latent nascent thoughts

the weekends have become the shell that i crawl into. showering is the hardest part. no one will smell me so who cares? i lick the front of my top teeth and debate whether i should brush. who cares? no one is here, no one will mourn my teeth. should i put the dishes in the dishwasher? who cares. the trash? only i see it. i sleep 12 hours and long for more. these are the weekends.

fortunately the weekdays need me to be awake and alert. they need me to shower and brush my teeth. because there are people on weekdays that require my assistance and pay me in exchange for it. that money keeps me from sleeping in a gutter or not eating. i am appreciative of that part, at least. i am a high-functioning depressive, you might say. but still it seeps in, every day. “mental health day” has become my new celebration; when life gets too hard i can say “fuck it” and go back to sleep.

if you’re reading this, i’m okay. and i’m sorry i cancelled on you. it’s not you, i cancel on everyone. but it is better than the alternative–a meeting where i can’t be fully present with you. i hate that more.

ursula & toilet paper & eggs

this morning i woke up as i usually do, with my cat leaping up on the bed at around 6:30am, meowing and pawing at me to feed her. and i did what i usually do on weekends–shooed her away to give me another half-hour of respite. sometimes i get up, feed her, then promptly go back to bed. but even on those days, i can never sleep past 10am. the morning is imprinted on me now, i am used to its summer light and chirping birds.

i am reading a collection of short stories by ursula le guin, and they are very good. women authors are fantastic at sharing the experience of being a woman with their audience; their stories are as much emotional encapsulations as they are plot-driven. i laid in bed and read for an hour, a story about a man from a planet where women dominate due to genetic shenanigans centuries ago; most male babies die in childbirth. so it’s all women and a few men, who are raised in “castles” where the play games of sport and then women pay for the men to fuck them so they can have more kids. but the women are all in love with each other, and men are little more than breeding stallions.

anyway this man lived in a time where the men were trying to become free, after researchers from another planet arrive and decide to “interfere” with the people. once the men (the populace in general) see that men from that planet are free and educated and do whatever they want, the men from this planet want that too. and this man in this story gets it, but it’s hard, because now what does he do? the women aren’t used to men not being in castles or “fuckeries” as they put it. (i love that le guin calls them “fuckeries”; the view of sex in this story and in a couple others that i’ve read so far is so free and polyamorous and definitely a stance re: american prudishness.) he eventually goes to hain (a planet colonized or co-inhabited by terrans, apparently) to become educated. it was a good story and a good collection of stories so far (the book’s 800 pages).

it’s nice outside and i opened the blinds and jowers laid in the sun splayed out over my bed as i read, and then she insisted that she lick my hand for a long time, which she does sometimes. she doesn’t like it when i pet her when she wants to clean me; she’ll look back at my hand like, “bring it back here, it is still unclean.”

it’s clear outside and i walked to the corner store to buy some toilet paper, eggs, and a dumb hazelnut starbucks drink. sometimes when i buy weird things together i like to conjure weird stories in my head about why i’m buying these things together. like, what would be the weirdest thing the cashier could think. the starbucks was just coffee (obviously) but the eggs and TP were for some sexually deviant thing i was going to do: hardboil the eggs and stick them up my butt, of course. TP was for cleanup. at 9am, of course. but then i thought about it more. even hardboiled eggs are no match for the cinching power of the sphincter. i would just end up with broken egg bits in my rectum, which was the least sexiest thing i could think of at 9 in the morning.

i drank the starbucks drink and thought about making breakfast, but my pan still had leftover bacon grease and fat in it so i have started the dishwasher and eaten a fiber granola bar thing instead, one of several unusual things i buy at grocery outlet. i am bad at doing dishes, especially when i’m depressed. i have some used tupperware in and around my sink that i’m afraid to open. my sink is full of grossness. it’s embarrassing and i should do my dishes more often but it’s hard to do when the only prevailing thought in your head is “nothing matters, who cares,” etc etc.

i am attempting to write more again, morning pages or 750 words or whatever you wish to call it. to write freely and to not censor myself or delete the words because i don’t think they’re good enough. i feel a sense of serenity this morning that i haven’t felt for a while. i’m okay at home right now. my depression is no more than a feeling of content loneliness, which is something i can capture and care for. nothing in my world right now feels content, usually, so i enjoy the brief respite. i am alone in a full room, i don’t really care about myself currently. about or for myself. i can’t remember things, my productivity at work took a dip because i was in a depressive fog and fell behind on my tasks. i tell my therapist this but leave some of it out, because i view myself (and my depression and anxiety) as a burden on others. even to my therapist, whose job is entirely to be a emotional beast of burden (no offense). there are some secrets i don’t even tell myself.

but i’m listening to classical music (thank you thank you for existing) and the sun is shining through the blinds and my cat is asleep on her cat tree and i’m writing and feeling only very minimally ashamed of it. that’s better.

pettygrove park 5.22.18

Commisserating over sunburns.
He keeps his socks on;
Thus, a stark contrast
Between his feet and his legs.
She laughs:
“You’re cute but that’s gross.”
On “cute” I know it’s on.
And like a viper he strikes,
I hear the rustle of clothing
Against the wood bench
As he sidles closer.
“Can I ask you something?”
In a voice above a whisper,
Then whispers,
Then the silence
Of a first kiss(es).
I’m reading Ursula Le Guin.
They pull away and continue talking,
And I listen for his interest in that.

garden bar 5.9.18

“All black everything”
She mouthed to herself
In the mirror this morning.
She eats a single slice
Of salami from
A plastic Ziploc bag.
(Or at least that’s
What it looks like
From my periphery.)
She in short hair
Hunched over her phone,
Laughing at things
But not too loud
To draw attention.
The salad zone
Blasts Bohemian Rhapsody.
It’s quiet, everyone
Drinks the diet version
Of things. I’m thinking
About the carrots
I didn’t eat for lunch.
The clouds roll in.

garden bar 4.27.18

You remember
Everything fades.
All memory
Rests on the precipice.
She walks with purpose–
She reads Ghost World–
She eats a salad.
This will be nothing
In 1,000 years.
This will not exist.
Your brain is loose
With information.
She wears Christmas colors.
Your life as long
As an atom’s mass
To a black hole.
She turns the pages–
She ignores everyone.
When we are gone
Instead of monuments
There will be bones
In the dirt.

pettygrove park 4.26.18

It’s warm out
So I’m outside again,
A ghost of translucent skin
And awkward-angled sunburns,
Draped in cheap Target cloth.
A single man in cyan
Sits on a sun-drenched hill
Staring into a bright rectangle.
I write about him
In a similar rectangle.
I do my best to not ogle
The women in sundresses
But let’s face it:
The world is blooming now
And there’s much more
To look at.

I, and maybe you,
Pull clods of earth asunder
As we haul ourselves
From the sunken winter,
Shaking our lumbering frames,
Inhaling the soft scent
Of flowers. We smell love,
And feel the warm breeze
Against our cheeks.
We’ve won our annual
Fight against the seasons.
We’ve won once again.