the street. In the shops. There wasn’t a single place I could go where my head wasn’t narrating some epic scene. Popped into my favorite coffeeshop for about half an hour and took advantage of sitting and a table in front of me. Out came the notebook and pen. Scribble, scribble. Strike out. Notes climbing up the sides of the paper like word ladders. The experience certainly reminded me why I now get so much done on my computer. It’s faster. And far neater. There was a time I found a blank screen on my computer intimidating. Now I’d rather face that blank screen than have to pick up a pen and later unravel my own spider-crawl writing. What a mess.

And I wrote my novel long-hand!

Ah, well, you won’t catch me at that again.

More social commentary. Good goddess, I had no idea I had so much to say about society. So much to say about PEOPLE. I get so wound up at times that the only thing that comes out of my mouth is ‘morons’ and curse words. Sure as hell never thought I’d be writing insightful stories, breaking people down into two sentences that smack the truth over your head with a quick slap, slap on either cheek. Of course, this is manic me talking. No one’s published yet. No one may ever publish my stuff. So who the fuck am I to say it’s good? It could be shit, yes, it could. I don’t believe it today, thank you. Try me again tomorrow.

Okay, embarrassing confession coming up. Everybody turn away.

I queefed yesterday in public. Full out fart coming up the alleyway and getting an extra phfft from my labia. It was LOUD, too. I hope my cough, which generated the fucking thing in the first place, covered up most of it. For fuck’s sake! For a moment I thought Terrance and Philip from South Park were going to make an entrance. I mean, that’s a new one for me. I’ve got to age where I let my farts go if I need to and to hell with where I am. I try to be discrete, try to only let them fly when I’m away from other people. But sometimes they just slip out (and yes, a part of me is a little afraid of becoming my dad in this; he farted every time he walked). Yesterday it happened in the coffeeshop with about a dozen people as witnesses. SOoooooooo very happy they were all toking up. Maybe if they heard it they thought they imagined it.

My farting gives me pause. If I’m farting this much, how much more is my obese sister farting at this point? She liked to take it up the ass, too. I can’t help but think that served to loosen up her anus even more. She must be a farting machine. lol! Well, that gives me something to chuckle about. Farting too much would be exactly the type of thing she’d never mention, even to her doctor. It wouldn’t fit her perfectly coifed and manicured life. Ha!

Alright. Enough with the farting.

It’s Sunday, a lazy day in any language. Seems the whole world gets a little quieter on Sundays. Dawn breaks a little later, the birds sing a little softer. It’s a recurring pause in our timeline, a point for tidying up last week’s mess and preparing for the days ahead. I got a lot of mess to clean up. And I’m not sure what I’m prepping for. So Sundays can get confusing for me. I can feel a little like an old record stuck in a groove. TV reruns. News re-caps. Oh, please! You can’t tell me nothing happens on Sundays. Still, there it is, every damned Sunday: the week in review. Look at all the violence shoved into one three minute montage. This week the focus is on the sea of immigrants coming to the EU. Yeah, like I said: I catch the news whether or not I want to. So I’ve seen the pictures. I’ve heard about the video of the drowned child. I’ve listened to what the politicians are saying, both the excuses and the accusations. I can no longer say nothing about it. While politics are politics and I refuse to make this blog into a political arena, the situation is encroaching on daily life and thus it IS affecting me, in many ways. And, as usual, I can see both sides of this fence with equal clarity and reason. On the one hand, you have this huge humanitarian crisis. The people risking their lives to get to the EU do so because it’s less a risk than staying in their own country. I think people should stop and give that some thought. Mothers and fathers are risking their children’s lives to get here because it’s LESS a risk walking hundreds of miles or getting crammed into the back of a truck or getting on that overcrowded, leaky old boat than it is to stay. It’s the better fucking option, even if they do die along the way. These people need help, not aggression. On the other hand, this problem is HUGE. Everything carries a price, like it or not, and few of the EU countries involved have a solid financial foothold in the world. Greece is drowning. She may never recover. Hope if you wanted to see Greece, you had your chance. She’s dying and will never be the same. And the infighting! This has reignited those age old adversities between England and France, Germany and Europe, Germany and France. The small kids – Greece, Ireland, Portugal – are going DOWN, people. Good-bye. Not going to survive this. England is doing what England always has; addressing the entire situation with a haughtiness born of empire and never fully beaten out of them.

The EU may crack over this.

