A Calendar of Days - 2021

Merry Chrimbus!

Chocolate Cherries and a new Roomie and Liza gave me a beautiful yellow linen notebook.

Goals for 2021:

bachelor’s degree
Get a car
Journal-writing habit
Learn one new great recipe

I’m drinking medicine tea XT sent me, for endo pain, and it arrived the day I was having terrible cramps.

Happy new year! I’m a little late to my customary winter journaling, but things are busy lately. I seem to have lots of time to hang out with Paul, and little time to write.

Paul's house

When I got here yesterday just before six I was feeling affectionate, and Paul was serious. I kissed him to my heart’s content, and we sat down and he looked like he had something to say, but my expectant attention was rewarded only with kind looks.

Making ravioli, he mentioned something about if we were to get married, and I was pleased. Thank you for considering my proposal, I said. What proposal, he asked, making ravioli? I shook my head. Oh, getting married? Of course I’m considering it, he said. I like the idea of us getting married and having a family. I’d like to get there. I would too, I told him. After a pause I said, There’s a lot of work to be done. He agreed.

While eating ravioli we watched some TV, had a beer each, then talked about how things could be between us. Apparently when I arrived he had been working on his personal finances. I’m serious about it, he said. In fact, this October I… But he got embarrassed and hugged me, nevermind. I didn’t push him on it. Later, we talked about his career, about how long we’ll need to wait before we marry, about how many kids to have, and where to raise them. We talked about money, obliquely, and about being nearer or farther from our families.

All of this makes me feel serious. Makes me feel a pleasant weight of responsibility. He is planning for me, and I can start to plan to be with him. It feels real, when he talks like this. Tomorrow we have our first appointment with the counselor. What are you going to say to him? I ask Paul. He doesn’t know. We made love, showered, and fell asleep. Paul first, on his back, and I held his wrist with my left hand and red Stoner for half an hour before turning off the light and following him.

When I wake up in the night at his house I always mistake the unflagging seep of light from the parking garage for dawn. My sleep was fractured, and I woke in the morning from a strange dream of Chase. At his house, he invited me to share his life. I accepted at first, but then remembered and had to tell him that I love Paul now. A couple following nightmares about Chase’s mom, then about my mom.

I woke up confused and a bit sad. Paul was on the couch because, he says, his mattress is too soft.

Lucy had a dream that she was in the bathroom pooping and the door kept popping open and she couldn’t keep it closed. On the other side of the door was a friend of hers who is a networked filmmaker listed on the list of 25 young filmmakers to watch. The friend was getting a massage.

Yesterday at the Slice, Matty B was looking glum. What do you need Matty B? Do you need a reiki healing, on the fly? Do you need a yogic mudra? Do you need a mantra?
He perked up a little bit at that. I have a mantra, actually, he said.
Oh yeah what’s that?
He walked up to us and delivered the lines, “I am love, I am light, I am one.”
And as he said it he got a little taller, and something moved off of his head. He felt better just saying it.

I talked to Becca for a minute on the phone and she was unhappy. She doesn’t like the news about the crazy guys attacking the capitol building trying to overturn the election. I told her the news today is good, actually. She seemed to be feeling better after we hung up. A good reminder of why I need to be home and available to my people.

Paul and I had counseling today. It went okay. I had been afraid of talking too much and overpowering the session. Instead, we both talked a lot and the counselor didn’t talk very much. I felt happy. Paul helped me. I helped him. We communicated well. We’re happy together. The counselor told us he could tell we both had a lot of respect and admiration for each other.

Greg asked us about our siblings. I never think about Paul being the oldest child. His brothers look up to him. As for me, I feel lucky to have older siblings who love me, and I also enjoy making them happy by witnessing, supporting, and surprising them. I want them to be proud of me.

At Paul's, running a degree audit. Therapy appointment in a couple hours. Coffee, Kome down the hatch.

I'm neglecting my friendships a little bit. Especially on the letter writing front, and with XT. They called yesterday and said something about being in a long distance relationship with me that made me feel panicky. I can’t support them the way they need it. I don’t have the strength.

Back at work yesterday and I’m really enjoying getting to know a new coworker Athanasius, an almost-orthodox-priest turned ghostwriter transplanted here from LA. I was pleased when he mentioned that he lives with his partner, it takes a little edge off of the heterosexual question, whether I can safely have friends. Friends like Alejandro, Grant, Garrison are all fine because they stay at a professional level, minimal personal disclosures, and no alone time. An interesting edge to ride. And what of Lucy? That one feels the most dangerous to me of my current friendships.

I had another nightmare last night of being trapped underground. This one was more fleshed out than the tunnel-digging dysphorias I’ve had a few times in the past, more terrifying. Anyway, my memories are all clogged up, and the present is beautiful and good, so I will continue to open my eyes.

From oblique strategies: ‘not building a wall, but making a brick’

Errata:

Llast night at the slice I had one of those conversations that happens when someone feels so lonely that the slightest interest releases a flood of disclosure:

From a woman picking up two pizzas under the name of Julian:
Me: “Ah, for Julian. You know, we were just talking up here about how every single Julian we know is super hot.”
She: “Gross.”
Me: “Oh? Isn’t it true though?”
She: pause. “Well it’s just because he’s my ex husband and he’s a motherfucker.”
“If he’s a motherfucker why are you picking up pizza for him?”
“Because we have kids together and I’m being amicable”
“Ah, well you’re a real hero. Being handsome doesn’t make them good. I know from experience.”
“Yeah, it’s a real double edged blade.”

Grateful for Paul, for my therapist, for Liza who sent me some pants that fit.

Grateful for adventure dreams. For the earth and the sky, for words, for water and warmth.

Slept 14 hours and enjoying adventurous dreams once again. Dreams of moving, travel, new places, friends. Good dreams. Much to do today. Register for classes, is first.

—

Still panicking, panicking panicking. Maybe time for a walk.

—

Walked around three blocks, feeling okay. Got my shift covered saturday morning so I can hang with the Jameses.

—

Tempted to text Paul but it’s clear that we’re both exhausted with this last week. Our affair has once again gotten too intense and we both need time and space. Me to fall back in love with myself, him to fall back in love with me, or out of it, either way would be good.

—

And again time has run out and I need to go to work very soon. Too bad, it’s been a good morning and I will miss it.

Carmen Maria Machado’s prose: evocative, whatever that means. Makes me feel angry, a little, and it’s relatable but in a way that’s too frustrating to share. I don’t like the idea that Paul insisted on reading these stories. I don’t like it because I don’t think he can understand them. I don’t like it because that’s what the story of the ribbon is about. How a man who isn’t bad can ruin a woman just by insisting on knowing her.

