restore from saved game y/n

The summer is pretty much over at this point. I feel like the past month has flown by. I've felt a lot better mentally and physically, despite brutal allergies and trouble sleeping.

Good things have just been dumped in my lap lately. My parents decided they wanted to buy me a new MacBook and some school clothes. I sent an email out to my bike club offering my old linux box to the first taker, and Alex at West Town offered to trade me a bike for it, which is fantastic. My Specialized Globe has been way too big for me for a while, and the back wheel is pretty damaged from getting doored back in May, so riding has been hell on my knees lately.

Orientation for graduate school was Wednesday. There were a few people in my class I am really looking forward to getting to know, and the classes should be quite challenging. I was flabbergasted to win a small scholarship. I know I deserved it. I've been through a hell of a lot and it is going to make me a hell of a witch. (The herb room at school is SO Hogwarts.)

I'm trying to hold on to some confidence, but I'm pretty overwhelmed. I know there are a lot of people who expect great things from me, and I am afraid of letting them down. Still, I know I am a dedicated and capable student. I know that the past few years of perceived failure were necessary to make me re-evaluate the way I related to myself and to other people. I know that I am still the same person I was 10 years ago, and also that I am completely different.

I'm not fucked-up. I'm not crazy. I might suffer from a really unpleasant set of chronic health problems, but I am still a kind and loving person who has much to offer. Other people don't pity me; they are proud of me.

I'm still terrified. Mostly afraid that it will be physically too much for me. Afraid that I won't be able to pay attention, afraid that my smarts have vanished. At this point I know it's just a matter of being patient and letting this new role take hold. I feel a lot like I did 11 years ago when I started at Rhodes. The world just got way bigger and it's a little scary.

I'm using my scholarship money to build a new fixed-gear and get it pimped out for winter. I got a new iPod and a microphone attachment so I can record my classes, since my the nerve grafts in my hand have now started to extend into my fingers and writing may become extremely unpleasant. I had a meeting with the assistant Dean to make sure that I'll be able to get up and stretch and walk around the building if my fibro makes sitting still in class for 4 hours too painful. I get acupuncture for 15 bucks, and I will be getting as much as I can, especially this first month of class.

In a lot of ways I feel like I've been given a chance to start over, but not all the way at the beginning. I get to go back to where things went wrong with total knowledge of what I need to do to win and start from there.

Level up.

Poem for Monday

Poem for Monday, August 25, 2008

Birth

by Louise Erdrich

When they were wild

When they were not yet human

When they could have been anything,

I was on the other side ready with milk to lure them,

And their father, too, each name a net in his hands.

Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

wathcing mad max is making me thirsty

I push myself too hard, testing my limits. I went on a bike camping trip this weekend with the Rat Patrol, decided to take a trailer so I could bring a chair to sit in. I'd started to get a cold the day before we left but went anyway, telling myself I needed the experience. you know, there's only two weeks left of my summer vacation, it'll be better than sitting at home on a Saturday night, you haven't been camping in 15 years, etc, etc.

I puked twice, once on the way (about 2.5 hours from the meet-up point), once after we got there and I blew up the sleeping mat. I tried really hard not to be a whiny, cranky bitch. I managed to stay up and be social for a few hours. There was some lovely veggie chili and some singing around the campfire, but being the only person not drinking, I was bored and sleepy pretty soon after dark. Went to bed at about 10, slept fitfully with earplugs in, constantly woken by the bugs and the festivity and the dampness creeping into my pillow. I was almost delirious with fatigue when I left in the morning, around 11. The trip home through the suburbs was mostly bike trails, quite beautiful, and I was totally miserable almost 3 hours later when I got home. Too much weight for me to pull, especially on a one-speed.

I'm physically incapable of taking naps, so I spent most of the day yesterday in a haze of dizzy misery until I finally fell asleep around 10.

Today I have a brutal cold and am restless, but too wobbly to really move. I'm on my third movie of the day.

I want to say the trip was worth it for the time spent with friends, but I was so self-conscious about being a wet blanket that it was hard to relax, not to mention I was too out of it to enjoy the beautiful scenery.

Having a fragile constitution seems to make loneliness more painful because I barely remember what it was like to have Big Wild Fun, so I grab any chance I can get to hang out with my friends, even if I have to duck out early. I try to be mindful of how lucky I am to have all my needs met, to be able to walk and ride a bike, to live unassisted.

I saw a urologist and had a cystoscopy done. it was the singular most unpleasant experience of my life, rather like losing my virginity. I made it through my staring at this poster.

there's nothing visibly wrong with my bladder, so at least I don't have interstitial cystitis, but the doctor (who talked to me for under 3 minutes) just gave me the name of yet another specialist to see. I'm opting not to. I will just hope the pain goes away. Resign myself to it. Never, ever, ever have sex again.

Days like this when I am totally run-down it's hard to keep learning from all this. I just want to be comforted and I don't see it happening any time soon. I just have to keep on making it through a day at a time. Until what, I don't know.

"brazilian" black bean soup

I have no idea if this recipe is authentically Brazilian, but it's a modification (inasmuch as I never really use recipes and am pulling this out of my ass) of one given to me by a friend in high school.


1 small yellow onion
1-2 big fat cloves of garlic
1-2 cups carrots, in bite sized chunks
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
1-2 bay leaves
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 tsp oregano
1 can black beans, undrained
1 small orange
1 cup water or vegetable broth
salt and pepper to taste


Cut the onion in half, then into finger-thick slices, then line those up sideways and cut them into dice-sized pieces.

Heat a small saucepan over a medium-high flame and add the oil. When the pan is hot, slide in the onions, carrots and the bay leaves.

Meanwhile, mince the garlic. You can do this with the tines of a fork, mashing it into a juicy paste.

When the onions start to turn translucent with a little bit of brown, add the garlic and cumin and stir vigorously for about a minute.