I, for one, would be sad to see it happen. Cohesiveness without absolute uniformity IS possible. What I don’t understand is how so many insufferable politicians have managed to secure seats in the EU parliament. Mary Harney from Ireland was a horrible health administer; under her rule millions were wasted building facilities that then lay unstaffed and dormant. She was also the one that got called to task for flying to France to get her hair done – on tax payer’s money. Yet despite all this, she sits in EU parliament serving as CHAIR for European Steering Group on Sustainable Health. Un-fucking-believable. If ya let eejits like her in, no fucking wonder everything is in such a goddamn mess. Bleh. Someday there will be a new story, and Mary Harney will serve as fuel for it.

If I ruled absolute, first thing I’d do would be boring, boring, boring. I’d modify ALL accounting standards across the board. Wipe the slate clean. Make everyone go back to solid, basic accounting principle. Honestly, the rules have become as convoluted as tax law. And about as logical. They were designed that way. So, out with all that. Get back to what we really need to know: CASH FLOW. Not the cash flow offered by accountants these days. REAL cash flow. Real money doing real things. Yes, some of the pretend money flow is valuable information. Depreciating large assets over time not only helps track the value of the assets, it also helps track regular maintenance AND replacement needs. But that shit should be put on a separate page and not integrated AT ALL in the main bulk. It’s not real; don’t fucking include it. There’s plenty of comedic scenes built on people not really knowing how much money they have. Just watched one last night in an Ab Fab episode (Season 2, Poor). Funny, yes. Very real, too. Claiming “invested” money as cash equivalents is ludicrous. Unless you cash them out right then and there the numbers are MEANINGLESS. Keep them off the report, too. And the will-o-the-wisp nothings that financial wizards whip up over night to become the next hot thing to make money on should just be illegal. Full stop. Banks would get their balls snipped and have to go back to being banks, not investment houses. Banks would have extreme regulation, as a matter of fact. No more taking money on both ends to fatten their own pockets. Nope. You earn money the old fashioned way. Worked for a fucking long time. Trickle down economics just let the bear loose. Now we’ve got a really BIG, fat and ANGRY bear to deal with. Shoot the motherfucker. And yeah, 1%. You’d go back to your 50% tax rate and you’ll like because there will be nowhere else to go. Really sorry that you have to give up that golden back scratcher this month, and really sorry that your single master goldsmith won’t get his commission. But that money will feed thousands and fix vital railways and provide wells for water and education for kids. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

*shudder* Sorry. I was just channeling the spirit of the accountant/financier/economist in me.

I guess with all this spilling out of me I shouldn’t be so surprised at the nature of my stories right now. There’s a lot going on with that back burner right now.

Guilty, as charged

WARNING: POSSIBLE OFFENSIVE CONTENT, I REALLY CAN’T TELL. THIS POST SHOULD PROBABLY NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

For the first time in a long while, I feel stumped. I’m ready and willing to talk about all the things I followed through with yesterday and say good for me. I can’t quite unravel the knot of unease in me, tho. Finding it hard to saying anything about my feelings…I’m all over the place.

Managed to write, work on music, do dishes, make the bed, AND take a walk yesterday. The most activity packed day I’ve had since I fell ill. Give myself props for that. Maybe I’ll actually get something fucking accomplished before I die.

Once again, I find myself being forgiven by others but having a damned difficult time forgiving myself.

Didn’t let anything go, didn’t stop thinking about my inappropriate rant in Angry Bear or the comments that followed. Kept picking at it like a scab. Wanted to know what was under that ugly bit of comment. Found it: it was fear.

Dodging the news is like dodging bullets: pretty fucking hard. It’s seeped in, whether or not I want it to. While I want to stay abreast of current events, I don’t want to get sucked into the sickness tv portrays. But I find that near impossible. My morbid fascination pulls me to read articles about what’s going on, even when my head is screaming at me to STOP reading it, stupid, you’ll just get more upset.

I am afraid. I am afraid of radical Muslims. Their views on women panic me.

Maybe if I hadn’t spent the years I did at the hands of the stalker I wouldn’t have such a strong reaction. I dated him for about two and a half years, and spent the next four actively running and hiding from him and another ten still running in my head. I was controlled, from what I wore to who I saw to what I ate and even when I slept. I was used sexually, with no consent on my part. I was hit, usually in places the bruising wouldn’t show. I was demeaned, and told no one would ever care about me or love me like he did because just take a look! Who could love such a fat, dumpy, stupid person anyway?

The thought of being blindly controlled again terrifies me.