Thinking furiously when I wish I was sleeping, I’m gripped by this:
What is it that makes me ‘traumatized’ when someone else might have been made stronger or better by my experiences? As such a hard and fierce teenager, I would never have expected to find myself such a soft and sensitive adult. One of the softest ones I know, maybe.

My fears are multiplying. My heart fights with itself over Paul, and most of that is my shame at finding that I was too interested in him after all. That yes, I was thinking about him too much, how embarrassing. I want to be cold and aloof, but I’m not.

Carmen Maria Machado, who I want to love but do not, in her story Mothers, brings to me a balm and a nettle in the reminder that the culture where I belong is not the one that is given to me; it is one I must always and will always seek. A culture of women, their magic fruits and herbs, their musty jokes and softness. It is obscured by the culture of power to which I cling to survive.

How else might things have been if I had never been made destitute, is the question that is too dangerous and sad to ask. Dangerous and sad is how I feel tonight. Dangerous and sad, with an idea that I was wrong to think it would be safe to let Paul see my pain. I must not let him see it. It hurts him too much to see it, because while he is not soft in the same way that I am, he is fragile and easily shocked.

And this weekend his parents are coming to town, and I think we will have to play nice and be strangers to each other for a few days.

His friends can keep him company. I like Blake, and I don’t like Poppy. Melanie and what’s her name, Emily, are indifferent to me. Why should I like them? What are they to me? I don’t want to go on vacation to Palm Springs.

I got a lovely note from Louis today. He and Tim were vaccinated last week, and soon I can go out to Dripping Springs and maybe stay with him in his cottage for a day or two.

I shaved and it was great for one night exactly, but Paul didn’t want to come over. Instead he said some things that I can’t quite remember but I remember the tone of them and it hurts me to remember. Now I have painful, itchy stubble all over my body. I hate shaving.

Another reason I don’t like Carmen Maria Machado is that her style is choppy and disjointed, and I know that when I read a book that the style bleeds into my own. That I am a weak writer in that sense.

How many survival strategies do I have to keep, and which ones can I discard? Am I going to be okay? I still don’t know. It still seems dicey. This morning, when the panic crept up through my belly despite being in the safest and best possible circumstances: no deadlines, no hunger, no threat, plenty of time, good weather, I recognized the feeling of wanting to get high.

That scares me a lot.

Raquel is funny because every day she has some new reason that she is in a bad mood. She casually mentions things that she hates about the house, which is awkward because me and Kyle picked the house and like the house. We don’t say anything about it. Of course it’s hard for her to be here when her stuff hasn't all arrived.

Late night, and I’m drunk on negroni and IPA. Raq went to sleep after two episodes of Killing Eve, I had a date with a man that I love and am still falling in love with, my dear friend Paul. Watching Anchorman, typing fast, and thinking about a story I promised Hannah I’d write.

I’ve been nostalgic today. For The Grateful Dead, for high school.

Went on a long walk to campus and read C.M.M., who makes me angry because I want the prose to be better, less self-indulgent, more like a flowing stream than a stagnant pond. But it is good enough. Getting out with the book I started to feel lonely without a pen, started to realize all kinds of things about what I am afraid of, what is so hard to say sometimes.

Not being able to trust my own judgment. And now, I am afraid of myself and of the decisions I make. Afraid of ending up like my sister, irretrievably mad. Yesterday’s inventory of my sibling’s marriages didn’t turn out any that I would like to emulate.

And the anxiety, the memories, the pain of going near campus. All this pain still to explore, I haven’t come close to being rid of it.

I remember as a child wanting to tuck certain things away for the future: certain thoughts, certain joys, certain promises to myself. At some point it was too much to keep postponing. Sorrow of learning and relearning and unlearning, and the failure of the ideal of objectivity.

Now I’m processing a call I had with XT an hour or so ago. I realize that I feel guilty for doing well, that there are fewer things I feel comfortable talking to them about since we have lost the commonality of desperation.

After my recent forays into editing I’m extra aware of the style choices I don’t like in CMM’s work, but as far as characterization, I got a good window into the mind of someone who isn’t comfortable in the physical world- for me, I love seeing new places, exploring, trespassing, even. New landscapes, buildings, are objects of curiosity and interest to me. Reading this story I worry a little that the discomfort might bleed into me- The ability to see danger and threat in small things, to take ill omens from roadkill, from architecture, from people’s inconsideration. Lydia is the antagonist, but her main agressions are falling in love, experiencing pleasure, being blonde and thin, and opening a dialogue with the narrator. The scene where she accuses the narrator of being crazy doesn’t really play because it isn’t credible for her character. Ugh.

Very much hated the last couple stories in that book. Dang. The whole thing left me with a bad taste in my mouth.

—

The problem with having just two beers is that after two beers it seems like the very best thing to do is to have two more beers, you know?

Dreamed missing my flight home from Cuba, seeing Diego inadvertently, walking a long bridge, saying goodbye to Greg and Cat, chewing betel and getting the leaves stuck in a wad in my mouth, and walking calmly to a ticket counter but being unable to hear the person behind plexiglass, and needing to borrow the flight change fee of almost 200 dollars from Bill Murray.

I was wrong to think I was beyond getting jerked around by Diego. After kicking the can down the road for three full weeks he was barely responsive and then cancelled on me five minutes before we were supposed to meet for the jacket transfer. What an ass, honestly, what a coward. He followed up with a signature flowery apology. So I spent 70 bucks and bought another damn jacket.

Tried riding out my afternoon sleepies with a full nap. My room is so pleasant and soporific. Then I squeezed in between Raquel’s boxes to sit at my little table desk in the living room. I'm slightly surprised she didn’t have any of her stuff moved into the empty office. I think i’m going to take back some of my plants from in there.

Grateful I get to go to school, for hope for the future, for my roommates, for honesty, for cats, water, singing, plants, Alejandro at work.

My applied statistics professor is a fun one. needs a haircut. Not too rambley, but personable. A relief after that horrible probability prof last semester. Second full formal workday, which lasts from when I get up until four or five pm. I Invited Mrs. James to our pilates class. as much as I want to I can’t bring myself to call her Fran.

Had a reasonably good workday today. Made good progress on the microbial genetics glossary and got into computational biology, had a lunch meeting with Forest about Pangur Ban, and worked straight through from nine until 4:30. Still have a little more to do before turning it off for the day, but I feel good about today’s progress. I cancelled my date with Paul and I have pilates in a couple hours. Almost beer time heh heh. Also hoping to get a quick run in.

