My horrorscope for the day gone by:The poet Rumi talked about how where there is a shipwreck, there is also the hope for buried treasure. What's going on in your life that may look a little bit like a mess on the surface, but actually contains hidden riches? It may not be obvious at first-the best and most important things in life rarely are--but it is there. Dive into your own psyche and see if you can seek it out.
Lordy lordy, I wish I could figure out what that one meant. it doesn't look a little bit like a mess on the surface, it looks like a bomb exploded on the surface. Dive into my own freaking psyche? I pay professionals to do that. Ha!
Spent most of today thinking of JP and why I was so into him. I miss a lot about those days; the friends who i was so comfortable with, conversations, committing philosophy on the deck at Cedar Door. you can't go back, but it's fun/sad to look at the photographs your memory took. Last time I saw JP he looked like a halfcrazed street person mountain man. Beard like Grizzly Adams, smelling of sweat and beer. And if he'd asked, I'd have gone off with him again. Steve Earle will forever be associated with cool breezes, skin stretched over muscle and bone, and hot sweaty fucking.
And now FM. I'd do the same damn thing all over again, make the same mistakes.
My first real lover committed suicide last year. I hadn't spoken with him in 20 years, and I know I didn't have the impact on his life that he had on mine. A sweet man, gentle alcoholic, patient with a girl who'd been scared and scarred and hurt. I never asked how he'd killed himself. I want to remember his face whole, not imagine it torn apart by a bullet; his body strong and limber, not cold and pale.
I need to get off my ass and kick sorrow to the curb. I feel like I'm at some sort of turning point, but whether it's toward promise and dreams or if I'm just going to give up-that I don't know and won't predict. Iknowknowknow it's not a fault thing; my brain just doesn't produce the right chemicals in the right amount. It' sjust that I came so close last year, I had my hand on the fucking doorknob and was ready to leave all the old crap behind and move on. What happened that I sat back down in my own garbage?
Lordy lordy, I wish I could figure out what that one meant. it doesn't look a little bit like a mess on the surface, it looks like a bomb exploded on the surface. Dive into my own freaking psyche? I pay professionals to do that. Ha!
Spent most of today thinking of JP and why I was so into him. I miss a lot about those days; the friends who i was so comfortable with, conversations, committing philosophy on the deck at Cedar Door. you can't go back, but it's fun/sad to look at the photographs your memory took. Last time I saw JP he looked like a halfcrazed street person mountain man. Beard like Grizzly Adams, smelling of sweat and beer. And if he'd asked, I'd have gone off with him again. Steve Earle will forever be associated with cool breezes, skin stretched over muscle and bone, and hot sweaty fucking.
And now FM. I'd do the same damn thing all over again, make the same mistakes.
My first real lover committed suicide last year. I hadn't spoken with him in 20 years, and I know I didn't have the impact on his life that he had on mine. A sweet man, gentle alcoholic, patient with a girl who'd been scared and scarred and hurt. I never asked how he'd killed himself. I want to remember his face whole, not imagine it torn apart by a bullet; his body strong and limber, not cold and pale.
I need to get off my ass and kick sorrow to the curb. I feel like I'm at some sort of turning point, but whether it's toward promise and dreams or if I'm just going to give up-that I don't know and won't predict. Iknowknowknow it's not a fault thing; my brain just doesn't produce the right chemicals in the right amount. It' sjust that I came so close last year, I had my hand on the fucking doorknob and was ready to leave all the old crap behind and move on. What happened that I sat back down in my own garbage?