The images of women fleeing radical groups, the stories they’ve brought out with them, freeze me up. It is too close, too alike to what happened to me and it is SO much WORSE.

And I think, if it happened here, if radicals took over, what would I do? Would I fight and die? Surely if I fought, I’d die. My body is old. I can’t run due to the RA. I could barely carry a weapon around for any length of time, never mind trying to squeeze my fingers around a trigger. Maybe that’s better: to die fighting rather than be controlled. Makes me wonder. There’s a hell of a lot of people who’d say ‘stay alive at all costs’. I think that’s easy to say when you’re outside of it. Because you can’t imagine what it’s like inside. No matter how you see it, it’s not real. I know. I can imagine myself being brave, and fighting. But I know what happened in my past: I CAVED. I surrendered. I gave up and tried to get by, somehow. It’s the fact that I spent ANY time in that state that bothers me the most. During that time, I ALLOWED the abuse to happen. I ACCEPTED it. And that sickens me. Because there came a time when I became more worried about being alive than un-abused. And I chose alive over un-abused, and it was HELL.

*sigh* I do not want to continue with this. But I feel lately like it’s been poking me, tweaking my nose and not leaving me alone. My sickness goes so deep right now I don’t even want to rant. I just want to cry.

And there they are, the tears I’ve been holding back for … lifetimes. Oh goddess, no, no, please don’t send me down there again. please…

Dusty, dry tears. In my crazier moments, I think I have lived many past lives as a slave, and that is where all this pain comes from. It is disproportionate in my life, and I cry for things that might have happened or did happen somewhere, sometime. It makes no sense. There is only the pit: deep and round and devoid of light. Most days I’m afraid of even looking over the edge for fear of slipping.

Yesterday is gone. The boogeyman is dead. It’s over, it’s not happening now, let it go, let it go. No one’s invading. No one’s threatening. You – I am not in a do or die situation. I am not. in. a do. or die. situation. No. I’m at home, here on my computer, writing. Traffic is moving, the sun is coming up, and another day will proceed with little fuss.

Fear. The other F word. Usually I am galvanized by my fear. My fight or flight thing kicks in, and I generally fight. I admire that about myself. So knowing I didn’t do that, knowing I stopped like a deep caught in a car’s headlights…that cuts me deeper than any other betrayal of myself I can think of. Can I ever really count on myself again? I will always hold doubt now, doubt that I will fight, doubt that I will not surrender.

Am I weaker than I want to think?

Hear ye, hear ye, court is now in session. All rise to the Honorable Judge Beeps. Case number 2465, State vs. bp7o9 for crimes against herself. 

Is the prosecution ready?

We are, your honor. To expedite the matter at hand, we’d like to move directly to witness testimony.

Does the defense have anything to say for herself? No? Then we shall proceed.

Your honor, we call to the stand The Stalker, aka bp7o9’s ex-boyfriend. Is it true you used to hit the defendant?

Yes, it is.

And is it true you fucked the defendant when she told you she didn’t want you to but you went ahead and did it anyway? 

Yes, it is.

And did the defendant try to stop you from fucking her once you started?

No, she did not.

Did the defendant ever call the police for the physical assaults?

No, she did not.

Thank you. Your honor, we move that the defendant NOT be allowed to cross examine; she’s a mess and really doesn’t believe she has a case, anyway.

So moved. Call your next witness.

Your honor, we call the defendant’s sister to the stand. Tell us, ma’am, did the defendant ever hold a job that could actually support her?

No, she never has.

Did the defendant ever TRY to hold a job that could support her financially?

No. She went to college and got a couple of degrees, then let the ball drop like she always does and did nothing with them. Dad was SO disappointed in you, you know.

Your honor I OBJECT! The witness is a hostile cunt with her own agenda against me. I move her testimony be stricken from the record.

The court agrees. Personal shots have no place in this hall. You are dismissed. Does the prosecution have another witness to call?

Yes, your honor, several. If it please the court, we’d like to submit the following witness list:

1. L.W., friend to bp7o9. The defendant ruined their friendship by flirting with L.W.’s boyfriend.
2. D.A., highschool chum of bp7o9. The defendant ruined their friendship by sleeping with D.A.’s boyfriend.
3. R.B., former employer of bp7o9. The defendant stole cash from R.B.’s company.
4. X, who once took the defendant on a date and then raped her.
5. J.B., who’s witnessed the defendant’s mercurial flights and falls first hand for the past 20 years.