I couldn’t sleep last night and read House of Mirth, almost finished it, but then I had a series of nightmares, most of which I’ve forgotten thank goodness.

My confidence is shaken now that I’m in four hard classes again, especially since I’m supposed to live on 7,000 dollars for the next four months.

--

Lunched with Paul, it was nice and easy, except he kept saying ‘what’ whenever I made eye contact with him, and was critical of my narrator in my short story, but I don’t really mind that the narrator is unlikeable.

Feeling overwhelmed right now and wanting to go sit in my room and read for a few hours, and maybe sleep. Doing degree planning and finding a lot of challenges. It’s hard to access a counselor. Tempted to get drunk. Instead I’ll do some reading in my probability text.

Got a facetime from XT. They had to take Stella to the vet because her facial muscles are getting messed up somehow. And they quit their job and waiting to hear back from new employers. I remember well and do not envy their position. I’m in an unenviable one myself, that makes me shrink from Paul’s questions. Tired.

Finishing House of Mirth under a cloud of sentiment, grateful for the rhythm of Wharton’s sentences and the reminder of the source of so many of my resolutions regarding disinheritance.

Artie’s automated food tower dispenses her meal at six thirty. She is there and ready to eat it, though she sits and looks at it politely for a few moments before digging in. I think of the loss represented by this device. How feeding one's pet is an opportunity for communing with it, how the administration of food is an expression of care and affection, and how Raquel is still in the closed study working, while Artie is experiencing the satisfaction of this meal without any attendant affection. This turns my thoughts to Paul, his unsentimental habits, and his self-regard. I hope that he will understand some of the ways this novel is about me, too: the misunderstanding, the social exclusion and disgrace.

I remember the experience of getting lunch with old friends and distinguishing in their manner and their lack of follow-up the distaste that attends poverty and lack of prospects- M.S., E.R, lunching with me, a barista, and never looking me up again. The subtle hints. The understanding without words. The power of money. The power of rumor, the disgrace. The disgrace. The idea that one must fend for oneself, and the decisions made that are disrespected, misunderstood, and criticized by everyone, though their motivations are entirely noble. The things one does when one has no other choice, and how easy they are to disdain. The ending makes me cry, again, and I regret bringing this book to Paul.

Didn’t I journal yesterday? It’s been a long week, as I told Paul last night, when he came back to my room after the bonfire. We weren’t making eye contact most of the night, and I felt extra lonely having him around. He’s … just not the most intuitive, sensitive person around. But he tries. Anyway, I kind of kicked him out, and then we felt sad, but I was glad to go through my insomniac torments alone. I’ve felt… touched by sorrow. Loneliness in a crowd has been the norm lately, and overdrinking.

Thinking about the shame I feel at not already knowing everything, even the things I’m learning.

Raquel bought that Japanese rice maker and my first thought is, why do these rich people all get excited about the same dumb bullshit?

I suppose I’m rather grateful to be rising again instead of falling. Still, I hope I don’t fall into the trap of surrounding myself with objects. It’s kind of happening already: the desktop book organizer, the pen-jars, the big water bottle, the macrame.

Busy day today. Ran this morning, edited Lucy’s cover letter for her UC Irvine app. It was too long, but I didn’t say so. She’s done so much and done it so well, I hate the idea of her going back to overworking all the time. Paul and I had a weird fight last night and a weird fight this morning and he said that he feels like he’s disappointing me all the time, which is true but it makes me sad that I should be disappointed in him, and my reaction is kind of to disengage and just be more self-reliant, because if i’m disappointed doesn’t that mean that I’m expecting too much?

Ivey’s going to give me a massage later, and I’m stressed because i’m hideously poor, and will be even when my loan comes through, and they messed up again and overcharged me for tuition.

I will be Gerty Farish yet! Who, now that I think about it, was like Lily, trusting blindly in the goodness of the rich, but Gerty never pretended or depended, and Lily did. The ways that Lily’s mind slips and slides over difficulties, she sets traps that insulate her from responsibility until it is too late.

DREAM: After a very gay campout when I acted a white fool, I propose to Leigh in her old bedroom and she accepts. We take showers and choose our white dresses while the announcement goes throughout the house: Lauren will officiate, neutral pronouns will be used, Leigh has the ring - oh no, I realize I don’t have a ring, I realize I’ve always wanted to wear a fine suit at my wedding, I realize my sisters wont be able to come. I ask Leigh to delay. She is disappointed.

I got home and in the mirror I looked just exactly like Maggie.
When she was my age, I was thirteen.

I love Paul deeply. I trust him more than I trust myself, and no one has ever loved me better. Tonight he said to me, you know how everyone has their own unique way of being confident? Well it seems like you’ve found yours and it’s great to see.

I did get a massage, and I was able to talk to Ivey and he to me in a way that was just as relaxing as the hot stones, and came out with a rejuvenated lower back, more comfortable spine, and a wad of epiphanies, which I called Paul immediately to disburse.

Thinking about it makes me blush with how glad I am to have him in my life.
Our long subdued disagreement earlier came to a slow and painful head with a long walk through misty, beautiful Skyview, and then this outpouring of tender new honesties, to wit:

The growing intimacy between us betrays my sense of control and feels threatening to me because I am encountering information that challenges my assumptions and the ways I think about my friend, who is gradually becoming my partner.

I hurt myself in the car, dug at my palms with my growing nails. I held it out to him to see, because I did not want to hide it, because I did not want to do it. The way it felt, like I hurt myself to find the truth. The way it was, the truth was that I was hurting myself.

We found the middle between friendship and sex, to sit on the couch and hold hands.
He made me the old tea, younan gold. He made it so strong, he must have been getting ready to stay up late to drive me home. I sulked while we watched the bad show and while he played the video game.

Do you want to keep kissing? I asked, when we started to kiss.
Not really, he said, and I tried to understand. I almost did.

He said something like, ‘ I only want to do that when we are both feeling strong.’

It put things in context, and it helped me understand a thousand things about his motivations, and made me sorry and grateful all at once. Now, it gives me a panic of weakness. My heart hurts to think about the awkwardness we returned to afterwards, it seems to pull a curtain over the lucidity of that moment, the unity of purpose.

