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Posts Tagged ‘I don’t like to complain but I’m really fucking tired’

It comes on so fast, and I am beaten before the gun even goes off; there is no readied startle, no uncoiling, no explosive start.

I am having coffee. Coffee is not my focus, not ever. It is always an aside to whatever else I’m doing, gentle punctuation on a task, a sitting with someone, a get-up-and-let’s-go. Sometimes I drink it not because I want it, but because it makes me feel secure and capable and adult. Professionals drink coffee, don’t they? People who know what the fuck they are doing drink coffee.

I am having coffee and the sun is streaming in the windows. I was so proud to have these windows when they were first given to me, to have the ample natural light and the gaze of nature on my bent head as I sanded and hammered and painted and set my mouth just so as I was coaxing something into existence from a pile of throwaway things. I have a broad expanse of white workspace secured to the wall below the windows and I can look up as I bite my lip, as I focus and hum something old and familiar that pulls at me deeply, to see the tops of the trees I am floating amongst. I can survey the kingdom all the way to the street. It is a terrific view. I’m still proud of these windows.

I am having coffee and the sun is streaming in the windows and my work table is piled over with things crying out to be other things. Perched on the edge of my chair, I’m securing one something to another something, pausing to look with a stranger’s eyes, pushing, adjusting, clamping the things together because they’ll live this way from now on. (Although. Sometimes it occurs to me, you know? It occurs to me that one day this thing might be just another throwaway thing and then maybe the things I put together will fly apart and parts will be discarded while other parts give rise to something else.) I tilt my head, set the new thing down. It’s a process and I can only do so many things at once: There are constraints to alchemy. I begin something else and my chest explodes.

I am having coffee. The sun is streaming in the windows. The work table is ample with materials. They want to be other things, things other than what they are. My chest explodes. Who the fuck am I and how is it that I have a right to be here? It would be better without me, it would be easier to be gone, I am blindsided with worthlessness and anxiousness and why did this start, when did this start, I used to have the answers, oh no.

Oh no, oh no.

What then, when your whole life is scripted as apology? I’m sorry I’m here. I’m sorry I did it wrong. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’m tired of misunderstanding. How is it that I am so often misunderstood when I put everything I have into being absolutely plainspoken? How do I stop being hostage to the hearts of others? My own heart is far afield. It’s rebellious as fuck and will not come to me when I call it back. My chest has exploded and my heart is running away from me and I curse the day that I ever thought that to let it be seen was a wise thing.

It comes on so fast. I am crumpled at the gate. It opens. It opens and I am never ready.

Hi there, Precious Muffinassedly Ones.

Look. I always suffer sleep deprivation, we all know that.  Insomnia always dances around my periphery, making nyah-nyah faces and crowing about its power over me. My typical M.O. is to cheerily flip it the bird and go along my merry way. Everybody’s got their thing, you know? Insomnia is mine, no big deal. I’d rather do this than have to deal with a shit-ton of other things I can name. So I wake up earlier (or more) or stay up later or lie in bed telling God a litany of things I have no right or business to worry about, which is my version of counting sheep….I tick off  the world’s troubles and ask God to take them away. So what?

But oh man, right now I’m the midst of one of the most vicious cycles I have had in a while. It started just before the Japan mess (two days, I think?) and has been feverishly groping me like a slovenly old pervert. INSOMNIA DOES NOT GROPE SEXILY, MUFFINASSES. It has clumsy fingers and smells bad, pleh.

Tonight I was on Twitter and it was atypically bitchy and edgy and angry and I was all ‘I hate this‘ and then I started being obstreperous to make myself feel better (sometimes I behave badly just to feel a little alive, you know?).  But then I remembered that I get super-stoked about giving presents and so now here we are.

Leave me a comment about anything, tell me about your day, give me a story or a link; complain about something or be sad about something or make up a dirty limerick. That’s your entry for a drawring I will do in a couple days for a magical thing called a TACKY PACK™ that I used to give away on the regular back before I moved the old voyeurnal over here. The TACKY PACK™ is essentially a melange of great goodness and übercool radness. I don’t have to suck any corporate dick to bring it to you, and there is no ulterior motive save for the fact that I’m getting my jollies by giving a (many-partsed, multi-faceted) gift to somebody. There used to be a page devoted to telling you how great the TACKY PACK™ is in all its random iterations, but it’s long gone. You’re just gonna have to take my word for it and know that present-giving is one of my strengths. I think it’s the one meant to balance my propensity toward addictive behaviors, but I can’t say that with complete surety. What I can say with a great degree of confidence is this: Tweeting about this to your followers won’t get you an extra entry, but it would be a cool thing to do.

