Dear Hearts,
I am back in The Holy City.
I survived my trip out East and got everything done that I could.
Martha wanted me to pack one box to take with me from my house. I packed two!
I am going to have to give up My House and it hurts. I’m scared. Mom doesn’t get why. Because it’s mine. Because staying there—living there means I belong somewhere and I’m not living off charity or following someone else’s rules.
If I want to keep cases of water in the living room, I can! If I want to smoke on the couch, I can! I can scream and yell and run around naked. I don’t know. My House is the last vestige of my “normal life” before disability and before my OD.
Since I’ve not been working I have not thought about, oh I have to get a job to save money or to be more financially independent. I think I have to get a job to support a house I am not living in. I can hear a Simon & Garfunkel song and be triggered into a panic attack. Yeah, living at the scene of the crime is a great idea!
I just don’t know where I belong.
“Where do you live?”
“What’s your address?”
I don’t know.
I am tired of being redundant and just complaining about the same old fucking thing.
I am grateful Angel pooped. Yes, at midnight last night, seeing Angel’s cat poop in her litter box filled me with glee because it meant she would not have to go to the vet today for her mega-colon. Thank you, Saint Francis.
My mood swings like a pendulum. Not cool. Not fun. There is so much I am ashamed of.
I am drawing. Jillian, Mom’s artist friend, told me that I should work on finishing the pictures I’m drawing. Right now, I just have a lot of sketches waiting have their lines be cleaned up or colored. I just want to draw.
Georgia O’Keeffe was a crazy feminist who was obsessed with the vagina and representations of it along with all things phallic. I have never liked her stuff.
“I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say any other way - things I had no words for.” Georgia O’Keeffe.
I feel like that with my drawing as amateur as it is. I was doing that with my pixel art dolls way back in grad school.
I cannot imagine setting pen to paper to write fiction right now. This blog is feat enough.
But, I can convey “stuff” in pictures that I can in words. I am currently obsessed with drawing wolves.
Unfortunately, The Bible kinda gives wolves a bad rap. To me there is something sacred about them. Like looking into the eyes of a wolf, you can see your own soul reflected back at you. They are powerful and majestic. Holy. I feel a holiness about them. Like Buffalo. They have no natural predators, except man. They are Nature. There is something primeval in them that is hidden deep away inside of us.
Wolves are strong and fierce. They are powerful Spirit or Animal Guides. They don’t take no shit. They run in packs, but they can also be loners.
I just feel pissy today. I don’t know why. Yesterday was V-Day, when I could have been all morose—but I just feel annoyed today.
Yesterday, I went to see Gram in the Graveyard after I worked at the Burning Bed for a few hours. I said my prayers, read, smoked, and drank coffee. It was good. Tonight,--why can I never remember her pseudonym??—Astrid is coming over for lasagna and surprise cake. It’s her 91st Birthday this weekend. She would rather be in Heaven with her husband and son, but I’m glad she’s still here.
Tonight SHOULD be fun. I just feel so restless and at ends…
I picked up another loser! I must have fucking “LOSERS WELCOME” tattooed on my fucking forehead. Randy, let’s call him, and I met when I went to this totally bogus open-forum-seminar that was supposed to start a dialogue between the Blues and Reds. Yeah, that was a fucking joke. The speaker could not have been more bias as a liberal. I sat next to this felon with bad prison tatt’s and chatted with him because he was reading Anne Rice. Only people of my generation or a little older know her. She was the original pop Vampire writer until she went all homo-erotic. Homo-eroticism is fine—but not all vamps are gay! Randy is disturbed, to say the least, but he has been asking about me because “he likes a woman who speaks her mind.” He is not good news—he is potentially dangerous.
The Prairie Preacher, who is a good friend of our family and has been there for me A LOT—accidentally introduced us. She told Mom that Randy is trying to get my info—and if I see him around town to have an excuse ready.
Here they are:
I have two reasons I am not dating:
1. I am putting all my time and attention into my grandfather’s care and after two abusive relationships (he knows that much) I must be on my own for a while.
2. I am Catholic and can lie and then confess about it so—I am still married in the eyes of The Catholic Church until my annulment is finalized next year. (My annulment did come through)
3. I have to wash my hair
4. I am considering becoming a nun—I’ve thought about it!
5. I have leprosy
6. “I’m sorry, George, I already have a boyfriend. He’s right beside me. His name is Alex. Alex, this is George.” “What do you mean you can’t see him? He’s right here.”
7. I am done with men and giving women a shot now—hey, why not!?
8. I only date old, rich, men on oxygen
9. The nine kids I have—that I failed to mention-take up too much time
10. I’m from New Jersey and I am a really good shot.
One I thought of last night:
11. Illinois is a Concealed Carry state. “Do [you] feel lucky, punk? Well, do ya’?”
Five years ago my life was tearing at the seams and ready to burst wide open. This is what I got.
Huh.
Am I better or worse off than I was five years ago? Both?
I am adding a section to my blog. I used to do this in my journal.
Grateful For:
1. Health
2. Angel pooping
3. Family
4. Warmer days
5. Drawing
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.
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