God fucking damnit, again. Got off the phone with CASH (the financial aid office) and god fucking damnit does that derail my day. It really derails my day. I called the crisis line because I needed to talk to someone. I needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t need me to say,

‘I understand how much you want to help me fix this, but I need you to listen’

Self harm comes from a desire to punish self
I’m doing the best I can right now
Take all the small steps in between to get to the end goal.
Find the small steps that are realistic and achievable
Cook and journal, draw. Calm emotional things, focus on this moment and making a meal.

Really bad day yesterday, bad night last night. I kicked him out after dinner because he was acting too normal and then on some kind of free-association disordered thinking monologue brought myself to saying words that sounded like I was breaking up with him and then stared into the middle distance and said ‘I don’t feel good’ in a way that was alarming enough to bring him to drive all the way back to my house with me silently watching him on FaceTime and we huddled together crying on my twin bed, which is too small for two people, and barely slept until morning.

He went home and I went back to bed and missed my morning class and slept until I heard a knock at the window and he stuck his head in and said can you let me in? And I went and brought him in the front door and walked back and got back into bed asking, ‘are you okay?’ And he said ‘not really’ and then he broke and cried and cried. He had to go home and asked to bring me with him so now I’m here, drinking tea and preparing to comb through tangled thoughts.

Such as-

I hate asking for money, I don’t want to need money, I’ve been repeatedly shamed for not being able to create and earn enough money to take care of my needs.

What’s more, what’s more.

—

Did somatics today. Lucy and Blanche both asked me to call them for support.

—

In the medium term, I want a car. It costs me money not to have one, but the main reason I want one is for quality of life. Being able to go places, pick up my groceries, go for a trail run, visit del, go to Dallas. A reliable car. I could buy Grant's Subaru and have the clutch replaced for three grand.

The problem with borrowing money from anyone is the feeling that everything I do will then be forever scrutinized by them.

Earlier I was thinking, how can I give myself compassionate advice about this? What advice would I give to Emma?
I think I would tell Emma not to borrow money from her boyfriend.

I’ve shied away from dailies for a little while. This weekend was weird. I sort of… broke. My brain got really confused and I developed a hand tremor, and Paul was really worried for a few reasons, he was scared, and insisted on taking care of me for a few days until I felt better. Now I feel better and I’m still at his house, staying over. I worry about him.

We lay in his bed and he says things quietly to me. He says, I promise to take care of you, I promise to keep you safe. I promise to protect you, he says. The people who want to hurt you, they have no power here.
I say to him, softly, I promise to always come back to you. I’m here.

Anyway, I got really fucked up somehow, and then I was kind of in shock. Paul’s going to help me, he’s going to do what he can, which is a lot. I’ll be okay. I can get through the next few years. The long hard fight is a little easier now. I don’t know how to feel about it.

I slept okay in his bed, and him on the couch, and had few nightmares until he came in at four am and then I had a horrible nightmare. He woke me before my class and made me coffee. He’s caring. Attentive. Today he is abstract, seems kind of sad or something. Probably exhausted.

Paul force feeding me green tea. He seems happier this afternoon, but he still won’t kiss me.

Good morning! I am good, deserve good, do good. I am enough. I do enough. Now is my time.
it’s 7:15 I can take a quick, short run and be home again in time to get to class at 9

Reading ‘Invisible women’, about the gap in unpaid labor-
A U of M study found that when a woman marries she gets an extra seven hours a week of unpaid labor. When people cohabit women’s work goes up and men’s work goes down.

Sup. it’s thursday. Today kind of sucks. Shit’s hard with Paul, even though we both want the same thing. It’s still hard.

Woke nicely this morning, comfortable, happy. Turned in some homework. Lots more homework to do today.
Ram said he’ll have a psychiatrist call me.
Getting the side pain that I recognize from kidney infections, and remembering dark and cloudy pee the last few days. Made an appointment with dr. hutto. A kidney infection could also explain the nausea.

Hiked with Paul as a way to feel better. Got a headache, started stressing when we took a wrong turn, but kept it cool for the most part. Put my hands in the river. Headaches. Shaky. Came home and slept, Paul left.

Learning learning. Class today. Took a long walk reading ‘invisible women’ and feeling justified and indignant and noticing that it makes me feel less kind toward men. So it goes! Probability is still easy as hell, thank god, and I finished up my homework early which gives me more time to study for computational biology..

Took my first propranolol. Hung up with Paul without agonizing. Feeling relaxed, for once, things aren’t making me panic. Had my blood pressure taken at the doctor’s today and even though it wasn’t abnormally high, it was very high for me, 110 over 70 or something, which is way higher than usual for me.

I’m annoyed with Paul, but it’s not important. It’s just because i’ve been thinking about him too much lately and i’m neglecting myself.

Talked to Liza, Becca, and Lynne today. Had my psych eval. Psychiatrist says OCD, ADD tendencies. Makes sense, though unexpected. Didn’t mention beta blockers, prescribed an antihistamine. Lot of trouble calming down this afternoon, some avoidance impulses. Blanking.

Psychiatrist wants to meet again in a few weeks. Prescribed a higher dose of sertraline. Anorgasmia, she says. I’ve had that for years, I say. Is your boyfriend a supportive presence? She asks.

Slept and slept. Nightmares turned to bad dreams turned to just dreams and finally I dreamed I was driving Stephanie around with Paul and Adam Flake and we came to a field. Fallon was there, damn her, but didn’t bother me as much, and I made a cream cheese and jelly with mustard and honey.

Becca told me that every time the put up a new flower show at the arboretum, the gardeners pulled out all the flowers and took them home to landscape their own yards. You wouldn’t believe these people’s yards, she said.

Kyle is dating a Chinese woman, from Shanghai. She is just 26 years old and she owns a 4 bedroom house in the north part of the city.

Talked to Em for a long time. Got the feeling that she was doing a wellness check on me, which I appreciate.

A few days ago Diane told me that I won't be like Maggie, that the difference between me and Maggie is that I recognize when I need help. I question my perception and submit it to a network of validation. Maggie cut everyone off and just read more scriptures, and thought she was touched by angels.

Lynne says, she doesn’t have any diagnoses. She has PMDD and nightmares: her relationship with our parents, she reports, is one of gentle apathy, but her emotions do flare monthly. She told me that when I was a kid I was doted on by the siblings and that the parents treated me more or less like a puppy.

She said, and I’d never heard this before, that in my baby blessing my dad said that I would be the most beautiful, intelligent, smart, and spiritually powerful. That was the ‘script’ for me, she said. That I was the golden one, smartest prettiest and most talented. She also said, ‘you lied like crazy and you always wanted to be the center of attention’

She told me my job is to untangle the voices that tell me that the way I come off is more important than who I am inside. To practice eustress.

