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 allclassical.org 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.

2017 state of things

Hello hello hello.

2017 has been a shit year for the world. Thankfully we have Facebooks and Twitters and Tumblrs and all sorts of social media that you can reference regarding that particular breakdown of our country’s fundamental governing. This is my blog, so of course I will talk about myself.

For me 2017 has been more mediocre and lacking in ambition than anything else. There have been some high points: I was in a play, the first legitimate paying gig in like three years. It was a lean cut of Shakespeare’sĀ Troilus & Cressida, done at Lone Fir Cemetery here in Portland, by Portland Actors Ensemble. We had a great cast and an equally great run, and I am thoroughly proud of the production and the people within it. It, for a brief moment, sparked a renewed passion to act again, though to be honest that spark has since dwindled, for reasons I’ll talk about later.

I have a new job, working as a Legal Secretary for the Oregon Department of Justice. My first state job. I started in September and still have a couple of months left on my trial period. To be honest I took a positional hit for this job–I was a Legal Assistant at my old job, though jobwise it was much more on par with being a paralegal[1. If you’re confused about the hierarchy of these titles, you know how a rectangle is sometimes a square but a square is never a rectangle? Yeah, it’s that kind of confusing.]. Either way, definitely a higher position than secretary. I’m hoping that this is the beginning of an upward climb through the state system, either through the DOJ or somewhere else in the state. I appreciate the job security, the benefits, and the ability to get my student loans forgiven.

Also, the Dept of Justice’s online intranet site is called DOJO, which is fun.

In February I wrote some really great songs as part of FAWM, which I hope to throw onto a website this year.

In November I finished NaNoWriMo for the second time in the 15 years I’ve attempted. The book is calledĀ Leap Year One and I hope to get it ready for a first draft by March or April or something like that.

So I have a lot to be happy about. And yet so many other things are nagging at me.

Continue reading 2017 state of things

the state of things

I gave up my blog for nearly a year so I could write a bunch of monologues. As with most of my ventures these days, it ended with a sense of ambivalence. I wrote some good stuff, I wrote some bad stuff. I pretended song lyrics were monologues during FAWM. I wrote part of a NaNoWriMo novel in first person, pretending those were monologues. I delved a bit into my own battles with depression, a thing I keep meaning to write about but end up not doing because, of course, I don’t think it’s worthy of your time. (Then again, this is my blog, and if you’re reading it then you obviously have devoted time to it.) It’s funny; in my teens and part way into my 20s I spent a lot of time being open and introspective about my own life. I’d write tons of material on Diaryland and LiveJournal–completely open for people to read (which got me in trouble a couple of times). I did it so much that I realized I was being repetitious and I guess I decided I didn’t like that. Not for me, per se, but for you, the reader, whomever you may be. My repetitions were usually negative in nature and being repetitious about how I’m bad at dating or how I suck because I don’t want to go out ever ground me down like a weathered rock on a riverbed. Polished, but dull, lacking edges. Same as all the other rocks.

So later on I just gave up writing things. I decided to be introspective in my own head. Folks, that’s not the best idea. Ideas in your head roll around forever, they get stuck there, trapped in your consciousness until you let them out. And I’ve always been a man who needed an outlet, especially for my creativity, which tends to diffuse sadness or depression vis a vis working distraction. Taking my problems and internalizing them to the extent that I have been has only pulled me down, in ways I didn’t know I could be pulled. I’m still climbing out of that pit. Writing monologues was an excuse to be creative every day, to try and inhabit another person’s mind for at least an hour or two a day. Truth is, some days I forgot and had to make up for them later. Other days I didn’t want to get out of bed. And then around June my job got so busy that I didn’t really have the energy to devote to writing monologues, so I stopped prematurely. Not bothered by that one bit. I wrote 267 monologues! That’s nothing to sneeze at. (Sneeze at? Did I just make that up?)

Point is: I think my goal for this blog now is to continue being introspective, to be honest with myself, and to write about my life in a way that, I hope, is accessible to everyone who cares to read it. Because I always want an audience, but I think the audience wants to see me be honest with them, and not hide. On the other hand: I hate when I talk about what this blog is about. Who fucking cares. It’s a goddamn blog. It could be about my favorite hot dogs, who gives a shit? Just write you big dummy.

trapped in camas

My friends Nate and Bailey got married this past Saturday. Weddings are great, they bring a lot of people together to celebrate the prospect of true love. You get to watch two people stand in front of many humans (and, for some, God) and declare that goddammit, they are going to try to spend their lives together and make babies and fret about mortgage payments and maybe the guy one day when he’s 45 goes out and buys a scooter and the wife is like, “A scooter? Really?” and they have an argument about it but after he buys it anyway she finds out that she secretly kind of likes riding on it with him on cool summer nights. They get old, they die having spent the majority of their adult lives near each other. They are in love, or whatever love is when you’re that old. Some kind of antediluvian force beyond love at that point. This is arguably one of the greatest pinnacles of achievement for mankind: long-term monogamy. Even if you’re not into the concept, you have to agree that it’s a fucking ballsy choice to make, to decide to spend your life with one person, come hell or highwater. So for that, I like weddings.

However, being single, what I like more are wedding receptions because there is booze and dancing. The reception was held at Bailey’s father’s house in Camas, Washington. You’re probably asking yourself, “Where is Camas, Washington?” and I will tell you: I have no idea. I don’t think I ever will know. I’m not even sure it existed prior to someone telling me about it. It may very well be the Brigadoon of towns in Washington. For far too long, however, I was stranded there. But I get ahead of myself. Continue reading trapped in camas