UPDATE, 11:10 p, CST: Post amended to add this video, which delights me.

 
|| November 14, 2000 || 2:09 pm || Comments (0) ||

she’s got a case against me / a jury of my peers / and the rage of the righteous / screaming in her ears / i’m not dignified anymore / i can’t say i didn’t call / i say i love you / she don’t hear me anymore

and don’t give that girl a gun / i said now don’t give that girl a gun / she’s already won / she’s already won

i made a bad connection / she says i went astray / i jumped ship abandoned my post / i didn’t think i lost my way

but oh how the mighty fall / i saw her crack a smile / i don’t got a chance for redemption / she don’t believe in the miracle mile

so take the first shot baby it’ll be real clean / i’m your girl strong and mean / second shot baby it’ll be real cool / i’m your fool

i said now don’t give that girl a gun / i said now don’t give that girl a gun / (give that girl a gun) / she’s already won / she’s already won

yeah / i said hold me closer / cause something’s happening / why can’t we come together / she said “i doubt we ever will / ever will again”

i said don’t give that girl a gun / i said now don’t give that girl a gun / she’s already won / she’s already won

i said now don’t give that girl a gun / i said now don’t give that girl a gun / (give that girl a gun) / already won / she’s already won

yeah / (give that girl a gun) / yeah / (give that girl a gun) / yeah yeah / the first shot baby / it’ll be real clean / i’m your girl strong and mean / second shot baby it’ll be real cool / i’m your fool / i’m your fool / i’m your fool / don’t give that girl a gun / yeah / yeah / yeah

/// Indigo Girls, “Don’t Give That Girl A Gun”

 
|| October 18, 2000 || 10:30 am || Comments (0) ||

I wish that I could say that I am constantly amazed by how little it takes sometimes to set me off and send me spiraling towards the junkie wishing well. However, I am never amazed. I am frustrated and saddened and frightened by it, though. Perhaps that’s just what keeps me from pushing, popping, smoking or snorting anything in the world that I can get my grimy paws on.

Unclean. Unclean and lusting and remorseful. I feel all of those when the big jones hits.

You see, I am a two-time ‘user’. The third time is the charm, everybody knows this. That means if I fall offa the wagon the second time, it will be my last. I will never come back. I will be worm food after a time, because I have not enough control to be a lifelong practicing addict like Thom Yorke  or Iggy (good ole Iggy) Pop and a host of others too numerous to name. How the fuck do they do it? How do they rein in the bliss and the monkey far enough to stay alive, much less function? Must be something genetic.

Meanwhile, here I sits, having a fucked-up, rattly jones-day. The screaming in my sinews is palpable and I hope it doesn’t disturb you as you go about your activities. Love to you.

 
|| September 17, 2000 || 9:54 am || Comments (0) ||

I woke up and all was well. I got into the shower and all was well. I got out of the shower and somewhere in the process of toweling off and brushing my teeth, the day just took a slide. Happens every so often. I eschewed the family outing to go shopping Huntsville, something that I never do. I don’t really know why this day turned ass-up; I am usually on such an even keel emotionally. The only thing I can figure is that it is about time for my muse (Delores?) to visit and I am gearing up for the creative whirlwind that is about to sweep in by downshifting.

I went to mass. I’m not even Catholic and I went to mass. I pulled on some Levi’s and a Mets cap and a loud orange t-shirt with long sleeves. I ate Doritos and listened to Ned’s Atomic Dustbin on the way there. I think God likes Doritos and Ned’s Atomic Dustbin; how do you think that he feels about the Mets?

 
|| September 1, 2000 || 12:14 pm || Comments (0) ||

All week I have had some great ponderings to post on this here blog. I have.

All week I have been insanely busy and preoccupied with life in realtime and have not had the energy or spare moments to boot up and scribble on the webwall. Or maybe I have been avoiding it; out of nowhere I am experiencing a sort of spiritual exhaustion and all of my energies and time the past few days have been channelled (sp? fuck) toward getting as much done as possible in the 24 hours that I have been allotted per day. ~I am gassed up on only about 3.5 hours’ worth of snooze each night as of late.~

In the past few weeks I have watched and listened impotently as the following people weathered losses:

+Christie (mentioned in past post) buried her father after a recent sudden job loss and bore all the emotional and financial weight accompanying it
+Louise (nice, boisterous older lady from next door…pseudo gramma to our family) had a handsome late-40’s son who died a mere 2 weeks before his only grandchild was born
+My mom-in-law (ROCK ON, beautiful free spirit) saw two very good friends die in a car accident
+Donald and Vicki (two nicer, more genuine people could not be hand-picked from gazillions) buried their dad and may have to do the same with their brother.