It was getting extremely grating being with Paul and Blake. The longer I spend with that set the less comfortable I feel, as a rule. Plus we had to do a video call with Poppy, which makes me really want to just absolutely fucking vomit. I am not interested in that. I don’t want to be absorbed into their stupid friendgroup. Calcified, superficial, boring. No thanks.

Have you ever been staying at your boyfriend’s house, and on your second day there you start to think that maybe it was all a dream, and he isn’t and never was your boyfriend?

And then you realize that the longer you stay there, the less of your boyfriend he is? And then you get home and you hope that you never have to see him again, so you don’t have to bear the shame of having been so mistaken?

And when you’re sitting at home thinking about it, trying to figure out how to fix in your mind that what you’re looking for isn’t there, that what you’re expecting is a mirage, that what you want isn’t on offer, trying to find a way to remember not to go back and be fooled another time, he texts you, bland, cold, detached, and you sense that removal again, but he’s thanking you for a love letter you sent, how nice of you, he says, and you realize all over again that you’ve been fooling yourself all along.

You don’t remember what you put in the letter, but you know that whatever it was has fallen on stony ground. That whatever it was was too much, too emotional, too intense, too raw. That he could never feel that way about you, and is embarrassed on your behalf.

Slept from 5 am to 11 am, and again from 3 pm to 11 pm. Nightmare: Leigh, R, M, W.. Kyle was my roommate, W had shot of R's nose, Leigh said she’d drive me home but didn’t. I rollerbladed instead, scared, and picked coins off the street.

Listening to bittersweet music and feeling my sorrow unbound. I remember Wintor, a quintessentially Epoch adventure, I’m proud of him. I’m growing so slowly. A little drunk, feeling intoxicated by a sweetness like love, maybe self-love.

I feel something like a yearning coupled with its own fulfilment- something satisfying, as though tonight is all I need from life. These songs are a gift from myself.

Today I cleared my closet, I cleaned my desk and my bookshelf, I washed and folded and put away my laundry. I also sent four postcards.

And though i promised to sleep early tonight, I’ve found Low again, and I’m listening to Sunflower, and I remember Chase again and again and again. Not himself, but the feeling of him, the urgency of him, the interest and the excitement and the need of him. The sense of horizon, of possibility. My heart beats and my head swirls and the songs feel so goddamn important.

It isn’t that I want him back. This bittersweet nostalgia isn’t for the times past as they were, it’s for the feeling of hope I had for the future, for the sense of the possibilities of life. And today I’ve been happier than I’ve been in a long time. I was able to work, I spoke to the people I love even if I couldn’t see them, I was grateful to be free and healthy and to have tools to contribute to the world…

And I am haunted by beautiful ghosts. The ghosts of those whom I have loved, and who have loved me. The ghosts that I hold to save them, as a favor. The ghosts who hold a part of me that is gone, as a favor. The ghosts that run in my dreams, and walk with my dream-ghost too, through the beautiful homes, across the mosquito-deltas, in sunshine and among echoes of ferragamo on parquet.

All of this love that boils in me!
All of this need that boils in me.

Paul was sweet tonight, solid, kind and quiet and good. I did not make him sorry, and he did not make me ashamed.

Meanwhile, listening to Low, I remember stepping down into the Virgin Records store in Mockingbird station, and having to choose carefully which record to buy, since they were all sixteen dollars.It was an investment to buy a CD, which I would listen to in my car that had all the clothes in the back. The car wasn’t safe because I wasn’t safe then. It was the best and the worst time of my life. I felt powerful, inexhaustible, I had a sexy body and a sexy boyfriend and I was the smartest girl I knew, with everything at my feet. But I was always under siege. Every day I could count on having a horrible fight with my mom when I got home from school. And she was always scheming to get me, to ruin me, to humiliate me, to trick and trap and catch me. And I was forced to spend all that time at church, when the real place that I felt holy was at the movies, was at the mall, was at the museum.

The freedom of driving that unsafe car down a long dark sloping road at night, music playing, the little lights on the radio showing green in the night, the windows down, the weather good, maybe a cherished friend- maybe Carson- in the passenger seat. Stolen money in my wallet, a tank full of gas, time enough to burn, and everything taken care of that should be.

I’m in love with life, but life is with a new girl, in a new place, listening to new tunes, and I am left alone remembering, trapped.

Looking after life in a loving way, the way one sends a paper boat out on the lake. The way one looks at a field in a dream, wanting to run through it but held fast by an illogical rule.

And the songs make me ecstatic.

Because I will have this ecstasy wherever I go. Because it is a part of me. As the sorrow and the holiness and the laughter is a part of me too. Why is it that music feels like love. That loving music feels like falling in love with life.

Another lonely night
Tried to be expressive with Paul who, apparently, misunderstood then clammed up. Bickered with Hannah for stupid reasons, high mood of the afternoon pulled low and angry, not looking forward to the road trip to Houston for Lucy's wedding. Unhappy. Very unhappy, truly.

The thing with Paul may be an irremediable sorrow, I don’t know how much detente I can take. He doesn’t have to match my pain, only to tolerate and respond to it. And the same goes for my exuberance. I’m tired now, and anxious, and have a long weekend ahead.

Lucy’s wedding.

In the evening a beautiful sorrow breaks upon me like a warm pacific wave. I’ve been drinking but not too much. I’ve been editing Lee’s story.

I love the start of a new month. I love the beginning of spring. I went for a run even though I didn’t want to, and of course I’m glad I did. I ate a banana.

Not really thinking about Paul today, can tell he’s uncertain.

Slept long again last night, 10 hours. Took my meds as usual, about to take an anxiety medication. Drank my matcha, had yogurt for breakfast. Kevin is running around with a bean bag mouse, waiting for Artie to come catch him. He’s stronger than she is and wins when they wrestle.

Showered. New dark green flannel shirt. Feeling good.

Probability class is boring. Moves slowly.

I seem to have broken the peace with Paul by claiming that we have not had a calm and pleasant month. Damn. now he wants to talk and I’m sure I’ll be punished with a fight.

No, that isn’t fair. But i’m very wary of bringing up any problem with him. More important that I solve it on my own, since he’s uncomfortable with involvement. We’ve been dating for five months and he won’t talk to Poppy about it, he seems to expect it to fail. He’s reserved. He’s sending mixed signals. I don’t want to be in limbo. I don’t want to be with someone who hasn’t yet decided to be with me.

