I've been trying to get a place of my own for months now, but it's basically impossible. I make pretty awesome money for someone my age, and yet it isn't enough for me to be able to live on my own in the bay area.
But I'm coming to the conclusion that I shouldn't be by myself, anyways. Everytime I have the house to myself I end up not cooking for myself, being lazy, and I almost always end up crying. I get lonely, and I get depressed and I think about how very, very alone I am in my life right now. I sat here today, staring at the blank tv screen for hours because I couldn't find the remote control for the tv. I thought to myself, "I should invite someone over and watch a movie".
But there's no one to invite.
I hate this feeling in my chest. This hollow, expressionless void that makes me think of pulled cotton or endless yards of blank fabric. There should be people welling up out of my heart, a fountain of friendship, of something that matters. But there's just an empty space; static.
Sunday, May 11
Friday, February 22
@3$@*!)#8#$@!
My family has officially gone insane.
Like insane.
My grampa would be very ashamed of us if he was here. No. He would beat the shit out of all of us. Yes. that's exactly what he'd do.
I'm also very depressed that I make a very good amount of money for someone my age and I STILL can't afford an apartment anywhere except in a fucking east oakland tenement.
UGH.
Also, I'll be updating this more from now on. I don't know what's wrong with me so I'll explore it here!
Like insane.
My grampa would be very ashamed of us if he was here. No. He would beat the shit out of all of us. Yes. that's exactly what he'd do.
I'm also very depressed that I make a very good amount of money for someone my age and I STILL can't afford an apartment anywhere except in a fucking east oakland tenement.
UGH.
Also, I'll be updating this more from now on. I don't know what's wrong with me so I'll explore it here!
Monday, December 3
End Days
Weeping gray December skies and sweaters that invite the chill. But there are no sweaters that will shake this cold off of the shoulders of our hearts. It's the chill breeze of the soul. A long procession of blood down the gravel driveway. Granddaughter, grandson-in-law, wife, daughter, granddaughter, grandson, great granddaughter, son-in-law, great granddaughter, grandson, granddaughter, son-in-law, grandson-in-law, greatgrandson. Where is my son whom I love? I have no son. I can almost hear his voice rattle the dying oak leaves from their perilous grips to mother. His son did not come. The first Granddaughter, my sister, meets the trail head under the a yawning live oak whose branches are so wide, and leaves so dense that the ground beneath it is lush with emerald moss despite the drought. Is this the trail, Mom?
Yes. This is the trail. Two tears. And we follow. Down, deep into the trees, through the thick blanket of dead whispering leaves. The trail is so narrow, the poison oak almost overrunning it in places. Neglected. It misses his hands. A connection: granddaughter, greatgranddaughter, greatgranddaughter. hands clasped tight, lest they fall. I won't let them. Where are the blue skies of the week? Where are the warm suns rays? Does God, in our grief, give us weather to match this sorrow in our hearts?
This is it. Right here. Four tender spruce trees, arms entwined, stand out, punches of color, in a sea of diminished browns. Tell us about them Mary. My poor mother. Closest of all of us with him. That's Mom. she points to the biggest tree. He'd always say, 'look how big and fat she's gotten, and see how the tip of her has grown,' everytime we walked past here. And that one's me, and there's Catherine and Michael besides me. No one says it. But we're all thinking it. Where are those children whom he loved? Why do they pull away from his memory? There is anger here, brewing in the hearts of grandchildren who feel shame for their parents.
His trees. My Grampa's favorite trees. He walked this trail everyday until the cancer ate away his will to be what he loved. Do not stand by my side and weep. I am not there I do not sleep. The women, with their mothers hearts, weep. The men blink red eyes and knuckle, knuckle the grief away. He was the patriarch of this family, and with his loss, the family may crumble. No. We won't. He won't let us. His wife falls into me, so soft and gentle in her grief. But there are strong arms, and firm hands to hold and guide her. His grandson-in law helps her down among the trees to watch. His ashes drift, feather-light, down into the shallow hole dug above his tree family. When the rains come he'll wash down amongst their roots. He'll nurture their growth one last time. My grandmother shovels the soil into the hole and turns; walks away. Cousin Ryan takes her arm, leads her up through the hills; youth and age, grandson and wife, pain and sorrow.