Stop! Your honor, stop. Half of these witnesses have nothing to do with the case at hand.

State of mind and character of the defendant, your honor.

I’m going to allow this.

Then your honor, you give me no choice but to change my plea at this time.

Are you telling me you no longer think of yourself as some warrior, but now see yourself as the weak, pathetic thing that has allowed all of this to happen to her without ever even trying to change it? Maybe even INVITING it into your life?

Yes. Yes, I do.

I see. Then it is my duty to issue the following judgement. The defendant is hereby condemned to live with her fear. To BE that weak, pathetic thing she now knows herself to be. It is in every living thing’s domain to fight for what is good and right. This you must do, and you must do it from your place of weakness. You must carry the memories of your betrayals with you. From this, you must find your strength. From this, you must find a way to fight. You must find a way to change. To stop reacting and start thinking. To stop allowing yourself to fall. (bang, bang) Court is adjourned.

When I don’t know what to do, I retreat. And I don’t know what to do now. But I’m not gonna back down. Not yet. Still here…

Edge of the Black Hole

I just erased a 700 word political rant. This place is not the correct forum for that. If I want to do that, I’ll create another anonymous blog to do it on, and politics will be the only subject. I’m not gonna do it here, and be blown off because I’m bipolar or just simply off my rocker. Fuck that.

…More news crept in. Turned the telly on and it was just THERE. So I caught the wonderful story of a one-legged guy getting taken down by 14 cops in the states. *shakes head* People, if you can’t see what’s wrong with that, I pity you. I think you should all drop DEAD, too, but mostly I pity you.

I can feel a scowl on my face. My mouth is tight. My brows are drawn down. I’ll bet the line between my brows is really deep right now.

And I tell myself it’s silly to be actively angry. I’m on the other side of the world. There’s not a goddamn thing I could do, other than rant about it online or sign some petition which isn’t going to CHANGE a goddamn thing.

Breathe. Zen. Go back to sleep. Believe in the illusion. Believe that life is good. Sleep.

I’m distressed to feel this way the day after swimming. Usually the endorphins I release while swimming keep me up for a couple of days. Today I feel empty. Like I need to go back and swim again, and again. This gets into dangerous territory for me. I can get kind of – NO! I AM addicted to exercise. Seems odd to say when I’m carrying extra weight. But it’s true, and I’ve known it to be true for a while. I get addicted to the endorphin release post exercise. However, since my toning continues to increase, it seems I get a bit less endorphins as my general health increases. So to get that super push, I increase my exercise. This seems like a real good system from the outside, especially for anyone who wants to lose weight and get into shape. I become “an inspiration”. What’s really happening is my addiction is being praised. Because it doesn’t stop.

I have worn holes in my back from doing too many sit-ups. I have pushed my cardio work out until I’m almost vomiting. I can NEVER do enough exercise, be strong enough, have enough endurance. Push, push, push. I’d make a great drill instructor. I am MERCILESS with myself. Work thru cramps, pains, blisters, wounds.

At least the pool offers me a safe place to beat myself up. As long as I stay away from the sides so I don’t kick the wall with my foot and break it AGAIN, I can’t really hurt myself.

And I guess that’s really it today. I want to hurt myself. Exercise is a nice way to do it; it gets some weight off me, gives me the endorphin high, AND I get to be mean to my body.

I don’t like admitting to wanting to self hurt.

I guess I figured out a long time ago it was a safe way to self hurt. I mean, if I twist an ankle while exercising or hurt myself in some other way, well, I was EXERCISING. It’s a catch all excuse for me. Exercising means I can beat myself up, wear myself down, all in the name of HEALTH and I generally get away with it.

FUCK! That’s hard to put down on the page.

I want to erase and start again but this IS the forum for this shit. It’s why I started the fucking blog to fucking begin with. So dive in, child!

I WANT TO HURT MYSELF.

There. There it is, with no subterfuge or explanations or justifications. It feels raw, like a giant boulder in my gut; wet and cold and hard. I don’t even want to fucking LOOK at this damned page right now. Usually when I type I look at the words as they come out but right now that fucking statement is HANGING there in my line of vision and goddess please let me type enough words to get it out thank you.

Three deep breaths. Calmer. This is a real problem for me. One I don’t want to admit to. I can’t come up with any real reason why. It just is, like the sky or the sea or the mountains.

