6:23 AM; Los Robles bed
I hear the fountain and traffic and the squeak of floorboards upstairs. I pulled the dog and gentleman and tried to go back to sleep, but no dice. The POD gets picked up today. I finished reading Chani’s You Were Born for This and begin Becoming Bodhisattvas. My pitch for Rainbow Ranch is nearly finished.
I check Facebook. I already looked through Instagram. I’m impatient. Just waiting like a stone for Aisha.
3:44 PM; Los Robles couch
Watching Dune as I work on the pitch deck for Rainbow Ranch.
How joyful today has been—spoke to Leslie, who taught me how to cleanse my labradorite ring which I had thrown at Allie at the hospital before the cops chased me.
I signed the lease after much anxiety. Eartha rubs her face on my toes. It’s so strange that she always smells sweet like watermelon.
I glimpsed Aisha today as she was walking back from her car. I take that as a good sign. Today I pulled The Gentleman card with the Park. Perhaps my wizard is cooking magic for me.
I’m trying to take in all the signs.
Yesterday was Star Day—I went to the pumpkin patch and corn maze with Jim. On the way there, I smoked THC for the first time since starting the drugs. I had a vision of becoming mayor, of teaching young people how to lead. Of beauty and prosperity. I felt connected to my former self. My anxiety was replaced with patient excitement and gratitude. It is a relief to know that relief is one joint away (Venom OG sativa).
I think I’ll take a break from business to read more about Spiritual Cleansing. I went to Vroman’s and found a very important tome: American Brujería. I’m multi-liminal! Extra magical, as Leslie concurns.
I find it interesting that the Harkonnen are so fat, white, rich, and obsessed with money/power.
I am so curious to learn just how bright/powerful I will become. I can’t wait to DO IT RIGHT. With all the help from my eagles. Lydia. Therese. Katarina. Enid. Leslie. Aisha. Haydee.
I wonder why I have trained myself for G-forces via rollercoasters. Is it simply a human pleasure or will I be tossed about on a dragonfly? Be slow. Stay slow. Pray. Take it easy. Recline in the captain’s chair.
6:37 AM; couch
Last night I was scrolling Insta and came upon a trans model. I watched their video of transformation on T. I began to cry. I am trans. When Allie got home from her walk with Wigs, we took a bath and I wept. I feel afraid. I feel better. I am supported. I’m not even 1/2 way through the year at 32, and discoveries never seem to end.
7:30 AM; Los Robles table
Did not pray. Most likely got distracted by the many books I’ve recently acquired. Currently listening to music on my headphones while the money candle Leslie recommended burns. Just finished writing a bit for my new Ghost page—funny how writing isn’t difficult now that I have assertions. I’m almost annoyingly appreciative of my time in the hospital now. It was my version of the hand in the box—went to see Dune last night by myself. It was so good. I cried multiple times due to the intensity of the message. And the music. And the visuals. A masterpiece. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll have time in this life to write my novel. And see it translated on screen. Now I pray! After I drink water.
I let my fear pass through me.
6:11 AM; Ojai—Encino Airbnb desk
I begin with a sigh—so much happening/changing, how to document it? Allie and I had a fight yesterday which left me feeling lonely and unwilling to reach out to anyone. I think of Abuela and all the time she spent/survived alone.
The card I pulled for today: Amor. I picked up my phone to check Instagram and Aisha popped right up, which was a surprise since she blocked my main account. But I was signed into my backup account, which she did not block. Not very much activity since we last talked before the hospitalization, which is a relief… can’t live without me! ;)
Listening to Lianne La Havas from “Spring ‘17,” which was ICAH times. Crazy world.
I feel less lonely knowing that God is a clown. I laugh more.
Things continue to move at light speed. So happy my destined apartment is owned by sweet weirdos. Really looking forward to becoming part of this new family. The excitement does not relieve my anxiety.
Before heading here, I lost my wallet and was incredibly tempted to consult the cards, but Leslie’s wisdom rang in my head: pray! So I did. And the wallet appeared.
So off I go to pray.
12:30 AM
There’s something about the beginning that’s the trouble because once you start, you may never stop. At least that’s the problem with vinegar chips and orgasms. Why stop when there’s something still to be had? And then there are the other cases: why stop when there’s something good to be had? The more mysterious the good, the better!
