This time of year always feels so fucking Bipolar to me – that dormant energy that’s yawned its way through Winter finally just popping its head up from the snow one day like a little crazed Daffodil, and then proceeding to zip and zoom manically back and forth through lists and “shouldas” and plans and ideas and I fucking LIVE for it.
All my partners have looked at me at one point or another in our time together and said some version of, “Are you SURE you’re an ‘Autumn’ person?”, with the implication that I get good and charged and manic when there is one hint of sunshine in February because SPRING IS COMING BITCHES AND THERE IS SHIT TO DO AND DO AND DO AND DO AND DOOOOO.
I’m writing. A LOT. A LOT a lot. Stories and poems and letters and lists and words flooding through me like a banshee living inside my head – all spewing her latest wisdom with no brakes and no floodgates and no chance in hell that I will get it all out before one of us is exhausted by the other. That voice is just “The “Muse”. Her name is “Josephine”, after that Tori Amos song “Not tonight, Josephine”, and she’s been visiting my thoughts for probably thirty-ish years now in this form. When I was a kid and scribbling all my weird little stories in the back of old notebooks, I just thought of her as myself. I’m older now and I know better. That shit is divinity and I am nothing but the fucking conduit. I’m fine with that as long as she keeps on talking because the buzz that comes with it is orgasmic and special and magic and oh-so-decadent.
That one publisher loves my idea for the Medusa book but Goddess, I am exhausted by the thought of having to do it in such a structured way and even more exhausted by the thought of doing it as “me” and not letting the made-up version of me handle it all. We are talking and luckily she’s a great therapist and keeps telling me how great for my imposter syndrome it will be and and and…and I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not imposter syndrome keeping me from editing it and releasing it out into the wild. It’s ADHfuckingD and being so busy with my “real job” that I’m braindead by 6pm most days.
Speaking of braindead, I’m in school again this semester and creeping up on ridiculousness with 2 more classes centered on writing. Like, what am I doing with this. Where is it going? And I guess it isn’t cute to play coy with myself because I know *exactly* what I’m doing with this – Hear ye, hear ye – “To be legit, one must have CREDENTIALS!” Yeah, bullshit. It’s legit with or without the paper so I guess the truth is that…this is my way of delaying and avoiding the inevitable judgement of releasing a piece of my writing into the world and just letting it be what it is.
I’m still ruminating on my Dad’s death. Micro-moments of “oh, he would have said this”…or just things I would want to tell him. I was sitting down to look at my taxes the other night and pulled my W2 form from my steady and thought about what his reaction would have been to my yearly income and how I would have never, ever even remotely alluded to my net, lest he immediately set about trying to get his hands on some of it. God bless the man but money did put stars in his eyes. I told JD about that time when I was barely twenty and had bought a garden tiller that I absolutely could not afford and that while it still had the tags hanging off it, Dad wanted to use it but didn’t check to see if the factory had put oil in it and he immediately locked up the motor on my brand new garden tiller that I absolutely could not afford and then proceeded to lie to me about what happened with it. It’s such a small thing in the grand scheme of things and I haven’t been mad about it in decades, but what a perfect illustration of why we just stopped working as a relationship unit. I require 100% honesty and he required 100% adoration and in his world, you cannot have one if you have the other because, at his core, imperfection was not acceptable, so he hid his while shining a light on all of mine. His way of “trying to get me to do better” helped me plunge headlong into all kinds of unhealthy dynamics and trying to be accepted and loved and good GOD, did I have a homing beacon on the “Absolutely WRONG Motherfuckers” to do that. I haven’t been mad about that in decades either, but it’s in the appendix.
In other news I’ve lost 60 pounds and I meant to. This has kicked off one of my marathon “let’s get rid of all our shit” sessions that has ended up lasting a few months and I might be seeing some light at the end of the tunnel on my knees hurting every day and just being in pain in general. Oh, and I cut my hair. And I re-pierced my nose. And I might go ahead and get that tattoo I’ve been planning for 5 years now. Decoration all around, eh?
Gratitude: JD, always. My cuddly wife who is smart and sensitive and who openly cries during “Coco”. She sits in her recliner and pets Craig every night and often, I’m just happy she has that bald little dog to coo at. She’s not fully out of her grieving but she’s so much better than she was a year ago, when I never thought I’d see my favorite version of her again. I had to get real with myself and remember that my favorite version of her is when she’s happy and when she feels safe and when she feels loved and good GOD, that shit changes year over year, especially through grief and aging and growing and just being human. She’s going to retire this year or early next and we’ve got plans to travel. I can’t wait.
March comes quickly. Flowers are peeking out. My marrow is humming. All of the pots are bubbling.
I hope I don’t vagal to death <3