End days. And peace for the weary.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. I whisper it, gently, into the ear of his greatgranddaughter. She weeps into my shoulder.
A strange beauty.
Yes. This is the trail. Two tears. And we follow. Down, deep into the trees, through the thick blanket of dead whispering leaves. The trail is so narrow, the poison oak almost overrunning it in places. Neglected. It misses his hands. A connection: granddaughter, greatgranddaughter, greatgranddaughter. hands clasped tight, lest they fall. I won't let them. Where are the blue skies of the week? Where are the warm suns rays? Does God, in our grief, give us weather to match this sorrow in our hearts?
This is it. Right here. Four tender spruce trees, arms entwined, stand out, punches of color, in a sea of diminished browns. Tell us about them Mary. My poor mother. Closest of all of us with him. That's Mom. she points to the biggest tree. He'd always say, 'look how big and fat she's gotten, and see how the tip of her has grown,' everytime we walked past here. And that one's me, and there's Catherine and Michael besides me. No one says it. But we're all thinking it. Where are those children whom he loved? Why do they pull away from his memory? There is anger here, brewing in the hearts of grandchildren who feel shame for their parents.
His trees. My Grampa's favorite trees. He walked this trail everyday until the cancer ate away his will to be what he loved. Do not stand by my side and weep. I am not there I do not sleep. The women, with their mothers hearts, weep. The men blink red eyes and knuckle, knuckle the grief away. He was the patriarch of this family, and with his loss, the family may crumble. No. We won't. He won't let us. His wife falls into me, so soft and gentle in her grief. But there are strong arms, and firm hands to hold and guide her. His grandson-in law helps her down among the trees to watch. His ashes drift, feather-light, down into the shallow hole dug above his tree family. When the rains come he'll wash down amongst their roots. He'll nurture their growth one last time. My grandmother shovels the soil into the hole and turns; walks away. Cousin Ryan takes her arm, leads her up through the hills; youth and age, grandson and wife, pain and sorrow.
End days. And peace for the weary.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. I whisper it, gently, into the ear of his greatgranddaughter. She weeps into my shoulder.
A strange beauty.
Wednesday, November 7
When it rains it fucking pours
I wish it would just rain real rain instead of my entire life falling apart at the seams. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.
Shall I walk you through it?
Friday morning: I find out that I have cousins on my father's side of the family that have been searching for me for years. Not only that, they want to get to know me. I haven't even thought about the concept of having cousins, let alone thought about my father in months. I haven't seen him since I was six-years-old. He's not a part of my life; nor do I want him to be. But what about this cousin? She's blood, after all, and I can't blame her for the sins of the father. Ugh and a half.
Friday afternoon: Death-defying stunt devil April, that's me. I crash my car into the median and turn it into an accordian. Somehow I manage not to kill myself, or anyone else but I sure as hell fuck myself up in the process. I'm just now starting to feel normal.
Ongoing: My grandfather's health is rapidly deteriorating. He doesn't have many days left in him, and the ones he does have are painful and difficult. Sometimes I wish that God would be merciful and take him softly into the night.
Shall I walk you through it?
Friday morning: I find out that I have cousins on my father's side of the family that have been searching for me for years. Not only that, they want to get to know me. I haven't even thought about the concept of having cousins, let alone thought about my father in months. I haven't seen him since I was six-years-old. He's not a part of my life; nor do I want him to be. But what about this cousin? She's blood, after all, and I can't blame her for the sins of the father. Ugh and a half.
Friday afternoon: Death-defying stunt devil April, that's me. I crash my car into the median and turn it into an accordian. Somehow I manage not to kill myself, or anyone else but I sure as hell fuck myself up in the process. I'm just now starting to feel normal.
Ongoing: My grandfather's health is rapidly deteriorating. He doesn't have many days left in him, and the ones he does have are painful and difficult. Sometimes I wish that God would be merciful and take him softly into the night.
Coupled with that is the fragile state of my mother's mental health. she's been taking care of my grandparents, as well as anyone can considering, since everything started getting bad. I'm afraid that when he fades away my Mom's mind will follow quietly in its wake.
Last night: My brother-in-law's father has a heart attack. He's alive, in the hospital, but this is very not okay. My nieces are already going to lose their Great-Grandfather, they can't lose Papa in the same week.