And that’s the lesson I’ve really learned, or not: the morality of living. No matter your upbringing, you cannot escape the spiritual matrix in which you find yourself. It’s permeating, gaudy in its undeniability. Who am I, who are we, really?
Writing is the real challenge: you cannot address a pain until you investigate its depth. You cannot put together a puzzle without feeling its pieces. And writing is an escapade into knowing. How can a better morality exist without exploring the edges of this one?
And then there’s the “for whom” and “for what”—the questions that every human motivation boils down to. Most people make it easy: children. Sacrifice everything in the name of your children—it’s the obvious choice when you aren’t offered other choices. What becomes more moral than children? We label it selfishness.
For me, my moral focus became justice. The least obvious to me and the most painful. In the tangle of intersectional justice, I managed to waltz around my brown-woman-ness until it filled the room; it’s as if all my queerness primed me for the discomfort of disruption on a grand scale that I never wanted to imagine. It is so bleak, exhausting, futile, and simply dangerous that reproductive justice, other justices fall away. Environmental justice, the pinnacle of justices, would need to be tabled.
Airing dirty laundry is a betrayal to not just your family, but to the ancestors who sacrificed to bring you the privilege that affords you the luxury of introspection, the fruits of an education.
It is because of my Latinidad that I find myself here, reporting my small history of colonization from the bleeding edge of present. The big picture got way too big; this may be my destiny or tragic flaw, or both. That’s what I feel: vocational (and thankfully, not without allies).
Who knew?
The topic of Catholicism came up at a dinner party my parents threw this past holiday season. One practicing Catholic left the room. Almost 50% had been raised Catholic, but only three remained practicing. It was said (by me?): “You can leave the Church, but it will never leave you.”
My dad hummed a hymnal at the dinner table. “Do you know that one?” “Of course,” I said. “I can still remember the lyrics.” “No way,” he said. I recited them.
Abuela left communist Cuba to provide a good life for her daughter in capitalist America, where people can vote and access quality education and build wealth—the American Dream. This is why I do not identify as a socialist.
Socialists are one human rights violation away from being communists.
10:47 PM; Nena’s guest room
I’ve been meaning to catch up on writing, but it’s been absolutely crazy with all the moving and Alyssa and now travel—I’m really glad I’m here. I drove a rental car from the airport—breathed the singular Florida scent—and Tita was standing in the garage when I arrived—very reminiscent of Abuela. Nena and Tita warmed up some food and we chatted. There was a deafening silence after I told a story about Abuela (Futurista, moving glass birds from apartment to apartment), but mostly it was small talk. Nena showed me the cancer sores on her belly. Tita moved the lamp from her room to mine so that I could read and gave me extra blankets. I feel Abuela strongly. Tomorrow we’ll eat picadillo and platanos and frijoles negros.
I took Alyssa to the Botanic Gardens on the 4th and it was super nice. We made us “official”—I told her I was dumb for being hung up on Molly and that I was “in it” with her. It feels good, even though we’re both scared, which Chris reminded me was normal.
Jeff helped me set up my room at Brian’s and I’ll be dogsitting Dolphi once I get back. Then it’ll be a very intense apartment hunt, which must conclude before I head off to Swarm.
So many small things running through my head as I wonder what to write… The 4th was nicer than I thought it would be, not only because I sorted things out with Alyssa, but also because we ended up meeting Sarah and Ezekiel at Loyola Beach with Jeff in tow and we walked the boardwalk as fireworks went off all around us—it was pretty magical. Much cooler than being on a rooftop. Meanwhile Dad was missing out on fireworks because apparently Carlos was in a “foul” mood and they left Margie’s early.
Not looking forward to going back to work next week. Tiffany and I only ended up playing two of our beach volleyball games together, and the second one was nothing like the first, regrettably. No flirty drinks or dips in the lake. The Nightside is one week away and I haven’t written me piece yet. There’s no internet here, but maybe that’ll help. Off to read. And then to soak in Abuela as much as I can.