But yes, it’s totally possible that he has had a pleasant and calm month. A pleasant and calm month of not kissing me, of keeping me at arm’s length, being affectionate only inconsistently.

I have had a difficult and uncertain month of never being sure whether Paul’s going to show up as my boyfriend or as my friend, and being afraid of being myself because he’s told me that he doesn’t like my mood swings.

And now he wants to talk about it and I don’t feel like i can be completely open or honest because any fight or drama is going to make him pull away from me more. That’s why I cancelled therapy. I didnt want to bring up any issues. I didn’t want to remind him that this is challenging and requires effort. I didn’t want him to get tired of me, to feel like I’m too much.

I don’t want to have another of these difficult conversations. You know, maybe it’s time we took a hard look at what we’re trying to do, and asked ourselves if its worth it. I don’t want this drama. I don’t want the drama of a breakup. I don’t want the drama of this conversation. I am drama-averse. I don’t know what to say. I’m not satisfied with the relationship as it stands, but I also don’t feel inclined to put a lot of effort into fixing it at the moment. Maybe we wait, and it gets better naturally, or maybe we wait and it gets worse and becomes more clear and easier to break off.

Paul and I fought, made up, found tentative neutral ground, had dinner with his family, slept together, woke together, are in love. Such stressful dreams last night!

Paul is extremely reluctant to tell his friends about me, which makes me feel like he is ashamed of me or like he doesn’t expect our relationship to work out. He’s also quick to emphasize that we can always go back to being friends. I’m asking myself is whether he is able to provide me with the affection that I need from a partner. This is inconsistent, sometimes he gives me a lot of affection and sometimes none at all. As I consider this from a rational perspective it seems that I was initially too eager to commit and that also puts me in a false position.

Good morning fuckwads! We’re on a ‘break’! I’m fucking single! And I keep having happy dreams of women, wow. Dreamed of being at a sort of lacrosse camp with a bunch of beautiful ponytailed femmes in tracksuits. Dreamed I took Meredith Sheeder to the prom.

Walked five miles, read Dead Souls, talked to XT for a long time. Liza is coming tomorrow.

Sad dreams last night, woke up missing my mom.

I’m fucking confused today, and i didn’t spend my spring break studying at all. I spent it playing the crossword, crying about a boyfriend that I didn’t actually lose, talking to Hannah, and sleeping weird hours. Dang. things with Paul are like this: we have a fight, we feel sorry, we back away, I am gentle, he is gentle, we find each other again, we get close, we like being close, we stay close, we get closer, we find out that we are different and don’t always mesh very much. We’re too close.

Now I ask for a break, last time he asked for a break, we think about it on our own, and come together to do it again, apparently unable to learn our lesson.

My fifteen minute psychiatric followup cost 300 dollars.

Paul is wonderful. I called him tonight when i was feeling sad and he was already falling asleep. He turned on his light and said, ‘I’m here.’ that ‘I’m here.’ was so comforting to me.

Worked yesterday and it fucking sucked.

Stephen's been hitting me up almost constantly, but when i think about hanging with him i just imagine him complaining and smoking a million cigarettes, and it doesn’t sound so fun.

Hannah’s birthday went well.

What else, i’ve been drinking too much. Headaches. Anxiety. Fear, and I miss talking to carmen all the time, and I miss my morning runs, but something about the shape of the walls in my house makes it hard to do.

So many dreams. Every time I fall asleep it seems i have four or five or six dreams and I remember them so well. Last night I remember the exact words I was saying, Spanish words. I remember every thing that happene, the colors, the clothes.

The other night something else happened, Paul and I had sex, and just after he finished he looked at me and said, as if surprised, ‘you’re so beautiful!’ which he never says, and I was touched by it. I love him very much, which also surprises me.

I got a 87 on my probability midterm, and I was disappointed but I guess it isn’t so bad. Things in compbio are getting desperate, and i can’t take it again if i fail this time.

Mom used to have a mole over her lip.. Before I was born, she had it removed. Dad was so sad. He looked sad every time she talked about it. I loved that mole, he said. I have a mole now, too. I’m thinking of having it removed. There’s nobody who loves it. Dad has money, but I don’t. I have to wait to have the mole removed. I want to go to the dentist. I want to have my chronic kidney infection checked.

It’s been a nice day, lying down at last after talking to XT, drinking a couple beers and reading two chapters of Wharton.

School continues alright, though I’ve missed statistics for two weeks. I'm a hundred and eighty pounds now, heavier than I've ever been. Feel restless. Been having nausea for three days. Stopped taking my pills. So many unruly thoughts, of Emily and Tessa, of the novel, of career counseling, of the black rabbit. Will read again to chase them away.

Met Paul’s cousin today. It’s been a long time since I’ve met someone that I’ve disliked so much. He greeted me without enthusiasm or warmth, in fact didn’t look at me at all until Paul introduced me, when he gave me a cold north-south. I had to ask Paul, ‘is your cousin… shy?’ which he apparently is not, just not friendly to women he doesn’t think are attractive.

The cousin spent most of the conversation swinging his dick about how many countries he’s visited, and the talk orbited lightly around how much money everybody has. Rich people seem mostly to be interested in restaurants, beer, taxes, places they’ve visited, and people who they think are more well connected than they are.

The cousin had a friend who, during a yawning lull, threw in, ‘Any of y’all like to ski?’, giving cousin an opening to explain the difference between the slopes of the Northeast US and the slopes in Lebanon, which deflated the friend’s obvious goal of letting us all know that he skis in Aspen.

Fortunately I was at the opposite end of the table from the conversations about the themes of college frat parties. So nasty. I kept looking at Eric’s TWO class rings. When I asked him if he was from New Jersey, he was dying to inform me that he’d gone to Princeton, but I didn’t ask because I don’t care. I’m not impressed. Not impressed by any of it. I’d rather talk to someone who is interesting and sensitive and has nuanced opinions and cares about their fellow man than someone who is loaded and Ivy League and well traveled. Fuck you.

Artie is starting to look kind of sick, and the litterboxes smell terrible. Raquel hasn’t given her any water or cleaned her litterbox in almost three weeks. The office has become very much the bad vibes room, with two dying plants, cat vomit on the carpet, a bag of trash, still-packed boxes from Raq's move, and several unopened packages that arrived in the last few weeks. I bear no personal malice, but I do regret the state of things. All in all I don’t mind having an absent roommate, I just wish she would take care of her poor cat.

Recovery log: I’ve been sunk in a deep confusion. Afraid to sleep, glued to my phone, thoughts upset and disorganized. Now yesterday I’ve finally bought my car, last night I fought my way into restless sleep, and today I am safely at Paul’s to begin to crawl out of the this hole.