Pour in the water and the black beans. Stir and cover, reducing the heat the medium. It should simmer but not boil for about 8 minutes.

Squeeze the orange into a glass, removing the seeds but conserving some of the pulp and add to the pot. Leave the pot uncovered so some of the liquid will evaporate.

Cook until the carrots are tender but not mushy.

Add salt and pepper until it tastes right to you.


Top with chopped green onions or sour cream, if you feel like dairy.
Don't forget the Sriracha, or better yet, chipotle Tabasco.
Serve over brown rice, polenta, (yellow grits), quinoa, or with warm corn tortillas.

You can add red bell peppers, corn, lima beans, substitute sweet potatoes for carrots, throw in crumbled smoked tofu, whatever...

how strange it is to be anything at all

I start my internship at Yoga Now today, and I am looking forward to spending a few hours washing their baseboards and listening to new age music. with possible top 40 r&b dance breaks. After that, I am deep cleaning my dear friends' house, which is pretty dank due more to landlord negligence than too much slobbery on their part.

There is something so purifying to spend hours cleaning, especially when you use nothing but peroxide, Citra-solv and peppermint Dr Bronner's. Peppermint's cooling scent soothes my constant summer headache and loosens my asthma-tightened lungs

It's not as effortless for me as it was back in 2002, when I first started doing green cleaning back home. I have to be especially patient because my wrist and hand are still very stiff and can't be used to do more than supporting and guiding of light weights.

My life has a pattern to it now, even if it's just as simple as wake up, go sit by the water and meditate for 25 minutes (I can't say I actually meditate for more than a few seconds at a time, but I sit in easy peace for the whole time) and then see where the day takes me from there.

There are disappointments and obstacles in every day, but I seem to have recovered a steady footing. It's as easy as taking a deep breath and knowing it's not the end of the world.

The urologist put me on an anti-spasmodic, and between that, the Marinol, and the tryptophan, I'm able to actually look forward to things again.

My nurse practitioner at the queer clinic was kind enough to write me a Marinol prescription today. It's prohibitively expensive, but it leveled off the pain within an hour with minimal spaciness and I was finally able to stop crying. As far as cost, even with the fantastic discount I got through the clinic, it's comparable to the Weed Maintenance Program, without the excruciating claustrophobia and mind-on-a-hamster-wheel thinking, but I am hopeful I can find a website that sells it cheaper. it's certainly a better option than going back on Lyrica or Cymbalta. so far as I can tell the only side effect is increased appetite. I dropped down to 117 last week, what I weighed in high school, because I've had such problems with nausea and anxiety about eating, so I'm looking forward to being a little less gaunt.

I went to the temple to do work practice. Sat for a while and was delighted to be greeted mid-sit by the nun's cat, who has snuck out of living quarters. The idea of being able to bring Tachi with me if I one day choose to live in a temple or monastery setting hadn't occurred to me and now I find myself already longing to take up residence there when my lease is up. I somehow doubt my parents would approve, so I'd have to work out a way to pay for my rent, but it's a lovely daydream to have.

Even after just two days of adhering to a regular practice I feel so much more at peace. it was
such a pleasant experience to chant the Heart Sutra (as unfamiliar as it is in Korean) and then to work in the garden for an hour. I learned so much from just weeding.

it's good to have hope again, to have a place to take refuge.

I spent several hours yesterday at the Zen Temple yesterday. The early service was two 25 minute sittings separated by a brief chanting of the three refuges in Korean, followed by a Dharma talk.

I was disconcerted by my complete inability to stop crying. I have been really emotionally worn out these past 24 hours, after overdoing it physically Friday and Saturday. After the service we had tea downstairs. One of the members struck up a conversation with me as we washed out our tecups, and when he noticed my distress he told me I could go sit back upstairs in the temple. I sat up there and sobbed for probably half an hour. Sometimes there is nothing else to do but sit and keep my pain company. I try not to judge it or let it overwhelm me. I sat and looked at the Buddha statue and let the pain flow through me.

I went back later in the day for the afternoon service, which is just one sitting meditation followed by the three refuges, chanting of Ma-um, and a question and answer session.

It has become very clear to be that the only way to take arms against this sea of troubles is by sitting still and doing nothing at all. My mind is over-run by monkeys and my body is falling apart. I can't go on like this.

Poem for Monday, July 28, 2008

The nightingale sings



by Eqrem Basha



Who is that bird singing on a branch alone
And where is its flock
Which is the plaintive song
And which is the season


That bird has a voice adept
At singing on a solitary branch
No friends no family
It has come to earth on its own
With a flute in its beak and anguish
Which is neither a wound
Nor a song


What is that mourning so near which belongs to us
Sing to us nightingale sing










Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

mantra

I've been singing this song to myself a lot lately.

It's taking a lot of energy and even more faith, but I am finally back in the center of my path, back to where can believe it.

I let things slip back, I neglected my heart, I forgot to gather wood for my campfire and the wolves came and surrounded me.

I am done letting the sickness win.

After some serious bike riding, and a lot of long talks with myself, my shrink, and my friends, and a couple of days of tryptophan supplements, I can finally see the path again. The shadows are lifting.

Yes, there is pain. There is weariness, loneliness, sometimes even deep sadness. But there is also joy, gratitude, and so much love. All these will arise, and all these will be swept away.


Best Critical Mass ever. Thank you, universe. I am being sent such blessings.


(this video sucks, but it's the only one I could find.)

For over half my life I've been battling serious depression. When I'm depressed my mind tends to fixate on things and I worry at them until I feel raw inside. Yesterday I burned the roof of my mouth on my lunch (Wild Trout roasted with Summer Squash and Carrots in garlic and ginger over brown jasmine rice) and today it's been impossible to stop probing the sore place between two of my teeth with my tongue.