12:36 AM; Alyssa’s—bed
I can’t believe I haven’t written in so long—should have been a red flag maybe. Jack(et) the cat wants to participate in my journaling. He paws at the marker. My phone flashlight is propped against my calf so that I can write in the dark. Alyssa fell asleep after we smoked and talked for a while. She made dinner and it felt really couple-y—happy in a simple way. I got my hair cut really short today—we talked about family pressure—my feeling a need to conform to my parents’ desire for me to be more feminine. My mind is bouncing all over the place. I paid Mom back the $6k loan today. This after the fucking week from hell. It was this past Sunday night that Andy came home drunk and threw me out the door. I’m still feeling the desire to call the hotline the police provided and pursue charges of some kind. I hate that I’m letting the patriarchy to go on unchecked. Fuckers.
11:30 PM; Logan—bed
Ugh. Yesterday was state foosball (tournament) and I spent the night crying on the phone with Erin. My partner Jaime and I had spent Saturday night bonding and laughing our asses off, but then I couldn’t stand her by Sunday and was grossed out by all the male gaze and patriarchy of the crowd. I didn’t play well either. Worked from home today and had a meeting with Mirna and John. Back on Tinder, which is vaguely entertaining but also disheartening. Still not over Molly’s ghosting. Still wondering about my destiny with L.A. Mom and Dad leave for Florida and Cuba Wednesday—the day Nena is supposed to get her biopsy results. I haven’t written in ages and The Nightside is next week. Tomorrow I hang with Maia. Had a nightmare last night that I got fat. It was very unsettling. I’m behind in my work and have meetings all day tomorrow. Feeling tired. The weather is getting me down—so much rain and 40º cold. Our windows keep leaking and my landlord keeps showing up when I’m in pajamas. The bees swarmed. The chickens lay eggs that Mom puts into a wicker basket. Soon I will be 28. Abuela is always on my mind. But I achieved a hint of stability last week. A first.
10:18 PM; Logan Blvd—bed
Woke up to such a beautiful day that I felt over Molly, felt down for love. Crazy how much the weather determines my mood. Crazy to think it’s been two years since the spring that I fell for Tracy. Went home for Easter yesterday and had Mom read my tarot. Confusing messages.
Began working on Mirna’s branding project. Been writing tunes with Jeff. Still climbing with Luke on the weekends. Spoke with Jessface today before heading to Target with Maia. Glad I have my people around. Was supposed to write about Abuela for therapy tomorrow. Have been putting it off because I’m scared my memories won’t feel real enough. Won’t do her justice. I nightmare all the time. But I’ll give it a shot.
Abuela was so good at listening—she’d sit in her chair while I told her stories about my day—her eyes would be bright, intense. Her feet crossed. When she stood up, she’d slip her shoes on and shuffle to the kitchen. She stood her dominos up vertically, tap her pointer finger only. [Here comes the pain.] She loved to smile, to joke—her laughter would bubble forth. She’d squint her eyes and wag her finger in take chastisements. She’d hold her coat closed, her purse hanging from her elbow. She huffed when she was exhausted, blowing her hair up off her face. Baskin Robbins. Pralines and cream. The Chinese restaurant—she’d order cashew chicken. Honey Jam Cafe. Portillo’s. La Briola—she’d send me to get cookies for us at the bakery; Yorktown AMC—anything animated. JC Penny, TJ Maxx, Nordstrom’s. Von Maur, J. Alexander’s, Red Lobster, Oliver Garden. Hobby Lobby. Always leaning on the cart, slowly working her way up and down the aisle. Celecholos. Empanada. Potatoes and eggs. She gave us so much. I remember we went to the movies on one of the coldest days of one of the coldest winters and we laughed at how crazy we were. [Pain pain. pain.] I wish I held her hand more. Sitting on her back porch. Sitting out front on her folding chair. Pressing the garage button as we waved goodbye. Hasta mañana. Mónica. Dominos. Racko. Yahtzee. Rummikub. Jewelry. Knitting. Timber. Arroro mi niña, arroro mi amor, arroro pedazo de mi corazón. Turning the volume on her TV down. Turning down the volume on her phone. She’d put it on speaker and hold it up to her ear. Her fingernails were always nice. Her handwriting was beautiful. Her signature elegant and effortless. Sleeping on her arm, nudging her when she snored. She always kept her dictionary on the fireplace step close by. She always had cookies around. Always have coffee in the morning, wearing her nightgown, her hair a mess. She’d always wear a necklace when she dressed up. We had something so special.
