If I was a movie character I would be Rambo, no doubt.
The only way I can feel relaxed around men is when they are threatening to kill me.
Just today someone who had previously said he would curb stomp me then put me out of my misery with a bullet to the brain stem invited me for tacos.
I don’t enjoy being treated poorly but it makes me feel safe. I know what is expected of me. Compliance. In other contexts I don’t know how to function and start to panic. Like really panic.
First my kidneys seize up, then my brain shuts down. This isn’t good in social contexts because healthy people expect you to have a brain. They want you to be Captain of your Ship.
And I’m trying to rewire my brain into Captain Consciousness. But right now it freezes, scans for threats, monitors emotions & tries to glean the wills of other people so they can be followed. Cause it’s seized up in terror, especially around men and the nicer they are the worse the terror gets.
Nice guys feel like a dark fun house where the room is empty and silent and you don’t know which wall the clown is going to come busting through. The longer you have to wait, the worse the terror grows. Pins and needles until finally the clown pops to attack you. Now you can release a blood curdling scream and feel the pain of getting bludgeoned in the head, but regardless being attacked by a clown beats waiting to get attacked by one.
If I’m around a nice guy for extended periods of time, I become unable to move afterwards due to prolonged anxiety. First the kidneys seize, then the brains freeze, then the limbs. This state can last for hours or a day.
And its impossible to relax in his presence. Much less do the things expected of a modern woman like having a will and voice of your own. But these expectations are ridiculous. Can a man know what flavor of ice cream he wants while staring into the eyes of a cobra and trying to sway in just the right way to appease him? He wants whatever flavor the cobra wants because he is the cobra’s little bitch. Every human is a little bitch when they’re waiting for clowns to pop.
Nice guys feel like a tightrope stretched over the Grand Canyon. You know you’re going to make a misstep. Why not plunge to your death now and get it over with?
Missteps are certain because you don’t know the rules. They aren’t the rules you are used to, where doing & saying as little as possible is gold star behavior. Nice guys are fucking demanding. They want you to know your mind, express your mind, run your own business, be a cowgirl. Don’t take shit from no one, have a personality and know how to make your jeep jump like a frog.
Assholes only need you to not contradict them. Let them yell at you without defending yourself. Go into deep freeze mode so you can absorb quantities of anger without getting angry back. Blur out your brain so words wash over you like water. This is my skill set. But nice guys don’t value these skills. Good luck pleasing them.
And when you add to this the fact that the whole nice guy thing is probably an act and a woman eating lizard is going to bust out of his skin at any moment, you can see why they jack up my anxiety.
However, I am actively training my brain to be more positive. To believe in good things & seek them out. Because we won’t know how magical life is unless we look for magic & that all starts with believing. Or at least being open.
Yes, yes, my kidneys say, but also listen to this rhyme I just wrote!
What is a man but a clown in the dark? Who clown clubs your head then jerks off in a park?
Sometimes it is hard to write songs or even blog posts because I lose myself so easily and then I’m not on the right wavelength to tap the muse I want to tap.
And I know why. Because I have certain traits that aren’t socially acceptable, but when I detach from these traits I lose myself and have nothing to say.
There is a pressure to be everything at once but you can’t be. You have to pick your poison and then align with those people who can accept you as you are.
I have certain traits that are socially unacceptable- such as talking about dicks too much- but these traits are actually to cover up a set of traits even more socially unacceptable.
I read in a book once that everyone has a fake personality designed to cover their true weaknesses and this is definitely true for me. The bold act meek & the meek act bold.
Supposedly though, if you drop your compensating mask & allow your true self to shine through you will get much luckier. That is what I read in the book. But in my case it is easier said than done since my true self is a clear blob. How can I express that?
Anyway, let’s talk about sausages. They are my safe place.
What is a sausage?
To me, a sausage is a paradise. The feeling of a moment stretching out in all directions. That bubble of eternity is one link on the sausage chain.
Or sometimes a sausage is a world set apart from other worlds. You are in the ocean and everything is blue, the ocean and the sky, like a blue pearl. That pearl is one link on the sausage chain.
I used to think women contained worlds and men lived inside them. But now I’m wondering if it is the reverse and all realities are created inside men’s dicks plus the dicks of giant men who live in the sky.
Men seem like magical beings to me, for better or worse.
They can change your sense of yourself until you are certain you are a worm.
Or they can lift you out of this world altogether into a link of the sausage chain you have never seen before.
Either way, don’t panic. There is a new link behind every bend and the chain goes on forever.
Hi…. You know I am realizing one of my huge problems in life is being too hyper and impatient. I can’t bear taking more than 5 minutes to record a song & during that time I also managed to destroy a frying pan I really loved by setting it on fire, losing one bowl of macaroni and cheese by dropping it on the floor, one box of straws by dropping it on floor and breaking my headphones all because I couldn’t resist trying to eat dinner and record at the same time. And I melted a grill lighter on a lit stovetop.
The world was cold there was no easy place. The world was flat nowhere to hide. The winds would blow in a disorienting way, Then they’d grow still from time to time.
The people run to you with smiles upon their faces Then they twirl and disappear into a hat. You were supposed to know which words were true And which ones you should not believe but how could you know that?
The grass was green a checkerboard that never ended. The men were tall and thin like stilts. They danced so fancy with their bodies twirled and bended Then they’d tip their hat and like a leaf they’d wilt.