My heart is the same way. I want more than I can have, and always from the wrong person. It's very difficult for me to be happy unless I am busy all the time. I haven't really had a job for about 10 months and my mind is starting to consume itself. I spend way too much time fretting about being alone, about possibilities that never existed and never will exist, about being abandoned by people I need and love right now when I need them most.

I have to constantly stop and talk myself down. I burst into tears several times a day. I'm in so much pain from the lack of exercise and the possible interstitial cystitis that I am really struggling to keep my head above water. My pain is so urgent, so present, and I have little to distract me from it. I agonize about what people think of me because of how I am handling this.

Rationally I know that when school starts in a month my life will change drastically. I had been planning to start volunteering at the queer health clinic's thrift store, but it's become very apparent (especially after the grueling experience I just had this weekend at Pitchfork) to me that I'm not able to spend more than 5 or 10 minutes on my feet without a severe increase in discomfort.

I'm trying hard to find people to spend time with. When I can't do that I read at the lake until the horseflies drive me off. I try to remember to breathe.

I've lost my center. I'm alone and in pain so much of the time and my body stays in panic mode until I wear myself out.

God I miss riding a bike.

dog bless tudou

Night. Kate and Angel are sitting side by side outside in the garden court of the Hyperion.
Kate: "I feel like such an idiot."
Angel: "A lot of that going around."
Kate: "I just couldn't... - My whole life has been about being a cop. If I'm not part of the force it's like nothing I do means anything."
Angel, still looking pretty beat up: "It doesn't."
Kate: "Doesn't what?"
Angel: "Mean anything. In the greater scheme or the big picture, nothing we do matters. There's no grand plan, no big win."
Kate: "You seem kind of chipper about that."
Angel: "Well, I guess I kinda - worked it out. If there is no great glorious end to all this, if - nothing we do matters, - then all that matters is what we do. 'cause that's all there is. What we do, now, today. - I fought for so long. For redemption, for a reward - finally just to beat the other guy, but... I never got it."
Kate: "And now you do?"
Angel: "Not all of it. All I wanna do is help. I wanna help because - I don't think people should suffer, as they do. Because, if there is no bigger meaning, then the smallest act of kindness - is the greatest thing in the world."
Kate: "Yikes. It sounds like you had an epiphany."
Angel: "I keep saying that. But nobody's listening."
Kate: "Well, I'm pretty much convinced, since I'm alive to be convinced."
Angel: "You know you don't have to be a cop to be..."
Kate: "I'm okay. - Anyway, I'm not headed towards another pillathon. - I'm very grateful. - I never thought you'd come for me, but... I got cut a huge break and I believe... - I don't know what I believe, but I - have - faith. - I think maybe we're not alone in this."
Angel: "Why?"
Kate: "Because I never invited you in."

Poem for Monday, July 14, 2008

So Many Things

by Guy Goffette

All winter you neglected

the strong red umbrella

let its ribs rust in the grass and mud

let the north wind crush the birdhouse

without uttering a word, you gave up

on the rose beds, the apple

that rounded off the earth.

By indigence or distraction you left,

let so many things die off

the only place to set your gaze

is on the draft slicing through your house

and you’re surprised, still, surprised when

cold seizes you from summer’s very arms

Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

it's been a rough couple of weeks since I had my hand repaired, but I just have to make it until September. just 6 more weeks.

I've been in the grips of a panic attack or surrounded by wolves or consumed by dread or whatever you want to call it for about a week straight. boredom and claustrophobia and pain and insomnia. incessant thoughts about self-injuring. trouble breathing. I can't stop crying.

I make myself leave whenever I can. usually I go to the lake. I read, I cry, I go home and pace and go back out. I am on the verge of explosion.

at least I have the internets again.

Poem for Monday, June 23, 2008

The Will to Divest

by Kay Ryan

Action creates

a taste

for itself.

Meaning: once

you’ve swept

the shelves

of spoons

and plates

you kept

for guests,

it gets harder

not to also

simplify the larder,

not to dismiss

rooms, not to

divest yourself

of all the chairs

but one, not

to test what

singleness can bear,

once you’ve begun.

Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

Poem for Monday, June 9, 2008

Summertime

by George Gershwin and Dubose Heyward

Summertime an’ the livin’ is easy,

Fish are jumpin’ an the cotton is high.

Oh, yo daddy’s rich, an yo mama’s good-lookin’,

So hush, little lady, don’ you cry.

One of these mornin’s you goin’ to rise up singin’,

Then you’ll spread yo wings an’ you’ll take the sky.

But till that mornin’ there’s a-nothin’ can harm you

With Daddy an’ Mammy standin’ by.

Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

Poem for Monday, June 2, 2008

The Sleepless Grape

by Li-Young Lee

Like any ready fruit, I woke

falling toward beginning and

welcome, all of night

the only safe place.

Spoken for, I knew

a near hand would meet me

everywhere I heard my name

and the stillness ripening

around it. I found my inborn minutes

decreed, my death appointed

and appointing. And singing

gathers the earth

about my rest,

making of my heart a way home

the stars hold open.

Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

Poem for Monday on Tuesday, May 27th, 2008

Carry

by Billy Collins



I want to carry you
and for you to carry me
the way voices are said to carry over water.


Just this morning on the shore,
I could hear two people talking quietly
in a rowboat on the far side of the lake.


They were talking about fishing,
then one changed the subject,
and, I swear, they began talking about you.







Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

and sometimes, it lets me breathe

and then there are glorious nights, full of trees and wind and birds and the sound of your breathing and tires whirring on dry pavement.

every moment is an epiphany. over and over the universe is throwing object lessons at me and i try to be grateful and humble and brave. try and fail, mostly. still, i learn as much as i can hold.

every now and then, though, it does let me catch my breath. nights with easy words and laughter and none of the worrying and projecting. even the pain backs off a little. things just happen and i can just sit back and watch myself breathe my way through it.

the lake is vast and i lay next to it feeling my heart thumping almost out of my chest, the city glow scorching the clouds, the water dark and black and heavingly alive. mars was bright. so was my face. i felt like my smile was projecting batsignals onto the clouds. huge scudding shadows the shape of my heart.

i have to believe it keeps getting better.

big pharma is in your face, all the time.

drive slow

My life has slowed to a crawl. I sign the lease on a new apartment tomorrow, closer to the water, to an independent natural food store,, a yoga studio, and to friends. I scan craigslist for jobs I could be physically capable of performing, I read, I bike out to acupuncture once a week, to therapy, and to watch Lost with my best friend here. I drink tea, I try to remember to stretch and shower every day, and I wait for things to get better.

I am rereading Thich Nhat Hanh's biography of the Buddha,Old Path, White Clouds. It's been almost a decade since Zach, may he find peace, first pressed it on me. I can't believe how long ago it seems. I remember being blown away and being fairly gung-ho about Buddhism for several years, although I balked at the precepts prohibiting intoxicants and casual sex. I've been very very lazy in my practice for far too long now, and the suffering has definitely caught up with me.

It has become quite clear to me which path I must follow now, and in many ways, it has been made easier. My social life is no longer based around intoxicants, and I'm no longer interested in sex as a way of escaping/punishing my body. I'm quite lucky, I guess, to have had these desires stripped away, even if it was not my choice.

I am trying to view my pain as a tool to help me prune my life. I can't imagine that plants enjoy being pruned, but when they grow straight and tall, how joyful they are.

Poem for Monday, May 12, 2008

Names







by Lyn Lifshin







Lately I become

whatever you call

me, the way some

Indians do. First

I couldn’t say

your because

it belonged to

someone who’d

turned me into

who I wasn’t.

When you called

me love near the

rag shop on Caroline,

I tried to remember

the spell Iroquois

put on names to

make them stay.














Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

I am tired. I am true of heart! You are tired. You are true of heart!

the pain is my constant companion. sometimes it withdraws a little and I am able to go socialize with the neurotypicals, but for every hour spent in the garage at the lyndale rats' messing with bikes, there are seven hours spent in bed listening to the pain gnaw away at my body, tiny fire ants crazing my bones to dust. worrying about the future and waiting for sleep, and oblivion.

I have reached the point where I no longer remember what it was like before the pain.

I try to tell myself that there is something I must learn from all this, that I am coal being crushed to diamond. Were I to believe in Powers that Be I would be praying for grace and guidance and for whatever wisdom there is to be gleaned from the unrelenting boredom and loneliness to manifest itself in my heart. this is an exercise in trust, and in patience, and in acceptance.

I want to believe that I am not missing out on anything living in the slow lane, hobbling along with my heavy heavy load, I want to believe that I am shedding karma and learning to be true of heart. I want to believe that my suffering will inspire love and compassion in those around me. I want to believe that one day I will be self-sufficient again, that I will be rewarded for these long dark teatimes of the soul, that there is in fact an end to pain.

I can no longer ask for mercy. it has clearly been denied. for now, at least. all I can ask is for patience, and faith. and hope.

may all beings be at peace and free from suffering. and may I one day be one of them.

reading back through old livejournals from 2003, I feel a sort of tender condescension toward my younger self. I cared so much more about what people thought of me, and I hadn't really formed a concept of a future in which I would be alone and ok with it. I was so raw and ripped open still from ending an engagement that I just wanted to have that hole in my chest filled with sand. or removed entirely.

years later, I have grown used to perpetual brokenheartedness. I try to channel my love and pain into a feeling of compassion toward all I encounter, rather than try to pin it on one person as if their wanting me back could be the one thing finally capable of healing me.

my cat sits in the window looking down at the street, flicking his tail at the flies. I wish I could clear my mind enough to live on his level, free from jealousy or hurt or unrequited romantic passion. He seems to spend most of his time in silent contemplation. I suppose I must be earning good karma by supporting him while he lives in comfortable happiness.

I try to tell myself that surely there is something good and bright and shiny in my future but it seems so murky right now.

evertyhing was beautiful, and nothing hurt

my fellow Tennessean, Melissa, has finally put her portfolio up.

scenes of the lovely desolation that is time passed. or time past.



my own life seems to have reached a crisis of hecticity. hecticness. hectickery. hectitude.

i feel like i am in a log rolling contest in crocodile infested waters.
with whiplash.

Poem for Monday, May 5, 2008

For the Dead







by Adrienne Rich







I dreamed I called you on the telephone

to say: Be kinder to yourself

but you were sick and would not answer



The waste of my love goes this way

trying to save you from yourself



I have always wondered about the leftover

energy, water rushing down a hill

long after the rains have stopped



or the fire you want to go to bed from

but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down

the red coals more extreme, more curious

in their flashing and dying

than you wish they were

sitting there long after midnight














Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

xkcd always cheers me up

jalouse

Now that I've made it through the winter and actually have a small posse of friends, accepting my body's limitations takes up more and more of my emotional CPU. Any exertion tends to have me limping within hours and I tend to lose mobility after sundown. I can always ride my bike, but other than than I'm pretty lame. literally.

I miss my body. I look back at past summers and marvel at how much I took for granted. I'd started to have a lot of pain then, but I wasn't nearly as crippled as I am now. I miss being able to stay up late, I miss being able to drink without having my bones transmuted to hot lead the next day, I miss dancing. especially I miss dancing.

it's hard to dance with mermaid feet.

The other thing that preoccupies me lately is dealing with memory loss. yesterday I started reading the sequel to a book I had read a few years ago, and skimming through the synopsis at the beginning I was appalled by how little I remembered. this makes me doubt my ability to do well in grad school. there will be so much to memorize. I used to take so many supplements to slow my brain's deterioration, and they seemed to help, but living on less than 800 a month kind of rules that out.