*sigh* *SIGH* Perhaps this was a preparation for me; a ripening of my emotions so that they were ready to ooze thickly, cloying and sweet.So anyway, my mom calls me 2 days ago and tells me that one of my favorite aunts has cancer and her doctor in his infinite wisdom and sophisticated medicalese told her, “It looks really, really bad.” There you have it. Right there.

Now, I know (and I am hoping that you do as well) that docs normally do not leave room in the equation for the human spirit and its’ boundless power, so I usually say “BAH” and eschew the doomsday/naysayer’s point of view in cases like this. This is different. My aunt has had a series of things happen in the past 2 years that have seriously compromised her immunity and she may well die. ‘Die’ is such a succinct word, huh?

When mom told me, I was fairly non-reactive but now it has started to settle. I slipped today into reclusive cyberescape mode and was twiddling around when I clicked through to a site that I normally enjoy immensely. The author apparently has a friend afflicted with the dreaded BIG C and is doing her part to help. As I read along, outta nowhere the tears started to roll and here I am, typing and bawling and backspacing and fixing typos that my tear-induced blurry vision has prompted. Fuck.

All of this putrid softy behaviour is only culminating now; it started last night about 9 p.m. and I felt a need to phone my mom to talk. What’d we converse about?? You see, it boils down to this: I feel that this is a beginning. My parents each have several siblings (mom has 7 and dad has 6). While I feel that I am still way too young to be losing any of them, odds are that it will undoubtedly start happening soon. I, in my profound wisdom, deem this as ‘fucked up’.

As I explained it to my mother, without caring one iota how fucking selfish that it may have sounded, when my family starts dying off, I fear that I will start dying off as well. I was raised in a close-knit familial environment and I am grounded in that, no matter how the miles may separate me from them. A big part of me is defined within and by my family and when they start pushing daisies an important part of me will be gone. I expressed this huge, HUGE thing to my mother and she said, “Oh, my beautiful baby, you don’t have to worry…something else always moves in and takes that place.”

I don’t fucking want it to. I don’t. And don’t tell me I am being unreasonable, damn you. I have never feared death, ever, but now I am coming to the rather fierce revelation that I DO fear its’ aftermath. I have questions that only certain people can answer. Who do I turn to for wisdom and knowledge when they are gone? Not even 2 months ago I made the six-hour drive to visit my aunt and spend a few days with her. She has always been a creative person and we sat on the back patio for hours during that trip, sparking ideas off of each other and firing new ones based on the last one. She spoiled my children and we laughed together at their antics and she marveled at how much like my mother that I had become. We had grown-up conversation; something that I never would have imagined when I was 9 and running through her sprinklers in the yard or pleading for her to buy my favorite popsicles at the grocery. It’s now something that I look forward to with my own nieces and nephews…..

So I get off the phone and call my father. In preparation for that call, I tuck my sorrow and shakiness away neatly, so that he doesn’t think that my calling him is to pirate him emotionally. We just haven’t talked in so long and I want nothing to sully it. Something does anyway. He is himself.

As well-off as I would like to be (hell, merely financially stable would be GREAT), I realize that money doesn’t buy everything. Here is an open question to him that he will never see: When are you gonna wise up, old man? Is it gonna be before or after I am as unavailable to you??? You see, I have wants, but I truly want for nothing. I wish you understood just what you were/are passing up.

And by the way, I have standards of my OWN and in a pure sense they are FAR SUPERIOR to YOURS.

 
|| August 24, 2000 || 4:14 pm || Comments (0) ||

When the dark wood fell before me

And all the paths were overgrown

When the priests of pride say there is no other way

I tilled the sorrows of stone

I did not believe because I could not see

Though you came to me in the night

When the dawn seemed forever lost

You showed me your love in the light of the stars

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

Then the mountain rose before me

By the deep well of desire

From the fountain of forgiveness

Beyond the ice and fire

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

Though we share this humble path, alone

How fragile is the heart

Oh give these clay feet wings to fly

To touch the face of the stars

Breathe life into this feeble heart

Lift this mortal veil of fear

Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears

We’ll rise above these earthly cares

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

Please remember me

//Loreena McKennit, “Dante’s Prayer