2:46 PM; Logan Blvd—bed
Will be working a long day tomorrow, so got home early today and put away laundry, hung art, picked up my room… and feel terribly lonely. The weekend was wildly successful in terms of personal growth and progress—went home to split Abuela’s ashes and ended up having a much needed convo with Mom and Dad, and then hung out with Kellie, and then got an email from Molly saying she’s wanting to hang after one more week of breathing… all things are relatively good. Why lonely? Oh yeah. Went climbing with Luke on Sunday and Skyped/Netflixed with Erin. Texted Adam Sondag… so I’m doing the self-care with friends thing plenty. It’s this not wanting to be alone with myself… I need to turn to art. Honestly, I think it has a lot to do with the weather. I finally dug out my “happy lamp” per Chris’ suggestion. Nani Moore is supposedly coming over later to jam—that should be super fun. Need to get shit together for the next Nightside. Need to work on Blue Medusa. I want to make a comic of Babs. Maybe that’s what I’ll do right now. Cuz I need another project. Lol. Oh yeah, also had coffee with Carly on Sunday. Significant chat.
4:32 AM; Logan Blvd—bed
Molly ended our relationship. She can’t balance love and work right now, and I can’t blame her, although I can’t relate to choosing not-love. It’s so painful, this heartbreak. But I’m okay, somehow. Somewhat not okay, somewhat okay. I keep trying out scenarios in my head—she emails back and says she’s made a huge mistake! She comes to my show and we establish a friendship! We become writing buddies and years from now rekindle this love affair! But it’s all painful right now and there’s nothing to do but leave it to fate. I told her I still wanted to know her—left her a voicemail and text—and she claims to still want that, too, so… time. Ugh, time.
In some ways I’m relieved. I’ve been in such unbearable pain, and Molly was a perfect distraction. Now I have no choice (well, I do, still) but to face it and deal with it. It’s like a “let’s get this show on the road” feeling. I’m tired of holding these pillars of pain inside me.
Goddamn! I want to be able to turn my brain off. Stop living in what-ifs. How can I appreciate my existence for what it is? Bury myself in art, I suppose. Read all the bluets.
I’m frustrated because I feel like I’m the only emotionally brave lover I know. How lonely.
1:51 AM before daylight savings time?; Logan Blvd—bed
Today I woke up feeling incredibly shitty and disconnected from the world, but then Erin called and we talked about my pain, fears, sadness, anxiety, and by the time we got off the phone, I felt able to go on with my day. I met Liz for lunch and we visited a bookstore and I drew an ofrenda for Abuela on her chalkboard wall. Then I went home and found out Sara couldn’t hang, so I made some calls and landed on Nat, who was down to come over and I ended up telling them everything about my situation with the fam and my anxiety that I direct to Molly and the philosophies I have about art and the nature of relationships (micro vs. macro) and the inconsistencies I have about my beliefs about the world and my relationship to it. We got high and ate pickles and I told them the story about foosball and Ronnie and work worries. We talked and talked the night away and it was wonderful. Then Molly finally texted back and I was briefly comforted before returning to my general state of insecurity, which I’m plagued with. What would it take for me to feel secure? Nat asked. I don’t know. Accomplishment? Promises? Would these things even be enough? I think a general return to consistency would probably help. But when the fuck will that happen? So back to the drawing board of self-care, which today meant talking Nat’s ear off and crying and finding some truth. I dread nightmaring. The true plague of my life.
I suppose, like loneliness, we might inherit nightmares, maybe? Could that be possible?
Tomorrow I’m supposed to play board games with Sarah and Ezekiel. The maybe catch dinner with Scott and his crew. And then prepare for a hell of a week at work.
Molly’s Liz want to take us out to dinner Wednesday night apparently. I’m not sure what to expect. But it’s a good thing, undoubtedly. I hope I pass the test.