So I muddle on, taking charity when it's offered, trying to be a good person and fight this bitterness in my heart. but there's a deep and bone-chilling fear that is starting to seep in to everything I do, or think, or dream. I am not going to get better. and realistically, every year I am going to get a little bit worse.

Poem for Monday, April 28th, 2008

Poem in the Night Month

by Beth Ann Fennelly

Now that they've X-rayed

the mummified female crocodile

in the Egypt room in the British Museum,

they've found a baby crocodile, mummified,

inserted far back in her throat.

Just so, little one,

we drift toward the next world.

Our days are numbered.

Strangers will catch your head,

will thumb your eyes back to zero,

will say Welcome to the world, not

the afterworld.

Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

caught up with friends on the way downtown, Adrian from Armitage Bikes, Alex from West Town, a Scalawag on a sweet chopper, and the most awesome green tallbike. the variety is delightful. just as many beatup old schwinns as pistas. seemed like at least half onespeeds now, though. flat city. who needs derailleurs.



rode most of the way with Tracy. it started to pour as we turned off Diversey onto Logan,
and so we rested a while under the right side of the Kennedy/Western/Logan overpass. hundreds of us. cheering and whistling at motorists who slowed to gawk.



we took over western for about a quarter of a mile in the lovely pelting rain, and i rode hard to catch up with tall bike tyler, hooting at cars in my totally seethru tshirt. hilariousness. we screamed our praises to thor.

at the very end, there was a small party with a keg and a mess of falafel and we all stood around and shivered for a while.

on the way west on bloomington there is a charming mural of picasso's "guernica."



happy friday. (cos sometimes it is.)

Poem for Monday, April 21, 2008

Indiana Avenue, 1949

by Etheridge Knight

Neons flash red and green.

April rains on still street, Man

Nods, Red lights blink, blink.

Mirror of keen blades

Slender as guitar strings; Wes

Montgomery jazz.

Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

oh, the pathos

unrecognizable to myself

daddy, you bastard

my bff and I are convinced that we are too strong (intense, intelligent, experienced, intimidating, powerful) and that is why our romantic interests never seem to be requited.

there are no superheroines with happy endings, not really. mortal men can't handle them and superheros have inferiority complexes.

the village healer always ended up burnt or drowned.

I know I have years of sickness left to deal with before I can really even begin to believe there's someone. for as long as I can remember, I've only seemed to aim my heart at the unattainable. not that I have any choice in the matter, not consciously. I've been in therapy long enough to have figured out why I act this way.

getting sent off to second chance when I was a kid fucked me up so much more than I can put into words. there was a complete- and utterness to that rejection that left me permanently ducked and covered, so terrified of not just doing something wrong, but being something wrong. no matter how much someone loves me, I can't just be still and bask in it. I have to pick at it, worry about it til I make myself sick or insane.


there's nothing like being made to tell your mom you lost your virginity because you were a drug addict. unless it's actually losing it when you are 13 cos you are so bitter and angry at love that you don't ever, ever want to believe in it, to let it have power over you. expect maybe being forced to lie about being a drug addict, being made to believe that I was weak, worthless, selfish, mentally ill, being locked up, forcibly drugged, made to pretend I loved Jesus, sing foolish songs and flap my arms, being told to deal with my anger by ripping up phone books because my anger was invalid and not worth responding to, being abandoned, having my parents refuse to believe me, having the people who made me take the word of someone who wanted their 25000 dollars over mine. not allowed to speak for months.

diary read and thrown away, clothes, books, toys, music all thrown away and replaced with generic, safe normalcy.

hours, days spent trying to figure out a way to poison or injure myself sufficiently to be able to go to the hospital and somehow talk my way out of going back. running away, getting taken to juvenile court after spending the night under an overpass. being dragged back humiliated the next day, parents actually believing I wanted to use drugs that badly, instead of that their magic program was so unbearable I'd rather be a ward of the state than go back.

when i read kafka's trial for the first time I shook and rattled like a cicada shell in a stiff breeze. josef k had nothing on me.

fourteen months in all, and fourteen years later not a week goes by without a nightmare of being back there as an adult.

and it still taints everything I do, everything I feel.

and I don't know what else to do besides stay busy between therapy sessions.

emo

wish i could sleep in your arms

Poem for Monday, April 14, 2008

Birds


by Tom Clark


Sky full of blue nothing toward which the Magi
Move, like dream people who are Walt Fraziers of the air…
Sometimes the moves they make amaze them
For they will never happen again, until the end of time; but there they are.


So shall I be like them? I don’t think so…and yet to float
Above the rolling H²O
On wings that express the mechanics of heaven
Like a beautiful golden monkey wrench
Expresses mechanics of earth…t’would be bueno.










Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

Poem for Monday, April 7, 2008

Planting a Mailbox

by John Updike



Prepare the ground when maple buds have burst
And when the daytime moon is sliced so thin
His fibers drink blue sky with litmus thirst.
This moment come, begin.


The site should be within an easy walk,
Beside a road, in stony earth. Your strength
Dictates how deep you delve. The seedling’s stalk
Should show three feet of length.


Don’t harrow, weed or water; just apply
A little gravel. Sun and motor fumes
Perform the miracle: in late July,
A branch post office blooms.







Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

heh

Memphis Players Have Long, Complicated Explanation Of How They Are This Year's 'Rumpelstiltzkin' Story

SAN ANTONIO—Although no Cinderella teams made it to this year's Final Four, the Memphis Tigers held an extended press conference Wednesday to explain to the press and public that they are in fact the "Rumpelstiltzkin" of this year's NCAA...

mountaintop

want

also why i love google

cos i really want to go live in a biodome on mars

why i love google

gmail custom time

svaha

boing boing posted a link to this tremendously brave photography project by German artist Walter Schels today. he and his partner took before and after shots of terminal cancer patients at a hospice.



watching the breath leave my grandmother's body was unlike anything I have ever experienced. there is nothing that could have prepared me for it. our isolated nuclear family structure really cheats us of this experience. I think life really lacks any meaning unless we have a really clear concept of what death is like.

maybe I should look into becoming a hospice volunteer.

