three-car pile-up

Days, weeks almost, go by and I rarely see the light of day from the four walls of my home. It's vaguely depressing. AM's are spent eating a hurried bowl of instant oatmeal and finding socks. I get home at a decent hour, 7is, but I am so tired I usually am sleeping within the hour. By home I don't mean any of those. I mean home and doing the things I love: cleaning the floor or making my bed. Seriously, the state of my house...
I believe that if I spent more waking time here, I would be more grounded. But, there are only so many hours in a day, week, year. Sleep and wake and dream are tangled together in the sheets of my unmade bed.

Life's Kitchen

I am the only person in the lower 48 who is unable to get a credit
card? It seems that I am. I am not only smarting from this injustice, I am enraged at the new system of price differentiation for credit worthy people. Congress is discussing whether or not it is legal for insurance companies to check your rating before issuing coverage. Because, poor f*cks don't deserve health care.

issue two: I don't get advertised prices on cellphones and plans. Those are for "credit worthy" people. You know, the kind of people who haven't done the bad things I've done. Things like buy a vehicle and make monthly payments for three years. The fact that in the last two years, I have never once had a late phone payment is little assurance to this company. They don't want poor people to have cool phones; it's bad for their image.

F*ck all of them. Companies are not people.
They do not have emotions and are not singling me out; it just feels that way. Thanks 14Th amendment! Corporate person-hood is TOPS!

The ranting has left me flustered and wretched. The record player is broken. Well, this one's a total bitch and I am so tired of feeling w*rthless for my lack of lasting stability. I could cry, but where does that leave me? with a basket full of tissues and a red nose. Who am I to disparage life's offerings. They are not meager. Funny, how things make worth and worth is an estimable quality. Naturally I recognize the fallibility of material satisfaction. Recognition does not stop me from wanting or in some cases, needing.

I relate the tightness in my throat to the unfairness I felt as a girl. I learned, very young, to never ask for anything. Not because I couldn't have it, which was true. Because, in voicing the unfairness of not being able to get a pair of jeans, I would have to face the reality without the dream. This brings it all back. I still feel my worth based, judged, mirrored, by my economic power. This is such a long standing and corrosive field that I best not tread on it.

This is the nature of the world and I cannot understand why the world continues to reject me. It is being unable to meet a standard; I do not pass the bar. It is a constant test to my resilience and vulnerability. Neither of which are feeling up to the constant barrage of insults heaped upon me by non-people: machines that cannot feel but instead think.

lesson 37

The road to hell is a casket of cherries.

bondo

I have a hard time sleeping. It eludes me, an orchid that won't bloom.

Today. Today was bound to happen sooner or later. It started off a little off.
Typically, I get woken up. And today I didn't. After getting out bed, I
rubbed my eye and found some clothes. I was mad: it's not fair to
change the rules on someone without telling them. I recovered.

I swim, lap after lap. The pool, in the morning, is full of sunlight. I swam particularly well today. During my final lap— the: "ohh I think I'll do one more" lap— I broke my watch. My father's watch. Broke and can't fix and won't ever
get to wear it again. I have been missing him so much. When someone
dies they are gone. I know that sound simplistic, it is. I never knew I
had a place, shaped just like my father, in my chest. Now, it just sits
there, empty. There is nothing fair about who death chooses. But there
are times I wish I could cry and not feel guilty, weird, alone. It
doesn't matter if their mine, yours or anyone elses: emotions,
for most, are too much. Especially a raw grief. I don't want to be
comforted, there is none. Just finding the space to be with people who
understand the inexplicable rock in my gut, fire in my throat, salt in
my nose. Mementos are just that, reminders. A photo of
a whale will never impress upon me the majesty of the creature. Being
in a boat and watching it's body lift from the depths, will.

Better now

rustic

Things that don't age well:

Gloating over other people is not nice. But it's fun. When I see a person who broke my heart ten years ago, fat old and married, I can't help but laugh, relieved.

The Internet makes the world into a huge pocket. There is so much information about so many people, a finger tap away. Not me, however. It seems I have done very little of note. I like my solitude and dislike interruptions: mon plume-de-nom me cache.

I was nicely wrapped in my many blankets last night, when my phone rang. No I don't want to go drink beer, I need sleep; it was 7:45. Much later, deep into the early hours of dawn, I woke. The air had changed, it was thick and fresh, I heard an owl. I fell back to sleep and missed my alarm.

The world, so fast and full and I contribute by needing to be places. I left late for school (above mentioned missed alarm), missing my first class. The perennial headache behind my right eye, a reminder to get glasses. I hope glasses are all I need. I have been losing hair in handfuls. I become paranoid. I fear I am sick sick sick. The sleep, the hair, the headaches, all contribute to a sense of panic. I attribute all of it to stress, the need to be someplace seven minutes ago. The racing heart is from the caffeine. The headaches are from dehydration, it's so hard to drink fluids when it's raining. Push harder, swim upstream, and don't ever get sick. That's a crap mantra and I will get sick if I damn well please.

pacing

I fought a good fight, and I won.

My financial-aid has been reinstated. Who knew I could find esteem in an envelope? Though interestingly enough, as of yesterday, I had
abandoned hope in either direction. I came to a place where I could no
longer see which outcome was better. Both were good; both were bad.
Being in this opportunity took time, the kind words of my family. I found a place of surrender outside of the structure of my day to day.

Most difficult part was continuing to attend my classes. Doing hours of homework amidst such uncertainty was exacerbating. Assuming that I would be awarded the aid,
I was diligent in my studies. Having received the news, I am glad I remained focused.
Irony could have prevailed: if I would have assumed failure; been
awarded aid; and ultimately failed because of falling behind early in the quarter.

The contentment that comes from letting go of any notion of the right,
good, best way, is enormous. There are six billion ways to make a bed.
I am relieved not to have to change my path, but had I, the adventure
would have been welcome.