Now it’s magically past 3:00 AM. Crazy, time. Spring ahead. Yes, I do welcome springtime. Blooming trees, the smell of mud, fuck—then my birthday! Oh God. It’s almost time. Gross. #274evr Late 20s D:
5:00 AM; Logan Blvd—bed
Woke up from a nightmare but then reviewed the photos from last night’s Nightside and now I’m too awake! Another spirit-reviving success—the first one without Bryant, and I’m so glad it went down without a hitch. In fact, the crowd was perhaps the best yet—so many good friends, and Molly. :) Damn, that woman! We’re moving right along—every time I see her, I’m convinced I’m in love. Not in the overwhelming-addicted way that I sometimes succumb to in the days in between (left over bad habits and mis-directed anxiety hijacking)—but an intentional this-is-a-wonderful-human-being-who-I’m-very-attracted-to-and-makes-me-feel-good-and-omg-she’s-such-a-good-fit. She’s a good fit because she has all the qualities I want in a partner—smart, funny, artistic, ambitious, affectionate, beautiful—and she’s good at boundaries, and she has flaws that jive with mine (we’re on the same mental health page, she’s a workaholic, which evens out my procrastination), and she treats me the way I treat her—which is to say my touch needs are actually satisfied and we treat each other to things and we’re excited to see each other. I feel too lucky, but I’m trying to feel lucky… then again, I’m not feeling overly lucky thanks to the fact that she’s certainly moving to LA in 6 months. We joke about it. She seems optimistically playful, and so I try not to freak out.
With all the family pain, moving away from here—or at least getting away regularly—increasingly appeals to me. Mom and I went to therapy with Chris the other day and I could barely stand it. I feel locked in by words. I can’t express myself, and at the same time I can’t bear to listen. I’m not feeling good—I’m a paranoid mute. And then I nightmare constantly.
Tomorrow will be three years since Abuela died. I talk about her all the time. I wish so badly to conjure her for Molly. For anyone. I try to conjure her in my writing. I have her ashes… I need to go to Cuba. I need to go so many places. I need to go see the Northern Lights. Bring Abuela with me.
I’m supposed to write with Tanner in a few hours and then I need to once again head to therapy. Mom wants me to pay for it, but I don’t think I will… I would prefer to save up for plane tickets. And that makes me feel horrible. I don’t know what to think anymore, maybe because I don’t know how to feel anymore. I’m numbing out. I’m tired of feeling misunderstood. I’m tired of feeling like I need to fix things. I just want to move on with my life. I don’t feel like Carlos is that important to me right now, and I don’t think Mom and Dad will understand me anytime soon, so what gives? What I need is time to heal, to sort through my memories and feelings of the past, and that means finding an affordable practitioner of EMDR. As Maia and Molly both pointed out, Chris is not the best fit.
Work is stressful. I’m always worried about pissing Tiffany off. I need to stop worrying about her mood and focus on the work itself. But there’s so much to do, it’s incredibly difficult to manage my time.
I don’t know what to write about the world. Everything continues to go to shit, and I’m letting it. I try to convince myself that my art is my best contribution to the fight, but I’m not feeling convinced. At the same time, I’m at full capacity, like Kellie. I’m barely able to hold my mind together.
11:27 PM; Logan—bed
Jess lays beside me reading her Kindle. We just got back from seeing Get Out with Molly and Jimmy. It was a lot of fun. :) The whole morning I was stressed as fuck because last night at Molly’s show, I found out she got into USC and I was hurt she didn’t tell me. Jess was disapproving. I’ve been unable to cope with such upsets ever since the fight with Mom and Dad in Chris’ office the day before Valentine’s Day. I’ve been a nervous, paranoid wreck. Miraculously, I’ve remained functional, if not borderline. I was convinced, for instance, this morning that I was going to have to end things with Molly because she’s not as communicative as I am and appears to prioritize work over relationships, but the truth is that I don’t know her reasons, her nature, or intentions—it’s too early to know such things. But I’m so terrified of getting hurt, my brain goes into high alert protection mode. I talked to Erin and luckily she reminded me there was a reason in abstaining from assumptions. So when I met up with Molly after work, I asked her simply, and she replied simply: she wanted to tell me in person, and she said I’ll be the first person to know about whether she gets into UCLA or not. And then she pet and kissed me the rest of the evening and made me and my friends laugh. So of course I’m back to being head over heels smitten.