Poem for Monday, March 31, 2008

The Day and the Hour

by Fredric Koeppel


Someone comes to tell you the day and the hour
of your death. He sits in a chair and brushes
the dust of the road from his hat. You get him
a glass of cold water from the kitchen; he closes
his eyes as he drinks, slowly, beholden. He leans


forward and whispers a few words into your ear
and then turns toward the door. He stands on
the porch, looking out at the distance. Clouds
fill the hills with purple scrim, and he wonders
which will find him first, the rain or the fall of night.











Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

reminiscing

(it's always the same)

you tube mixtape

I have trouble with patience. Now that things are starting to get better, I want it all at once. I want new shoes and tickets to Pitchfork and a new fixie and fucking true love. my brain keeps kicking into hamster wheel mode and while the ridiculous thoughts are nowhere near as life-threatening (or at least 3rd degree burn inducing) as they used to be, they still wear me out.



my therapist told me I need to start meditating more. shut this monkey mind up. right now it's just yammering on and on about the alone forevers and throwing its own shit at me.


monkey mind has a lot to bear right now. my brother's wife just had a baby and I feel fucked up about it. he did some terrible things while we were growing up and now he's in Southern Baptist Seminary, wants to go off to Iraq/n and be a chaplain, get blowed the fuck up. I can't remember a single time in my life I ever felt close to him. mostly there's just decades of shame and fear and resentment and anger.

I still have a long way to go, and a lot of shit to get over. sitting at home alone 90% of the time doesn't help, but it beats going to a bar.





this last one might have to be my new theme for the year. from me to me.

come get you something to eat

tonight I made myself a delicious feast, despite being stood up due to the weather (which is no excuse in this age of INFORMATION AND TECHNOLOGY and TEXTING EFFING GOOGLE FFS:

masamam curry with tofu skin, sweet potatoes, zucchini, and square rice noodles.

steamed kale in warm onion/garlic/rice wine/sesame vinaigrette, with toasted sesame and flax seeds.


took less than 10 minutes prep and then about 10 to cook. curry paste is a few bucks at the asian grocery and vegan/msg-free versions can be found with careful label-reading. it's insanely easy to make- you just whisk it into coconut milk, simmer, add water and chopped up ingredients and cook til shit is done. this is why I rarely want to eat out Thai Food. it's way cheaper to make at home.

day offs are only sweet cos you've been working

almost 14 miles yesterday, the quick ride over and out to lakeview to retrieve my dropped u-lock key, then up the ridiculously bumpy lake path to the vietnamese market. I haven't ridden the lake path since I moved out to Logan Square, and it's all kind of fucked-up. I'd've been better off riding up Broadway in rush hour, but I was feeling nostalgic for last summer.

it's sleeting out today, and the low barometric pressure has the fire ants nibbling at my knee bones. my new boss is supposed to start treating me soon (how rad is that?)- apparently it's SOP for his business model, as I will be better able to relate to the patients.

I hope it helps.

Poem for Monday, March 24, 2008

“I Keep to Myself Such Measures…”

by Robert Creeley







I keep to myself such
measures as I care for,
daily the rocks
accumulate position.

There is nothing
but what thinking makes
it less tangible. The mind,
fast as it goes, loses

pace, puts in place of it
like rocks simple markers,
for a way only to
hopefully come back to

where it cannot. All
forgets. My mind sinks.
I hold in both hands such weight
it is my only description.















Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

good god almighty i love you

please don't make me stop now...

hail ganesha!

I finally got a job! I'll be working the front desk at a chiropractic/acupuncture clinic less than a mile from my house.

the best part is the brand new yoga studio inside the building. I am envisioning my lunch breaks looking like this:

and he wrote it himself

I found this to be profoundly moving.

But what we know -- what we have seen – is that America can change. That is true genius of this nation. What we have already achieved gives us hope – the audacity to hope – for what we can and must achieve tomorrow...

It requires all Americans to realize that your dreams do not have to come at the expense of my dreams; that investing in the health, welfare, and education of black and brown and white children will ultimately help all of America prosper.

In the end, then, what is called for is nothing more, and nothing less, than what all the world’s great religions demand – that we do unto others as we would have them do unto us. Let us be our brother’s keeper, Scripture tells us. Let us be our sister’s keeper. Let us find that common stake we all have in one another, and let our politics reflect that spirit as well.

the day the war started, I was filmed at a protest in downtown Memphis holding a plywood sign painted with "I AM ASHAMED TO BE AN AMERICAN."

the day of the last presidential election, I went and voted and then watched the states turn red from the locked mental health triage unit at the public hospital.

I've seen very little in the past few years that has made me proud. we have a beautiful country that we are allowing to fill up with windblown plastic grocery bags and SUV-generated smog. our prime time television slots are full of sickening pap that encourages women to hate each other as they compete for immature, selfish men.

the day that we elect this man is the day I will begin to feel pride in my country again.

on discovering the bounty of the red hen dumpster

o, to be foam

Your tail will then disappear, and shrink up into what mankind calls legs, and you will feel great pain, as if a sword were passing through you. But all who see you will say that you are the prettiest little human being they ever saw. You will still have the same floating gracefulness of movement, and no dancer will ever tread so lightly; but at every step you take it will feel as if you were treading upon sharp knives, and that the blood must flow.

but in the end she became foam, and then a daughter of the air.

no such luck for me.

raining

Thinking about your friends
How you maintain all them in a constant state of suspense
For your own protection over their affection
Nobody broke your heart
You broke your own because you can't finish what you start...


one of the last remnants of my battle against borderline personality disorder is this insidious, all pervading feeling of inferiority. in every relationship I have, whether it be professional, friendship, romantic, or familial, there are always a set of self-imposed standards that must be met. If I can just do "x," then he will love me. then she won't hate me. then he will stay. then my life will be better. I have these incredibly high expectations of myself. I have to be perfect or I will die alone and be eaten by my cats. sort of an emotional OCD. I have to be the perfect friend. perfect roommate. perfect lover, employee, etc ad nihilem.

it didn't take years of therapy to suss out the etiology of these obsessions. once I stopped and thought about the effects of being sent off as a 13 year old for 14 months to a brainwashing camp it became exceptionally clear. everything I was got stripped away and discarded and then I lived in perpetual fear of being sent back until I was 18. I was forcibly pilled, everything I owned from diaries to shoes to favorite books were thrown away. I had nothing to call my own, nothing to call myself. broken down to my components and then half of them thrown away.

