puritanical as f

I'm thankful.

the disconnect

my mom and I have an unconventionally open and honest relationship, and she has turned out to be my most dependable and loyal friend. sure, we went through the terrible teens together, riding out the speed bumps of regular angst and then in turn the subsequent and terrible chemo-angst. now, we talk nearly every day, and we're just as likely to compare notes on our boyfriend's penis size over cocktails and a joint as we are to discuss mortality and spirituality, the latter of which I tend to steer clear of due to my generally agnostic point of view. (naturally, phallic conversations are common fodder.)

I feel very lucky to have a mother who is and always has been more of a friend than a maternal influence, and I did get a different kind of nurturing from her mother, who was my nana. although she is no longer around, the time that she spent caring for me helped me become a more compassionate person, and helped me keep faith in hope without smothering me with the catholic evangelism that was so prevalent in my childhood education. nana was, in addition to being an impossibly loving and strong woman, absolutely fucking hilarious. she was herself a god fearing, church going, hibernian tea party curator who pin curled her hair every day and never, ever let anyone in the family see her without her dentures in. she also regularly coined catch phrases such as, "if you can't eat it, and you can't have sex with it, piss on it."

at least I know where I came from.

when I talked to my mom yesterday morning as I was frantically hoofing it to the salon, she brought up the spirit-body disconnect. when she gets all hippie-dippy on me I usually just let her talk until she exhausts herself on the subject, but this time I listened carefully to her speak about the toll it takes on our souls to disallow the two to remain in sync. it seemed abundantly clear all of the sudden, even though the dilemma has been right in my mixed up midst... I am so far away from myself, and so unbelievably distant from being present.

even as I move forward with my life after the disaster that was "two thousand-great", even as I wake up every morning and get dressed and try to feign productivity, this is not the life I want to lead. I don't want to wake up at 4 in the morning, hungover and with a smoker's cough, looking eagerly forward to my next distraction. one night stands are not a comfort, and having an affair with my ex is not fulfilling. haunting local bars and nightclubs is a pastime for a reason, yet I've gone right back to it as if I'd never left. the only difference is that a year on birth control ensured that none of my old party clothes fit quite right anymore. why am I denying my spirit what she deserves? there is only so much I can control, but I feel like I relinquished it all when I felt so defeated over the summer, sedentary in that familiar low that I that I hoped would stay far at bay. I'm missing even just the basics; a body that is healthy, a mind that is marginally sound, a dignity that I haven't honored in such a long time. I know that somewhere I lost my way, and it's hard not to dwell on discouraging thoughts that I have wasted another entire year. if this idea terrifies me so much, why is it so hard to get off of my ass and do something? why am I still loyally boomeranging back to the very things that I know break me down? if I can't save me, no one is going to.

though I only know of a couple of people that even read these ramblings, I feel naked posting these thoughts. I've even lied to myself recently about how well I am adjusting and moving ahead, just to keep momentum after being stuck for such a long time. it could be worse, and I know that well, but it could be so much better. there are changes that I want and need to make, not to get back where I was before I fell astray, but to the next destination. right now, for me, that is new york. I haven't left california for two years, and I'm ready to get feel good lost.

I'm coming to terms with my two steps forward turning out to merely be damage control rather than a solution. when I come back, I hope I'll be refreshed. I hope I'll be ready. I'm lucky to be here, and I need to start acting like it.

sleep tight tiger

I am so restless. insomnia came back to visit uninvited, and some nights are rife with bad dreams. I thought I was done with that, at least for a while. I'm again beginning to see light in my old crusade against loneliness. it's getting cold, and the bed is too.

disenchantment and the full steam ahead

I am both happy and weary, this fall. every day seems to hold bright new avenues and airy possibilities offering glittery olive branches my way, but my neuroses can't seem to rest long enough for me to believe that the sky might not fall on my head. the canvas of my life holds glorious smears of excitement, and I am starting to feel like myself again after having been down so long, up wasn't even on the radar anymore. my unwavering hope prevailed yet again, but I still feel a little bit stifled and directionless. I suppose that in a broad sense, I've been "now what"-ing ever since I went into remission. and then my mother would argue that I've been procrastinating since I was fetal, even refusing to come out of the womb on time. it's not just maybelline. I was born with that shit.

everything seems to be somewhat organized despite minor hickups, and my house is becoming a home to me and the kitty. I've finished training at the new salon job and re-pinked my hair, I've been pussyfooting around the dating pool again (avoiding the deep end, of course), and I'm still plugging away with mcsweeney's. I'm buying my tickets to new york for the first week of december, and I've bought 5 new coats. (the better to not freeze my ass off with.) and yet, I am still a bit dissatisfied. my honest educated guess is that I would feel much more fulfilled if I spent my free time creating instead of drinking and perpetuating my tramp-age. so much of my time is wasted purely because I feel pointlessly victorious for getting away with it.

and then there's jon, yes, I miss him. I wish I didn't. this breakup was technically my first, and I'm still bewildered by how strange and foreign it is to lose a best friend, although I know that everyone else on the planet has experienced the same and survived, and some even come out better for it. my best friend lives 4 blocks away, but hasn't been to my apartment. my best friend sleeps with his new/old girlfriend, and I sleep with rufus. is it odd that I consistently wrap my head around these things and have to pry and struggle to let go? it isn't as if we were remotely "working".

blarf.

at any rate, I am accentuating the positive. I am almost ready... but for what I don't know. hopefully it is to be the change I want to see.

here are some photos from the infamous election week, aka baracktoberfest:

















some photos borrowed from lydia w.'s flickr.

yes we muthafuckin' CAN!

last night was INSANE. I have never seen anything like it. I made out with a guy with a face tattoo. and I did it... for obama.

thank the fuck christ.

...

my nailbeds are already bleeding and the polls are still open.

still waiting

last night, I dreamt of jorge for the first time in over a year. I started awake before dawn and frantically tried to fall asleep again to chase him back to that ephemeral plane, and only succeeded in riling myself up beyond any shadow of an unconscious possibility. the dream was astonishingly vivid, two years seeming to reduce to a blip on a radar, suddenly my senses filled up with him like a hot air balloon, and I found myself bombarded by the simplest idiosyncrasies that I used to take for granted.

I wonder sometimes if I'll ever love as fiercely, as unconditionally, as purely and recklessly as with my first love. we were a force, and we were unstoppable. I still pore over the last night I saw him, the sharp white lines, bottomless drinks, seedy bars, mist underneath street lamps, and tear stained faces smearing in an alleyway in the tenderloin. when he left me there, I'd thrown my arms around his neck and squeezed my eyes shut tight, praying for a miracle, even a small one, a changed mind. I had no idea.

our friend passed us and flippantly asked why we were embracing as if we'd never see each other again. he told her to stop being so dramatic.

during the wake, I called aaron from a bathroom floor, mopping up my torrent of tears with a black skirt, holding my finger over a lit candle to make sure I could still feel. my skin bubbled. my voice was muffled and childlike, slow and cracking like an old recording, foreign even to myself. terrifyingly numb, I asked him, "how am I ever going to get through this?", and he'd said, "honestly, kid? you'll wake up every morning and lie to yourself. you will tell yourself you are alright. and one day, you'll wake up, and it will be true."