Leigh's dad used to come in with his guitar and sing Leonard Cohen songs as we were falling asleep. When I think back to something like that happening to me, I remember only that there were a few old cassette tapes of mom reading stories, a few stories. Once or twice bethany would read me stories, but mostly I read to myself at night. Maybe mom used to read stories before she had too many kids. Maybe I’m lucky to have been so lonely, since the siblings might have bullied me if they had been there, the way Will terrorized Diane.

At any rate, i’m reading this book, COMPLEX PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving, and there’s a big emphasis on healthy processing of anger.

Finished Two or Three Things I Know for Sure, and the sorrow and intensity of it is spreading through me like the rash that keeps appearing on my forearms. I feel desperate, urgent, i feel an emergency.

A net closing over nothing. Paul loves me and his love does not fill me up. Does not satisfy, intoxicate, or soothe. It just is.

Another sorrowful day, homeless in my own heart, annoyed at the loud girl in the quiet room at Flightpath. Miss the library, the feeling of days being long and full.

I know Diego is thinking of me lately because I keep having dreams of him. I’m fat, also.

I’m crying. Maybe I let it go too long. Talk to me about it, Paul says, and there’s less than nothing to say. How positive i am that if i tried to express a tenth of why I'm sad it would result in months of confusion and misunderstanding. I have no confidence in his ability to contextualize my feelings. They’re all so much bigger than what he guesses.

I’ve had a lot of freedom in my life, more than most people. I’ve paid for it. Now it seems my freedom is the price of what i’m trying to get. The thought of long years of listening to these people discuss their salaries, the houses they’re trying to buy, talk about wines, about remodels, about their luxury purchases, going to breweries to sit in one seat; it’s such a deadening prospect. The death of excitement. The death of art, of will, of autonomy and joy. I don’t like them, and seeing Paul with them makes my blood run cold. A bird and a fish.

I never wanted to go back to that world, I told Paul, and he said, what, me and my friends? I nodded even though he was wrong. I never wanted to go back to the world where virtue and net worth are conflated, where might is right, where you don’t dare be real or honest when it isn’t couth. I never wanted to go back to the world untouched by the reality of want, where the smallest deprivations become agonies, and the biggest troubles are intellectualized or dismissed into dust.

And yet Paul expects to enlist me as an earnest partner in this fight I have no interest in winning. If I do not fight it I will continue to suffer his innocent insults, the pain of which he does not fathom. And yet if I do not submit to it I will lose him. How much better to be free again. But Paul has no desire for freedom, no idea of lacking it, is satisfied, complacent.

And where does that leave me?

Three days of therapy in a row. Paul apologizes to me for thinking of me as his friend and not his lover. I am somber, tired, serious and reflective, calm within myself for what feels like the first time in years (for I am often calm without), and he opens up, laughs, moves, reminisces. He feels safe. We cry together, not because we are sad, but because we have seen so many difficult things. We cry together, and hold hands, and I look at him without saying much, and every time a thought passes across my face he asks after it. I smile, weary and knowing, wishing I could see him so clearly more often, so he could relax.

I told Paul I have no interest in whittling and he said, ‘not even a whittle bit?’ and then I said well I guess I could try it and he said, ‘wood you?’ and then I laughed for a long long time. There was a pause and I asked if he had any more of those and he said ‘I’ll shave ‘em for later’ and the hooting and hollering was magnificent. Took a tiny bit of a weed gummy, and it was fine. A little, like, vibrational. Relaxing. Would prefer slightly less. Didn’t freak out about it.

I spoke to Katie about Poppy briefly, to the effect of, ‘It’s difficult for me to be around Poppy because she’s been clear that she doesn’t want to be around me. She has her reasons and I respect that, but it’s sad for me when Paul goes to hang out with his friends and I’m not invited. Katie said that she had talked to Poppy about it also, thinks Poppy would be open to a direct and honest conversation like I expressed I wish I could have with her, and also said that if she and alex are on the group chat, she’ll make sure i’m invited. I like Katie so much.

I didn’t fill out my diary card today, but otherwise it was a pretty great day I think.

Back at pacha for the first time in a year. Last night was great. I got a massage at ivey’s, and then we watched RuPaul, which was incredible. I had no idea there was a whole channel of just gay and drag shows, Wow Presents Plus! Afterward Ivey and I took a walk to the park and swung on the swings. Then I called Rebecca on the way home and we talked about all that gay shit. Went to Del’s house and walked up right as Orrin and Vanessa were walking out. Talked to them a long time. A long time. Del was in the little house and the first thing I asked was ‘where’s your dad?’ afraid that he had died. Wilbur is in a home, Del told me, he wanted to go to the home. And they haven’t seen him at all for a year, because the home is locked down.

This time I talked to Vanessa and Orrin more than I talked to Del, as we ate some valentines day sugar cookies from a beautiful tin. Vanessa is in a band now, was very cagey about it but it sounds like she plays field recordings (!!!) and plays the saw, and there’s also a clarinet, a bass clarinet, a double bass, a drone accordion, and a synthesizer. Fucking ey. They’ve got a show on June 1st at the wildflower center. The band is called Rachel and Katie. They were looking at old set lists for music festivals I guess, and there was a listing called ‘Katie and Rachel’. They asked who that was, and the person who was showing them the list told them that Katie and Rachel were a couple of UT students who got booked at that music festival but they never showed up and nobody ever heard from them again.

Del and Vanessa went to watch a bridge being demolished over 183, they actually went twice, since there were multiple controlled explosions. The second time a five year old was pushing the plunger. They really do call ‘fire in the hole!’ before the explosion. "I wish I could have recorded that!" I said. Oh, we did, said Vanessa.

Phew, at Cafe Brasil in Deep Ellum in Dallas, tanking coffee and waiting for AAA because my car battery died outside the Deep Ellum Hostel. feeling a little disorganized, disrupted, and I dont want to journal but I know it’s the right thing to do. I packed enough for a two week trip, and i left my room a total wreck.

Also Paul broke up with me.

Feeling good about thjis Europe Trip! DFW had a great genius for transcribing thought as it were directly. Externalizing the process of thought. Anyhow, sleep on the plane, as much as possible, is the moral of getting out there, and clean this morning so I can have space before sunrise.

Tired, Disorganized. This girl next to me on the seven hour flight from NYC to CDG is not a delight. The pale King is a comfort, like going to church: not cool or happy but safe, unalone. I miss Paul somewhat brutally. Still, everything reminds me of him. A glass of red wine with dinner.