I blame my subconscious right now for coming up with some dream last night that’s set all this in motion. A dream I don’t remember. Something that stirred an ugly thing tucked away in my brain. What the fuck my brain was thinking when it let loose is beyond me: doesn’t it know I’m not ready to deal with some shit? You’d think fucking so.

Lovely. I hate days like this. Feels like my brain is keeping a secret from me. Like maybe if I could remember the dream I’d be able to solve this puzzle and let go of that need in me once and for all. Probably just wishful thinking, that. It was probably some mish-mash that doesn’t make any sense. Just some image that flashed and triggered me. Bastard brain for keeping fucking secrets from me. WTF?!? You think it’s fucking funny to wind me up and not tell me why? Motherfucking cunt of a brain! I should have had you fucking neutered a long fucking time ago.

Not a big fucking surprise I keep my brain leashed as best as possible. It gets loose, no doubt. Kind of like a rabid dog. Just goes off, foaming at the mouth, attacking random passersby. Problem is, when I try to step in and stop my brain from attacking everyone, it turns on me. Tells me how awful I am. What a piece of shit on the shoe of humanity I am.

I hate my brain. No. Not accurate. I’m angry at my brain. I don’t hate it. Somedays I really do want a lobotomy. I want to just sit and drool, please. If you’re not gonna kill me, put me out my fucking misery some way.

I’ve got this sense that if somehow I could reconcile with my own brain I’d be ok. I just don’t know how to do it. Always comes down to that: I know what I WANT to do, but I don’t know how to proceed. And I do think I need a choke chain on my brain. Not to use all the time, but I gotta have something to pull it back and keep it in line.

The cycle is shifting. I could spiral down at any time. I can feel that black hole suck…I’m at the edge. Do I have enough fuel to escape? All power to the engines, full forward thrust!!!

………i watched the news

Well. I can officially say this last manic episode is over. Slept for a blessed nine – NINE – whole hours last night, other than getting up once to stumble to the toilet and pee while still half asleep. I feel like a few person. A little slow, sure. But RESTED. Rested like I haven’t been rested in weeks. Thank YOU, universe; thanks for the cooler weather that knocked me out. Thanks for the rain that softens any sound coming in from the open window. Thanks for the cloud cover that darkens the skies so I don’t wake up feeling like my eyes are pierced by light sabers as soon as I step out of my room.

I kinda feel like I’ve been gone on vacation and just walked back into work for the first day. I’m looking around saying ‘hmmmmm…..what needs to be done now?’. Replacement me didn’t just sit on her ass, I see. My desk is spanky bright and clean, including my keyboard that’s now so white I’m ashamed to think how dirty I let it get. There’s also more room in general; boxes have been cleared and put away in storage. Entire piles of stuff are gone. And I know as a last fling, yesterday manic me was scrubbing out sinks and washing windows. Such a perfectionist, her. So much better than depressed me, who leaves a big mess everywhere. I like having manic me come in.

Did manage to turn on the studio yesterday and make some headway. Well, I SAY I made headway. What I did was listen and listen, move this slider or that, listen more. I’m still not sure I’ve got it, and by ‘it’ I mean the song. I’ve got the drum kit; that much I’m sure of. Four kicks, a snare, and high hat – they’re proper, and sitting where I want them. My only REAL issue is my lead instrument. I want it rich, but I think I’ll have to snip its balls off (i.e., cut the bass) to get the SONG where I want it. I can’t have my lead instrument where I want AND get the song where I want. Sounds counter intuitive, but it’s not. I’ve gotta get that lead to CUT. Then, I’ll soften it. Hopefully. With effects. Right now, the song feels bottom heavy to me….there’s no sparkle. There’s not a lot of sparkle instrumentally to begin with, which means I’ve got to create it in production. The question just remains as to HOW…..

I’m semi-amused by my work right now. This song I’m working on is not my standard thing. If I was doing my standard work, I’d know exactly how to cut everything. This is a float, an insubstantial mix designed to hypnotize listeners. I can’t really say ‘here’s my bass, here’s the guitar and piano, here’s the violin’ because I don’t have any of that. I tell ya, if I had to produce for a living I’d stick to good old voice overs and bands. I’m jonesin’ for a simple band right now, by the book EQs and effects. SOOOOO much easier.

*sigh* I be lookin’ deep for somethin’ to say about how I feel and all I get is neutral. Nothing. Not even the irrational fears I wrote about yesterday are shouting. I am fuzzy headed, and honestly I’d like to just go back to bed and catch another 3 or 4 hours. I won’t, ’cause tomorrow I be swimming early again. But I wanna.