Mom called today. I haven’t talked to her since the session (a week after I got her angry call about Aunt Jill knowing). It was a living nightmare, that session, and the days that followed I suffered immensely—the darkest of darks. I had ideations of hanging myself. But by the grace of my friendships, and perhaps the resilience of surviving so much heartbreak, I was able to survive the days without sabotaging myself. I still feel unhinged. I believe my brain is chemically unbalanced at this point—but I’m riding it out. I don’t know what I would do without my friends. Or my job. My job is a lifesaver. This life right now feels amorphous and dangerously unpredictable, yet at the same time everything is the way it should be. I have a good job, I’m dating a good match, I have wonderful friends. I’m working on my boundaries with my family. The only thing missing is a feeling of sanity. Perhaps that’s also the way it should be. Especially in these times.
I suppose I should include in these writings some note about the incredible unbelievability that is our political climate. Utter nightmare. Inconceivable ridiculous horror. Everyday there is an apocalypse of some sort. We all live in the fantasy of some old dream of our country, knowing it is a dream all the while. The truth of our days is horrific. How do we go about our business? That is why evenings like tonight are so sweet to me. Joy is scarce. We all feel the impermanence. Our fragility. Our mortality. We could all be locked up one day—we censor our speech. We could suffer the hatred of our enemies and burn. We could suffer the hatred of our own countrymen. We already do.
It’s like living in Harry Potter. We haven’t witnessed the carnage of war firsthand, but we see it in our social media feeds. We know it’s there, and it’s destined for us. Life is so short for so many.
11:47 AM; Logan Blvd—bed
Last night I got back from climbing (after jamming with Jeff, after chatting with Nick, after visiting Tanner at Uncharted) [catching up with all my white male homies, apparently], and I got ready to go out with Cathy and her queer lady posse to Slo Mo, but she ghosted and I ended up staying in and getting high while on the phone with Desirée and of course I got paranoid and was having lots of thoughts (not to mention gchatting Molly like a fool), but one of my realizations was that I feel like I’m reallt bad at being accepting of the “easy” version of myself. Aka, I’m trying too hard all the time, aka I try to control myself and don’t check in with my actual feelings because I’m too attached to a version of myself that I want to be. I don’t know why I do this. I don’t know when it started, even, although most likely it’s been a looooong time. It happens mostly at night, I think, or maybe only when I get a plan in my head and those plans are foiled. I’m not good at coming back to myself… or is it that I’m just indecisive? How does one figure that out?
[Left diary open and unattended on bed side]
12:14 PM; 3027 Logan—bed
Spent yesterday in the company of Maia—went to therapy, went home to do laundry, went to see Hidden Figures, loaded up my car with more stuff, and then spent my alone time curating a music list for The Nightside. Show #3 was a great success, and I feel extremely motivated now to keep it going and make it great. Molly couldn’t make it in time, which was a bummer, but I guess I owe her for pushing me to impress. And Bryant. I owe Bryant big time. I was enjoying listening to music and fantasizing about Molly so much that I feel into insomnia, and so I forewent brunch plans this morning and will instead be meeting up with Bryant and Rob Littwin at 2:00 for rock climbing. Tomorrow I hang out with Mom all day and MAYBE will grab coffee with Ed—he actually messaged me back about The Nighside and then texted yesterday that he got laid off. I still do not know why he went AWOL for an entire year. I doubt he’ll keep our plans for tomorrow. But that’s okay because then I’ll be free to hit up Molly’s show in the evening and meet her best friend. And then I’ll see her for our date Tuesday, which happens to be Valentine’s Day. Ha.
Yesterday at therapy I told Chris how much Molly has caused me to inflict great suffering on myself. Supposedly, to combat my INFP tendencies, I need to keep a card in my pocket that lists verifiable truths on one side and the people who love me on the other. Then, when I face those terrible, frequent moments of anxiety, I can read the card and “breathe through my feet,” as Chris puts it. Sure. Why the fuck not.
But today I’m feeling good, despite the gray weather. One of those inspired days that makes me feel like I can do anything and I must go quickly to create something genius. I suppose I will revisit my old blog and post pieces that I’ve performed at The Nightside. I need to start working on whatever the next will be. Must do this in time to visit Tanner at Uncharted—he’ll be back from his vacation finally, and it’ll be so good to see him.