Missing being held and seen for gentle. Missing. That space of silliness, sweetness, humor. Poor Paul, couldn’t take it.

A cote de moi on a une family de, il apparait, deux peres et cinq ou six enfants bilangues.

Louis says Taylor I’m
So Glad you think in pictures

I once thought in words
I don’t say to him
Or think
Then

For all i see the falling leaves clearing
The radio towers like rain dripping down a window

I quip and please
But it’s been hard to write lately

As if there isn’t a notebook
Or no pen.

CDG Airport
French women are kind to me.

Rue de Rivoli

So I was walking in the Urban outfitters when two or three times behind me a moan said, ‘Excusez-mois, excusez-moi, excuse me.’ and I didn’t mind the sound of his voice so I turned around, masked, and he didn’t look so bad, so I took a step toward him and brusque but amiable bore a torrent of complements as I made for the door, him walking alongside until I was in front of him by the stairs, ‘Anyway’, he concluded, ‘I won’t bother you, but if you like to get a drink or go somewhere?’
‘Pourquoi pas?’ I replied, already on my way out. ‘Je prendrais un verre avec vous.’
‘Mais si vous-voulez!’

The sunlight of the Rue de Rivoli broke over us and we stayed in the shadows of the high shops, through an alleyway where the salespeople in black took chic cigarettes.
‘Bavarder’ is my favorite word for the happy flowing repartee that brought us voila! To the seine. ‘Je ne savais qu’on pourrait descendre par ici’ My companion was interesting and we had a lot to talk about. We understood each other well in French and English for the most part, switching between them when we tripped over a word or concept. He was a music producer, band manager and failed singer. ‘I am not good,’ he said sadly, guiding me past a foul- smelling area to, voila again! A small snackbar built into the banks of the seine.

I was pressed for time and not completely trusting of a stranger, so I took only a bottled water. Gigi had a coke. The sun beat powerfully over the red deck chairs which were ranged decorously over a pelouse, puis on a regarder passer les beateaux. It was fun, switching between languages, and we could translate for ourselves and for each other. If there was something sexual about it, it was that gigi twice placed his left hand on my arm ( after an initial and predictable attempt at the lower waist I kept a good distance walking from him. ) Between my enthusiastic account of my present adventure ( an unforeseen jaunt in the city of light by accident of a missed connection to the south) and his maupassantian musings on subjects from music to parenting, we were both happily curious about each other.

He had been in San Francisco in the late seventies or early eighties, often taken for 'gai', which he spoke about strangely. Imperturbable, I broke out laughing at the faces carved on the pont neuf. C’est braiment le pont neuf? C’est ca. We faced the Ile de la cite.
I remembered that I wanted to go to Shakespeare and Company, and asked him ‘veuilles-tu m’accompagner au librairie?’
‘Mais si vous-voulez!’ he again assented enthusiastically, Ah, is it this one that is in a very tiny house? He asked, as we made our way. WE hadn’t arrived yet, still crossing the old bridge, wind sweeping my hair and pants. Gigi jogged a little beside me, dancing around me at corners in the narrow cobblestone streets. ‘Yes, I think it is.’ ‘But how do you know where it is?’ He asked me, surprised. ‘Even I don’t know how to get there’.
‘Mais j’ai demande au bouquiniste! Ell me disait que c’etait toute droite aupres deux ponts pour croiser Ile de la Cite, et que c'est juste en face de la Place Notre Dame.

Arriving, neither of us looked at the cathedral at all, only the little green awning flapping above the windows of a small house totally incongruous among grand stone buildings.
‘But I know it!’ he exclaimed in excitement. ‘I have been here many times reading, even I made a film about this place. Did you know it’s going away? I saw a documentary about it. IT’s really sad.’
My exclamations of distress could only linger so long, I had never before been to the famous bookstore. So tiny! Inside, he clearly wanted to stay and climb the spindly stairs to the upper rooms but I hadn’t time to shop for books. I came explicitly and only for a notebook, besides being a little tired of his company, I insisted on my task, we parted company soon thereafter.

Close by I discovered another bookstore, Eyrolles, whose basement was filled witht he exquisite japanese stationery for which I harbor a perversion.

Maggie's House

I like my family because they talk in the same flowery way that I do. Samwise sleeps on the couch, and I touch his head and his shoulder to say goodbye. You’re so much bigger than you were when you were born, I say to him, weirdly. And you’re bigger than you were on your thirteenth birthday, which I remember very well. You’ll have to tell me about it sometime, I gush, out and into the car, without formally adieuing Maggie.

In the car, listening to the radio and trying to figure out how I feel, I hear a yell over the loud radio. Taylor! At least three times, loud yelling. I roll down my window and see just Allie’s happy head poking above the fence. I love you, I love you, good to see you, goodbye!

So much happened today, and seven swans at the DMA, and smoking in the side yard of the Nasher, sweating in my leather jacket, cat calls from every corner. I liked them today, they were mostly good compliments. I’m less afraid. There are lots of black people in Deep Ellum and that makes me happy. I still went to lurk at Snyder Plaza today too.

I like my family but it’s hard. It’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard.

Enfin un peu ivré p 250 or so in the pale king and stopping to watch
Do The Right Thing
On the plane

The Pale King, just what I need. I’m getting a kitten. I love myself. Time to get a kitten. To to be for me.

Watching Do the Right Thing and thinking…

Shea Butter, Sunscreen, Thinking Kitten. Thinkin water, time, money, existence, work , respect. Thinkin about my dreams, how I fear them, how they sorrow my sleep.

Thinkin' Paris

Thinkin’ I wouldn’t mind having sex. With goddamn anyone Jesus. With Paul only forever. With anyone at all

[what perplexing opposites this distressed writer seeks]

Where’s my middle ground?

Sorrow, Difficulty, Pain, What are these to me? Friends or Family?

A few memories:
Paul saying, ‘you’d be a good mother’, saying goodbye to Lucy
Crying on Maggie's trampoline,
Reading Barth for the first time.
Oh sure, I’m real sad. Like I was real happy a couple nights ago
It passes, apparently.

A true scrap
Carriere de Lumiere
Chateau Busine
Jessica Forever
Tomboy
Kylie Blues
Long day’s journey into night
My Mister
Be melodramatic
Olivier assayas
Revenge (french film)
Titania
The Importance of Shadows
Agnes Martin
Guy Gilles
Marina Abramoviç night sea crossing
Yvonne rainer
Late spring