15 years later and I wonder how much longer til I can let go of this. the few people I am close to obviously love me in spite of my foibles, or perhaps even because of them. I certainly don't expect them to be perfect, so why do I expect perfection of myself? why can't I just let people love me without having to impose conditions on them? more importantly, how do I let them love me?

deep breaths? om mani padme hums? weekly therapy and lots of bike rides? or do I just have to wait it out?

I love it when you give me things

I have the flu, or 75% of it. about 4 times as achy as usual, which means my pain levels are at about 10 times those of the average neurotypical. just a wee bit of lung goo, but enough to have be huddled up with bl ankets drinking foulass chinese herbal cough tea. I've actually been taking naps in between exhausting bouts of sitting on the sofa looking at classifieds. I am literally incapable of taking naps and have been for as long as I can remember. I have an actual aversion to them, like I am going to miss something. when I do lay down and close my eyes, I ache so much I can't lie still, so I have to wait til I faceplant to sleep.

the Magnetic Fields were beyond breathtaking. I bawled my eyes out when they closed with "book of love." the guitarist picked out a teeny plaintive thread with a slide and a sustain pedal that was just chilling.

this was filmed a few weeks ago, so it's very close to what I saw last night.

Poem for Monday, March 17, 2008

The Morning Light

by Louis Simpson



In the morning light a line
Stretches forever. There my unlived life
Rises, and I resist,
Clinging to the steps of the throne.


Day lifts the darkness from the hills,
A bright blade cuts the reeds,
And my life, pitilessly demanding,
Rises forever in the morning light.



Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

Who is your "Lost" alter ego? created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Locke You're Locke! People underestimate you, but you know you can do anything you want to. You hate limits being put on your life - you don't like it when people don't believe in you. Locke 100% Claire 100% Jack 81% Sun 75% Charlie 69% Michael 69% Jin 63% Hurley 50% Sayid 50% Sawyer 31% Boone 25% Kate 25% Shannon 6%

and then I remember I am not the only one with obstacles

tomorrow: I get to talk a (completely non-techie) friend through installing a usb wireless card on a crappy old laptop I put Ubuntu on. I wish I had had the money to do it for her before I gave it to her, cos I remember it being somewhat of a nightmare.

now that you've made me want to die, you tell me that you're unboyfriendable

going to see the Magnetic Fields tonight. I haven't been to see many shows here, mostly out of poverty, but since they enacted the smoking ban I am looking forward to going out more. at least, once I get a dang job. my escort tonight is the precious little Rat Patrol boy I befriended at the library- his original date had something come up. honorary big sister status is teh shit.

Chicago has all sorts of clever little venues that aren't quite bars. Being from a small town I got spoiled on seeing good music for 8 bucks up the street from my house with a crowd of under 150, but it seems like the better bands (or their managers) tend to go for the smaller places. I know seeing Lucero at the Metro with what must have been 800 to a thousand wasted and screaming fans was excruciating.

Now that I don't feel like I need a cane to stand upright I have all kinds of things to look forward to.

I've been house-sitting since Saturday: far removed from my comfort zone. I brought my own sweet angel baby mouse and my computer but home is way more than just those two things, although they are definitely its infrastructure. it's too cold and there's no light in this apartment, despite the mammoth and heat-sucking windows. one of the cats i am watching is apparently in heat and won't be silent. my cat talks a LOT but not like this. there's something so penetrating and alarming about her yowling. it makes it hard to sleep, and my heart starts pounding every time she starts. my own sweet baby sings along, though, and their opera faces are pretty dang cute.


the brain zaps are almost all gone. very very faint. still very moody. I've had a rough couple of weeks dealing with friends. I think being off meds has made me less forgiving, which is actually positive. I don't make as many excuses for people anymore. when I was stuck in bed all winter I was starved for human contact and didn't take very good care of my emotional needs. now I feel like I am separating wheat from chaff.



this is still very hard, and very lonely, and very scary. I hate applying for jobs, I am terrified of the holes in my resume, I seem to have lost a lot of confidence. and I still feel weak as hell.

I wish I could get paid to ride my bike.

having been fucked is no excuse for being fucked-up

Poem for Monday, March 10, 2008

The Fisherwoman




by David Ignatow



She took from her basket four fishes
and carved each into four slices
and scaled them with her long knife,
this fisherwoman, and wrapped them;
and took four more and worked
in this rhythm through the day,
each action ending on a package
of old newspapers; and when it came
to close, dark coming upon the streets,
she had done one thing, she felt, well,
making one complete day.






Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

no need to worry about everything I've done

doing laundry listening to top 40 r&b, singing along at the top of my lungs, doing the handclaps during the breakdown. crying my eyes out.


still emo as hell. brain zaps are almost all gone. stomach is still sour but no more puking.

and also

The way I feel today sent me digging through my bookshelves to reread Hemingway's A Day's Wait.

I identify so strongly with the small boy who has spent the day thinking he is going to die because he mixed up Fahrenheit and Celsius. Poor Schatz. being sick sucks so damn much. at least you got a nice Papa to take care of you.