Can I get a break? Seriously if much more starts to happen, I'm going to start speaking pig-latin and curl up in a ball on my bed and never move again.
Wednesday, October 17
I TRY
so hard to be a good little passive-agressive liberal. TO NO avail. Ugh. Why do I even go to this website? Perceval Press (I mean, besides the fact that I have a mild obsession with Viggo Mortensen, and that just happens to be his printing company)
Everytime I go there I read these articles about the atrocities and absolute MISSUSE of power that the Bush administration is getting away with every fucking day. It just fills me with this impotent fury, because there's not a damn thing I can do about it, is there?
Not a fucking thing in the world. At least one that I'm willing to do. Which is why I want to be a passive-agressive, ill-informed liberal in the first place! I don't want to know about all the terrible things that are happening out there in the name of our black government. And by black I mean bad/naughty/depraved/Nazi. not, you know, black. I don't want to know because all it does is make me feel like shit because there's nothing that I can really do.
Even if I get all gung-ho about politics and start getting active in protest groups and write letters to my congressmen what the fuck will that do? Besides make me more frustrated when all those actions get us nowhere, nowhere that I want to be anyways. I'll just be MORE informed, and more impotent than before.
FUCK.
I hate you Viggo Mortensen for being the man I want to do all sorts of nasty things to AND the man that makes my conscience scream. Thanks a lot.
dickhead.
Everytime I go there I read these articles about the atrocities and absolute MISSUSE of power that the Bush administration is getting away with every fucking day. It just fills me with this impotent fury, because there's not a damn thing I can do about it, is there?
Not a fucking thing in the world. At least one that I'm willing to do. Which is why I want to be a passive-agressive, ill-informed liberal in the first place! I don't want to know about all the terrible things that are happening out there in the name of our black government. And by black I mean bad/naughty/depraved/Nazi. not, you know, black. I don't want to know because all it does is make me feel like shit because there's nothing that I can really do.
Even if I get all gung-ho about politics and start getting active in protest groups and write letters to my congressmen what the fuck will that do? Besides make me more frustrated when all those actions get us nowhere, nowhere that I want to be anyways. I'll just be MORE informed, and more impotent than before.
FUCK.
I hate you Viggo Mortensen for being the man I want to do all sorts of nasty things to AND the man that makes my conscience scream. Thanks a lot.
dickhead.
Monday, October 15
Fake it till you make it.
or at least that's what ericka tells me I need to do. I think she's right, you know. No one else is going to believe I'm someone special until I manage to do so. So that's what I'm going to do. I am unique, there's no doubt about that. So here's why:
- No one writes exactly like I do. I believe this for myself, and I know it's true because people have told me often enough.
- My writing process is entirely my own. I've never read a writing advice book that tells me how I should go about writing. And if I had, I wouldn't follow the directions. Writing is such a personal thing to me that I wouldn't have it any other way.
- I actually believe that this positive self-talk will accomplish something. Honestly.
- I am proud of how much I've grown in the last year. The year after my freedom from bondage.
- I'm a bit of an emotional coward, but I'm trying really, really hard not to be. And the very act of trying to accomplish this is something I'm proud of.
- I easily get bored visually. What I mean is that I'm always changing the paintings and prints on my walls, the background on my desktop, the picture on my phone. I want to see things, new things, all the time.
- I can swim through 12 foot waves and rescue a person. How do I know this? Because I've done it before.
I'm not going to wait for things to happen to me anymore. I'm going to make them happen. If I'm unhappy in my life that's okay; because I know I'm working to make it better.
It's interesting, looking at the list. The first two things involve writing. I guess without even meaning to, I've already defined who I am. And that's okay. That's something I can be proud of too.
Thursday, September 27
Grey's Anatomy
I'm so lonely that I've resorted to renting Grey's Anatomy dvd's and pretending that I'm actually desirable, and that I'm not a pathetic shut-in who lives her life vicariously through her character creations.
I'm going to end up being the crazy animal lady who lives in a one room in-law house and spends her time writing and walking around in the woods talking to the ghosts of a life she's never lead.
I'm going to end up being the crazy animal lady who lives in a one room in-law house and spends her time writing and walking around in the woods talking to the ghosts of a life she's never lead.
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