Not sure if this has any bearing on the price of shit in Shitsville, but I went to bed last night after laughing my ass off at some stand up comedy. Found a great full show out on YouTube and let it run. Laughed til tears came to my eyes. Laughed, hitting the arm of my chair ’cause the laughing just wasn’t enough. Laughed til I was gasping for breath. I don’t often do that. So maybe all that healthy laughter set me up for a good night’s sleep and a non-extreme day. Somethin’ to think about.

So all this relaxed, easy-breezy feeling crap of course tempted me to watch more news than I generally allow. News is, by bloody DEFINITION, depressing. I get angry over a lot of what I see. I yell back at the tv for all the nonsense and unfounded statements people get away with. I feel frustrated over the injustices. I don’t understand why people are so nasty to other people just because of the way they look or pray or choose to live. I don’t know how some people can sleep at night. Doesn’t their conscience bother them? Don’t they feel bad for hurting other people? Why do they do these things? My goddess, I SQUIRM when I know I’ve hurt someone. Even my sister, the bitch who shall not be named. Yes, even her. When I realize I hurt her with the last email I sent out, I felt bad. I honestly took a step back, saw how hurt she might have been, and took responsibility for pushing her buttons ON PURPOSE to provoke her anger. And no, I didn’t apologize. My problems with her go back a LOOOOOOONG way, and there’s too much built up crap between us for me to feel bad enough to actually APOLOGIZE to her. I only own up to my actions. I made some nasty comment out here and caused someone a bad day. Felt bad about that, too. Feel bad anytime I let someone down, even if I know they only want to use me. That’s me; that damned people pleasing me I wish would just go away. Since I feel I am always to blame, I easily accept my part of any wrongdoing. Hell, sometimes I ACHE to accept the blame. I’m trying to be careful these days; accept my part in all of it but not take on the entire burden. It always takes two to tango. I’m not dancing alone!

My head is full of tv images. Neo nazis protesting immigration. Women dying because they’re women. Children imprisoned, raped, left to die. White men in business suits talking about how they’ve got to cut back on jobs and spending and then stepping into a limo. Yep. This is why I don’t like the news: these are the same images that gave me problems yesterday, last week, last month, last year, ten years ago, two decades ago, four decades ago. Nothing’s changed. It’s only become brighter colored and sharper imaged thanks to HD. And now I can get it in surround sound. Oh. joy.

I don’t have the tools, the fortitude to take on the news. Or life. It may not be happening outside MY window, but damn it! It’s happening outside SOMEONE’S window. And I feel for them. I don’t know them. I’d pass them on the street and may not even offer them the coin of human kindness: a smile. But goddess, I FEEL for them. If I let myself think about it too much it could spiral me down into that septic tank without allowing me to take a breath first.

I don’t understand how anyone could let any of this happen. I just don’t get it.

Ok. Maybe news was a bad idea. I don’t want to be that dark today. I want to enjoy this in-between the extremes feel. Back to happy happy nothings. Think about your music. Think about playing games.

…………..trying…..games…..colors music floating dance happy smiles sunshine yellow happy…

No. It’s gone, or it never was there to begin with.

I’ll have to settle for this feeling of meh. Kind of washed out, like the day.

…..Oh, why the FUCK should I have to fucking SETTLE? If there’s ONE curse I’d like to inflict on all of humanity, it would be an infusion of whatever the fuck it is that makes me feel so goddamned unsettled every time I watch the fucking news. My conscience, or whatever the fuck it is. I don’t care. Just siphon some out of me and pass it around. Maybe THEN people would stop killing and raping and imprisoning and all the SHIT that keeps happening over and over and over and over ad infinitum for fucking FOREVER!!!!!

I would hate to be immortal. To have to sit and keep seeing it. Been seeing it long enough. Sometimes I feel like the entire western civilization is only just a wild social defense mechanism. That we created taxes and paperwork, cubicle cubbies and baseball, only to distract ourselves from the savage REALITY of the rest of the world. The war. The famine. The genocide. It seems only when these things encroach on our little fantasy world do we stand up and say, ‘oh, that’s awful! that’s not right!’ and then our leaders tell us they are sending troops and bombs, so go back to sleep, children, dream of taxes and cubicles and baseball. And most people do. They fall back asleep. They forget. They WANT to forget, and that’s a social problem that’s not being addressed enough. Woe be to those of us who’ve woken and stayed awake.

*annoyed and ironic eye roll* No wonder I want to go back to sleep.