Swimming With God

Dear Hearts,

Quick and Dirty.

I want to draw and chill-ax. Tomorrow is Star—the ritual work came back as I looked at it today. I am not as stupid as I thought.

We had family here over the weekend. I was describing swimming with dolphins and Walter, (a cousin by marriage?) who cannot swim and is not comfortable in or on water. He said dolphins were way too big for him to swim with. I said how amazing and “religious” it was. Like—again touching God. Seeing some ancient or primal or good in our Souls via our reflection in the dolphin.

“You can swim with them and they communicate with you. You dive together and they talk to you underwater.

“There’s that smile,” he said.

A genuine smile from my Soul.

Then I described the unbelievably, amazingly blue, calm waters of Fort Lauderdale.

I was with T. who was drunk. But my experience in the ocean and with the dolphins was separate from him.

I remember wading into the calm ocean waters and dipping below the surface—when I reemerged I remember thinking, “I am glad to be alive.” When I touched the dolphin for the first time, I remember thinking “The world goes way beyond Teaching and all that shit.”

Huh. Fort Lauderdale Ocean and dolphins. Nebraska. England.

I really wish I could swim in ocean right now and feel that free.

Saint Jude, Christ, Mother Mary, God—please help me find peace about My House and drive out the demon that invades my mind ALL OF THE TIME with thoughts of My House and that whole situation.

Please…Help…

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.

PS: I go into The Burning Bed the next two days. I don’t want to. If I just motherfucking forced myself—could I get a full-time job and just do it. Am I just a lazy, fucking pussy? Is My House and Albatross or a Blessing.  Mother Mary, Undoer Of Knots…please.

PPS: I had no idea dolphins had ancient Celtic and Christian roots!

PPPS: Thank you, Saint Christopher, for getting Johnny and Gaia safely to their destination--even if you yourself would never even go there!

“Oh, like a bird on the wire

like a drunk in a midnight choir

I have tried in my way to be free.” Leonard Cohen

Grateful For:

Angel

Dolphins

Knowing how to swim well

Family

Faith

Sound and Fury

Dear Hearts,

I could start this post tonight a thousand different ways. It’s been…a week.

Mom and I got back to The Holy City last Sunday night. She had to go home Friday because poor Maddie had to have emergency surgery. Laryngeal Paralysis—Lar Par.

She was dying in the car with Dad and he got her to the vet by God’s Grace.

I just looked at my bank account—I had an overdraw issue earlier in the week. For the first time in my life, I am looking at my bank account and I know that I can’t pay the bills.

Of course, I have to let My House go. I don’t wanna talk about it.

It just feels shitty to not have enough money to pay the bills—but God blesses me with a family who helps. I can’t imagine if I didn’t have…

I miss Mom. I drove her to the airport and when I left her at the terminal (awful Tom Hanks’s movie) I walked away crying.

I KNOW that I’m not—but I feel alone. I haven’t thought about killing myself seriously lately. That’s a feat.

Prairie Preacher thinks she was two good guys—or one—that would be perfect for me. It’s a success for me to get through a day with a panic attack or day dreaming about blowing my brains out. I would never do that—my plan is far more complicated. But, there is no way someone else can be in my life.

I hope…but perhaps I’ll just be alone. I am trying to see my life here, in this house, in The Holy City—the future. I’m alone.

I was so fucking stupid with T.

His father died—I learned via Facebook.

I hope he drinks himself into oblivion because of his “Daddy Issues.” What an awful thing to hope for. But there is this part of me that want that motherfucker to suffer.

I’m scared.

I have Star Tuesday and I have to go into Burning Bed this week and re-organize the library. I had all my ritual work memorized and then some—but like my body hair, I let it go and now I have to re-memorize the ritual work. Of course, I only have one part to memorize—but I felt compelled to memorize three other vacant offices. Because why? Because I have to be the best…be number one…

Look where that got me.

I argued with this bitch over the weekend via a social media site about Wicca. She is all Christianity is a joke and to be a real Wicca you have to be an ordained into the Third Degree. And, Scott Cunningham she says is a first-degree hack.

“You don’t argue with a High Priestess,” she wrote.

Aw, hell no. You did not just say that to me. I was “appropriate,” but I wasn’t gonna back down. YOU DON’T DEFAME SCOTT CUNNINGHAM.

I have been talking to Mother Mary for years—I just used to call her The Goddess. In my drawings I incorporate dream catchers, peace pipes, Indian spirituality. Why not include my Pagan tradition. The crescent moon tattoo I have in honor of the Great Goddess and also works for Mother Mary. The two religions are so similar in a lot of ways.

Why EXclude a whole tradition of Faith that served me for so many years?

I don’t believe what The Church says—that tarot and Wicca are evil. Only man is jealous. God doesn’t mind what the fuck we call Him. Or Her.

“Have no other Gods before me.”

As in—don’t worship stuff. Or people. Like houses.