I hear a roommate in the kitchen. NPR plays. Eggs are being whisked. My clothes dry on the rack at the foot of my bed. Beyond the brick walls out my window, winter treetops stretch toward the clouds asking for sun. I chomp on my mouthguard. I hear the clock tick. I wish I could summon my laptop with the force.
4:18 AM; 3027 Logan—bed
This past week has been full of nightmares. I keep waking wanting to scrub my brain. So rather than toss and turn for an hour, I figured I’d at least attempt to clean my head here. After my last entry, I promptly freaked out about my past mistakes and liking Molly too much too soon. I barely know her and am burdened with U-hauling instincts. Thanks, chemistry, or whatever the fuck. Sap Tapping poems come to mind. I had to wait the whole weekend—until last night—to see her again and thankfully found relief from my anxiety that I had somehow fucked things up by virtue of spooky science vibes. She was very tactful in reassuring me that she was down for my crazy. We made out in the car with her skeleton Dolores in the bak seat. I’ll see her at my show Thursday.
I’m gonna need to write new material for Thursday and I don’t know what. I was feeling the itch for an essay exploring the myth of lessons through foosball. Actually, I’m gonna give it a shot now. Maybe read some David Sedaris for inspiration.
11:33 AM; 3027 Logan—kitchen
Basking in the sun while I have it—one of the precious blue sky mornings of winter. NPR plays on the radio. I drink smokey tea.
Last night I went out to dinner with Molly for date #3 and afterward she helped me retrieve my guitar stuff from Bryant’s studio and we came back here, drank tea, played Star Realms, and proceeded to have beautifully intimate, satisfying sex. I really like her, and this morning I woke up electrified at 6:00 AM and obsessed over what may happen in the future when she moves to LA. Thankfully I fell back asleep.
It’s amazing what a little sunshine and seratonin/oxytocin can do—I feel bright and inspired, like I could write poetry again—something I haven’t done in ages.
Two nights ago, my roommate Bobby was sitting at the kitchen table working on art while listening to audio meditations, and so I joined him and drew a pastel portrait of Futurista. It was so great to work on art again in good company. I am finding happiness in such dark times, which gives me hope.
Andy just walked in carrying a yoga mat—reminds me that I need to join the rock climbing gym. I am working off my debt steadily, and now I’m hoping to be able to afford regular travel…
As I was talking with Maia a few days ago, as I told Molly last night, diaries have this way of reminding us that we encounter the same lessons over and over again, and we can only hope we eventually catch on and embed the learned lesson into our psyche. Whenever I start a new journal, I wonder what history will be written, and I wonder what repeated lesson will be recorded. Perhaps I will take a few moments now to recall some difficult lessons in the hope of avoiding them in the future.
In love, I’ve learned that I have the tendency to become trapped in the romance of a non-existent potential. I need to focus on the present—check in and evaluate my reality. If I cannot find health and happiness in my present reality, if I cannot take immediate action to make it so, then perhaps I am being blinded by my imagination.
In work, I’ve learned that assertiveness doesn’t always serve my goal to self-advocate, for whatever reason, and it may be wise to take the backseat and save my ideas/ambition for my own private projects. I wonder when the moment will come that I will earn the right to be my assertive self.
In art, I’ve learned that I have unreasonable expectations for myself, which hinders my work in every regard. I need to give myself more freedom and less judgement. Whatever artist I am is enough.
In family, I’ve learned that my family is like every other: deeply flawed, heartbreaking, and difficult. I must continue the work of differentiation, strive to listen to myself first, and practice boundaries.
In general, I still suffer imposter’s syndrome, low self esteem, and insecurity. I should remember: I am still all of myself all of the time, but circumstance blinds me in darkness if I don’t take care of myself. I am talented. I am intelligent. I am capable. I am ambitious, creative, productive, valuable. It’s a scary world, and it would seem to work to silence me and others like me, but that doesn’t change who I am. Thank goodness.
Writing these affirmations is actually emotional for me—I am embarrassed, sad that I am not my own ally most of the time.
Mom and Dad text. Time to go.