They left green hearts upon the grass where you could see them But it wasn’t clear what any of them meant. Reach down to touch one and it disappears beneath your hand But maybe that was never their intent.
The sun would rise while you were still asleep To fill the air with yellow clowns. Their yellow faces through your sleepy eyes looked queer And so you’d close your eyes and lie back on the ground.
You’d wait til noon when you could see the men come running On their skinny legs beneath the happy sun. Maybe I’ll watch them dance and clap for them for one more day A seal inside their yellow tent of fun.
But when the night came there was no relief. It poured down like a jet black wave. You shook with cold and an emotion much like grief As though your feelings made a difference to a bear inside his cave.
The stars were shining but too far away to hear you And the greatest bear was nowhere to be found. You tried to think there must be something that you missed But all your thoughts would squirt then dribble to the ground.
So close your eyes and let the memories come back To spread like ink upon a page. It could be that life is just a dream that we can’t understand And you must lie unmoving while the stars dance in their cage.
I shouldn’t be sad. I’m having the “You have no place in this world to call home” transit and everything is happening as God intended but still….
There is no place in this world to call home.
The weird part is in the absence of any home how much my life has expanded.
I just got ‘home’ from performing on two different stages and walking around downtown by myself at night. Walking thru sketchy areas at night has become a slight addiction. Why do they say you’re not supposed to do that? So far I haven’t found out.
But I wonder if this growth is leading anywhere or if life will be a never ending series of random events and people. I should be patient since it’s only been a month and a half since I moved out and the first month was spent trying not to die of heartbreak.
It’s just that there is no one to tell anything to. Not that there really was before since James didn’t like me to talk. But even writing in journals to yourself feels different when you are part of a home and a family. I can’t really write in journals anymore because I’m too unsettled and at the same time have more happiness than ever before.
If happiness means a high and fluttery feeling.
But I also had happiness in my old life when I would cry in bed everyday. It was a different kind of happiness though, like the way you feel in a soft pink egg. Even in sadness there was a feeling of peace.
Our spirit is made of fire and air. It propels us outwards & forwards, towards people and the future. Our soul is made of water and earth, a soft gooey dough that absorbs all experiences. Happy or sad, all experiences become meaningful when they encounter the soul’s soft body.
In my old life my spirit was trapped. Now it’s free. Yet my soul is nowhere to be found. Friends are not family. You can’t cry around them and if you do it’s some big fucking deal where you have to apologize afterwards. You can’t share the minutia of life that is the soul’s food. You can’t gorge on donuts and sink into a coma. You have to be on and up. Fire & air.
And I’m grateful for the newness. But it’s hard to settle down. I dance all the time. Sometimes I run rather than walk. Without a soul, you have so much energy.
But this is my predestined time of wandering the earth like a spirit. I need to make the best of my “There is no place for you to call home” transit and have faith that life will eventually congeal.
In astrology, the sun is your spirit and the moon is your soul. My moon lives in the house of marriage so getting unmarried was disruptive soul-wise. However, there is a little trick with this placement where it can also mean having an emotional relationship with The Public, a gooey blob of unknown minds.
So in the absence of a James, I started sharing minutia from my life on facebook. Which caused people to attack me for being an attention seeking whore. But I blocked them for being stupid. Because it isn’t attention the moon craves. It’s ooey gooey connection.
It’s not so much circumstances that are bugging me out as the questions… is love real, is home real, is anything real? What is there in life that weighs more than paper? I thought I would have a family in eternity. I even thought my house would be with me in heaven. When I was painting its walls, I felt I was building something permanent.
When I was moving out on my own what I wanted most of all was for my new life to be airy.
When I was married life was not airy at all. My husband did not like to interact with me. But I wasn’t supposed to interact with anyone else either. He said if I left the house I would get murdered so I stayed at home. Receiving a message from someone or just a random email was the highlight of my week. There were pros and cons to this sort of life.
But now, my life is nothing but messages from strangers. Two hundred a day. What is it called when winds rip people apart until they die with bits of them flying everywhere? That is what’s happening to me.
There are ebay messages, herbal messages, music messages, lawyer messages, messages about wizzles and fizzles, messages from men, messages from women.
Two hundred messages a day and I’m making two hundred dollars a month. This seems off somehow.
My friend made a match.com account as me which I think is hilarious. She pretends to be me and then forwards people she likes to the real me. I like the part where she interacts with them better. I’m too mentally overwhelmed to respond to anyone. Even the people I meet I can hardly remember their names and faces. Hi it’s Chris! Oh yeah, Chris, of course. You build houses. No, I’m the Chris that flies planes. Busy girl.
But I’m not a busy girl. I’m a girl whose brain is being electrocuted with random inputs from all directions. Meanwhile there is nothing solid in my life. I want to visit my dogs again. But if I get arrested there will be no one to bail me out.
Ten thousand winds but nothing solid. No feeling either. The other day I walked by a man who was on the floor with a hurt foot. “Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.” I said “Oh are you really?” he asked in a relieved voice. “No, I’m joking.” I said with a laugh. Two minutes later reality hits and I realize I sounded like a total psychopath. This will be another black mark added to my reputation of cruelty and violence. But I’m not a psychopath. Everything is just so airy it starts to seem unreal. So many words. So many people. No way to assemble my bookcase because my wrist still doesn’t work from the last time James squirted me over with dishsoap and pushed me into a wall.