Tonight is gonna be a five cigarette night.

The weather has been in the upper 60s. It is so beautiful to not feel assailed by Nature when you walk out the door.

I could color a finished drawing. But, I’d rather draw. I express something through my pictures that I can’t any other way.

I’m scared and alone. I wish I were in Nebraska Buffalo Hunting.

“’Tis a tale told by and idiot. Full of sound and fury…”

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.

PS: THANK YOU SAINT FRANCIS.

Grateful For:

Health

Warmer weather

Cigarettes

Family

Christ

Gut Punch

Dear Hearts,

I was gut-punched. By whom? I dunno. Maybe God…maybe life…maybe just the laws of nature…maybe because of my own fucking stupidity.

I cannot let go of My House. I can’t figure out how to do. And, I pray and pray and pray…

Today I went out to the Graveyard and just screamed and cried out and hollered until my throat hurt.

I really don’t ask God why a lot. Today, I did.

“Scream…crying…fuck! Fuck! I deserve a fucking answer! Why is this happening to me and mom and Dad. Fuck! I’ve had enough. Please…please…fuck! I am so fucking angry with you. Five fucking years I have been suffering! I don’t fucking care about the refugees or kids in the hospital with cancer. I HURT!”

I went Jersey Job on God’s ass.

Three emails last night: Overdraw charge at the bank; realtor’s assessment of My House; and ADT notice that my furnace has turned itself off.

Yesterday Mom went with me to therapy. I cried and sobbed.

I think I finally figure it.

My House which I’ve had for the better part of my adult life is My House. I can smoke anywhere I want. I can recreate the Cuban Missile Crisis with Barbie. I can leave a spoon on the floor in the middle. It’s mine. My rules. I’m not a charity case.

I am so fucking ambivalent—I think this may be harder than my divorce. I dreamt I was in England last night—but it was a feeling of total peace, like those dreams, usually are.

Where is my Urchfont?

Will I ever find a house that big again with a spring? Did or could that house even make me happy? Do I want to live there in Henry?

G-Pa is pissed off because Mom and I were on the phone today during Pie Day.

Dad was driving 85 miles an hour down Route 80 with Maddie dying, suffocating beside him. They made it to the hospital. She’s gonna have surgery tomorrow. Poor Dad…poor Maddie…poor Mom.

I don’t want strangers walking through and appraising my house.

Do I want to live here, in The Holy City? G-Pa got mad at Mom for being on the phone with Dad.

“What’s the matter with him? Can’t he take care take of things himself?”

“No! He can’t fucking dealwith a dog dying beside him! He needs his wife!”

*****

Old man, G-Pa, I love you. I do. But I also fear getting in trouble with you. The water bottles couldn’t be in the living room when we were having a friend of the family come over? Fucking really?

Yes, I married and dated rejects. A man (God forbid he has facial hair) who has been divorced is a reject. I’m divorced. Am I a reject? I guess so. No, I can’t just walk away from My House.

I will wear a hat wherever the fuck I want. And I WILL NEVER WEAR STOCKINGS AND SANDALS. And I wear tank tops that show off my cleavage—I’m not putting on a show—they are comfortable. Fucking deal with it.

My Dad is not a loser! T. is not seeing other women? Why the fuck would you say that? No, the house just isn’t on the market...with a snap of my fingers.

I can’t get my head around—come to peace with a decision to let go of that house and it physically hurts.

Suicide has crossed my mind—but not in a specific way. That’s a feat. I guess if I couldn’t stand the loss of My House I could also knock myself off then.

You don’t get to yell at me with I drive in a way you don’t like. You put fucking napkins in the freezer!!

I guess you want me here. I don’t really fucking know. Ya, know what G-Pa—and I stress again, I love you. But I am a package fucking deal. I come with Barbie and cigarettes. And, I am not turning off my fucking phone. It’s not gonna happen. So, if you want me here—then you’re gonna hafta accept my smoking in the basement and my stuff in the living room.

Yeah, I fucking use the microwave and I’m sorry I married and fell in love with rejects. You do really understand that I tried to kill myself??

Oh, and eating! I will fucking eat when I want!

*****

Something died when I OD’ed. Some part of me died. I crossed a line and I can’t ever go back.

Maddie has to live.

I just want some fucking peace. Just peace. Just make it stop hurting.

God, after five fucking years I deserve a Burning Bush—fucking tell me what to do and tell me plain!

Without the house what the fuck do I have to show for my life? Where the fuck do I belong?

Nowhere.

All my things…the pink walls…my couch…the beautiful shelves…the big closets.

Can houses be bad?

I don’t know what I want to do, who I am, or where I belong.

FUCK.

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.

Grateful For:

Health

Angel--please Saint Francis don't make me hafta take her to the vet

Shameless

Cigarettes 

Pie

Ice-Coffee

Mom 

Dad

SSD

I'm Back...

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 91^st 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.

PS: I have to let My House go....and all it means to me...good and bad.