You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Confusion’ category.
I’d forgotten how hard blogs are. There’s a story to tell and I keep thinking it’s about Nepal. I should be writing about Nepal. I am supposed to be writing The Nepal Story, after all. So, why can I not write about Nepal?
I was once told by my mentor to trust my instincts when piecing a narrative together, meaning I shouldn’t be so arrogant as to think I can manhandle an experience if I don’t let it unfold. My story hasn’t even unfolded yet. I want to write a redemption story that hasn’t happened, so it’s no wonder I can’t write about it. Truth be told, mine is probably not a redemption story anyway. Deep down, I know Nepal as a requisite transformative experience will be dark because, when reduced to its smallest divisible parts, Nepal is all in my head.
And there’s a writer in there, too, who refuses to shut the hell up.
From a distance, a shadowed mirage is waving at me like a summer heat reflection on hot pavement and this passage comes back to me:
Despite our best intentions, we forget the dead.
Do they forget us? Jane Summer, “Erebus”
So. Leigh “Bindo” Binder*, if you refuse to die, I’ll just have to kill you off in a mediocre poem that’s an apology as much as a lament.
When the stem drooped and the petals died,
Sleeping beauty sleep
I awoke to gold
Light too bright
You offered me a dim corner
You and I shared caramelized melancholy
Like cotton candy
Adolescent sweetness, the things that grew in our heads
Restless dreams like your cigarette smoke
From a few thousand miles away
Choke me awake
Weighed together like stone
Bound and pull down like some English great, we weren’t built for this life
But mostly: Have we lived our eternity?
*Leigh Binder was a friend and fellow writer, who died two years ago leaving only his writing and YouTube videos (https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC-43KL2khFHhJ-LmRqA-y2A) to haunt me.
I went back to read your words
But they aren’t there
They aren’t to be found
The website says
There’s nothing there
Was there ever?
If I can’t read the words
I can’t be sure I ever knew you
You always knew I was of flightly, flimsy flesh
So why take the words from me
Why is there nothing there?
This Medicated Lady is thinking irrationally again.
I’ve been considering a diet consisting only of those flavored ice pops
especially the blue ones
the ones I like the least
No one but me looks forward to a psychotic break
It occurred to me that I’m tired of being medicated
tired of being in need of medication
tired of being in need
tired of being
Right is what’s right
right as opposed to wrong
right as opposed to left
right as opposed to write
write as opposed to rite
It makes sense.
It’s happened. A continuation of a saga I thought was as over as it was going to be.
Maybe it’s predictable. But the wind is knocked out of me and I feel as though my life depends on how I recover my breath.
My ex-boyfriend emailed me, asking how the world was treating me. When I saw his name in my inbox, I started shaking. I felt like crying. Now, I’m just shaken.
How long have I wanted to hear from him. How long have I wanted to tell him off. How long did I ache because of him. I still want to tell him off, but I do not want to open Pandora’s Box. It is a bitch to close. I resent this shit being brought up again. Let me do a brief refresher: My ex was an asshole. He told me in bed that he had no affection to give me. But apparently he had other sinister things to give, which have since cleared up, but who can forgive someone for making them skank.
And so since I’m trying to stay in my right mind and not having a knee-jerk reaction, Bryan has encouraged me to take this to my blog and faithful readers. And I will say this: Bryan is probably one of my biggest supporters when it comes to the menfolk. He does understand that there is a lot of first-hand learning that must go on in a girl’s life. He also said this is a good thing because even though I am stunned, this gives me a chance to control “closure.”
- No response. Stony silence.
- “Well, ex-boyfriend, the world recently told me in bed the other day that it had no affection for me and then gave me a STD.”
- Part 1: “Fuck.”
- Part 2: “You.”
- Nothing. No stony silence, no tell-off. Just be strong and leave it be. I’m not sure I’m strong enough.
- “The world is treating me great.”
- “The world is treating me great since I got the restraining order.”
- “Well, to tell you the truth, there are no sunshine and rainbows. Let me catch you up to speed: a friend of mine got jumped by a grizzly bear and a “grizzly bear” if you know what I mean, I suffered the loss of my aunt, I have had approximately 1.5 mental breakdowns since we last spoke and approximately 1.5 of them were a direct result of you, I hate peas. I have had a guy leave the country without telling me, had one who wanted to cuddle, one who is very available, one who emailed what is the most confusing rejection slip I’ve ever gotten (to be highlighted soon on this blog, if I get bored), one who was leaving the country to go fight in Afghanistant when I met him, and one who is a therapist…”
- “I’m not going there with you.” (This was his response whenever I wanted to talk about horrible things like feelings and meaning.)
- Send a link to this blog so that technically all responses are delivered.
- Any ideas? Thoughts of encouragement? Truly, I would love your input and I can assure you I have affection for you, dear reader, and I will not give you a STD.
I swallow a deep sob because some things are best swallowed. That’s not dirty, swallowing. Take it down, your medicine.
Kind words make me sad because I can feel the hard edges of them. I can feel the tenderness of my own soul, and I wish I was just a hair harder. Which makes no sense because hair breaks very easily but there is nothing that can be done to make it stronger. It’s already dead.
My aunt died. She’s dead, not dying. I wasn’t around much when she was just living.
What I remember most is how her blue eyes welled with tears when she was in pain and lonely. At the funeral, did they cry for her or did they cry for me? I didn’t go to the visitation. I didn’t want to see her dead. I’d seen her plenty when she was dying. They said she looked as though she were smiling. What I remember are tears that they didn’t see her shed. And then at the funeral, I saw their tears, too, and realized I am maybe only witness to her dying and her death. Her collapse and theirs.
This isn’t a poem, only a thought. This isn’t broken, this is breaking.
At the funeral
it was brief
my unmuffled sobs
They were all doing fine
not a sound
and then at the end
my shoulders shook
until everyone’s shoulders shook
At the funeral
they had their suffering too
and then at the end
and shoulders that shook
I think I may have lost my mojo. I’m almost sure I had it at one point. I think I might have been sexy once. Way back, last summer, maybe. The most alluring thing about me now is my side bang, which hangs ever so seductively in my face and sometimes gets in my eye, forcing me to twitch.
I told this guy I was a klutz and he was amused. If only he knew.
I go to my Inbox and it’s empty and then I know for sure I don’t have it anymore. I may actually be flattered if ever I am the subject of a catcall by construction workers. I might even smile.
I am thinking I need to make another mistake, shake myself up a bit. Even if it’s not right, I need something real, in the flesh. I need something not-numb. This is what’s called maladaptive behavior, and I like it.
when the temperature is low is it cold for everyone else I’m susceptible to dehydration ant bites fainting light-headedness allergies hypochondria sadness dry skin picking men who are not good for me good humor plump lips squinty eyes being ensnared height jokes ageism ticking you