About what time do you think I'm going to die?' he asked.
'What?'
'About how long will it be before I die?'
'You aren't going to die. What's the matter with you?'
Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two.'
'People don't die with a fever of one hundred and two. That's a silly way to talk.'
'I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you can't live with forty-four degrees. I've got a hundred and two.'
He had been waiting to die all day, ever since nine o'clock in the morning.
'You poor Schatz,' I said. 'Poor old Schatz. It's like miles and kilometers. You aren't going to die. That's a different thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal. On this kind it's ninety-eight.'
'Are you sure?'
'Absolutely,' I said. 'It's like miles and kilometers. You know, like how many kilometers we make when we do seventy in the car?'
'Oh,' he said.
But his gaze at the foot of his bed relaxed slowly. The hold over himself relaxed too, finally, and the next day it was very slack and he cried very easily at little things that were of no importance.

I know I am out of the red here, but my god, I wish I could stop crying. it just bubbles out of me to where I can't barely even speak. I feel fine, the tears don't really seem to have much emotional content, they just choke me up and irritate my face with the damn salt.

time passes. tick tick tick.

day 5 off Cymbalta

As far as my current emotional state goes, I'm reminded of a Ginsberg poem I posted several years ago in my old blog:

Tears




by Allen Ginsberg


I’m crying all the time now.
I cried all over the street when I left the Seattle Wobbly Hall.
I cried listening to Bach.
I cried looking at the happy flowers in my backyard,
I cried at the sadness of the middle-aged trees.



Happiness exists I feel it.


I cried for my soul, I cried for the world’s soul.
The world has a beautiful soul.
God appearing to be seen and cried over. Overflowing
heart of Patterson.

I'm proud of this.

but you're gonna have to hold on

it's not that I am hearing voices, it's that my thoughts are not my own. I don't want to cut myself, to beat myself with flails and scourges. I don't want to jump from high buildings or throw myself in front of a car.

These things will pass. I will not be evicted, nor will the lights be shut off, neither will I starve, or die in my sleep. My cat will not have to eat me.

"I feel alright, and I cried so hard..."

cymbalta/effexor (SNRI) withdrawals

personal accounts:

self-nonmedication

cymbalta: the withdrawal symptoms from hell

what winners do: cymbalta withdrawal symptoms suck (thousands of comments on this one)


a message board:
cymbalta withdrawal

a wiki article:
SSRI discontinuation syndrome: discontinuation of duloxetine

and that's about all the steam I have for now.

I've been horrible to many of my friends. yesterday at dinner I found myself looking around the table and feeling loathing, revulsion, resentment, anger, abject hatred. all emotions that are not part of my life. things I never feel. this is like a bad acid trip. this is all the Loathing and none of the fear. just endless miles of Bat Country.

Last night, after hours of Neil Gaiman's American Gods on headphones, I was finally able to fall asleep. I thought the dizziness would kill me. I have a terrible fear of going out, Janis-style, choking on my own vomit in my sleep. I feel possessed, terrified, things under my skin, ups and downs and nothing tastes good.

oh god oh god oh god.

and I need a job.
and I need a life.
and I need a family, friends, a new body, a monkey butler with a jetpack, a brain upgrade, to transfer my data to the nets and live there unhindered by body.

everything falls apart. what do we do. there's no loss of energy or matter, just endless back and forthing.

Poem for Monday, March 3, 2008

Walking Thoughts

by Marvin Bell


The sidewalk is growing soft. I am growing soft.
Absence is a principle, a silence wholly.
If the moon fell, there would be no use for it.


What do we mean by “a killing effort”?
Back there, back there the darkness waits.
Everything we know is a circle.


In a dumb country, the one way is everyone’s.
And something has a chance in such a land.
Is my last friend ahead under that light?


I walk on, and the watchdogs bark crossly.
The other sidewalk is softening also.
It lets me down with curious consistency.


Settling for the average of full and empty
I turn toward home, begin to hurry in the dark,
having talked myself into going back once more.


Burke's Book Store
936 South Cooper
Memphis, TN 38104
(901) 278-7484
www.burkesbooks.com

I've been channeling Bruce Banner all day, I tell him.

Rage, incessant and crackling. The fuck you talking to me for, I snarl as some dude who tries to holla. I am electric with anger, striding down Western, almost invincible. I wish I could bottle this feeling, evaporate its water and make it into pill form. Such energy. I haven't felt it in years.

I am tired of your shit. I am tired of carrying it for you. I am annoyed by your shit. Nothing tastes good. Everything is too loud and it catches on a skip and shudders. I feel like the evening after an allnight acid trip. My norepinephrine is being fucked with. Whirr-bzzt. Dzzzrrr. Hhhbbbbzzbbtt.

Am I dying? How much longer.

Tiny wee purple spots all over my face and my eyelids. Are they broken blood vessels?


is this intolerable?

nothing says happy sunday morning like puking up your vitamins.

I'm starting to really resent neurotypicals. I don't want to play nice. your charity breaks me. I'm sick of sitting in bed. the tulips are too excitable.


re-reading through the old blog, waiting for lunch plans to coalesce.

The mental health industry is sick. The information packets at MMHI refer to the patients as mental health consumers. makes me picture rows and rows of blank eyed shoelace-less men and women lined up at picnic tables eating spaghetti. the sin that eats away at the industry is that the providers think they are superior to the consumers.

we've fetished mental health to such a point that we refer to it as a commodity. can one buy mental health? should one have to? does it really come in multicolored gelatin capsules? is there a surplus of mental health rotting away in a warehouse somewhere? does EliLilly offer producers money to burn their excess mental health to keep the price steady or do we flood the market of our neighboring countries with genetically modified mental health, causing their collectively farmed mental health to be worth less, forcing them to immigrate to the border to work in our mental health sweatshops?

the tulips are far, far too red.

and just maybe I'm to blame for all I've heard

I remember sitting in my room in front of my dad's beatup old speakers, listening to this song over and over. before all this shit started. before the endless pills and pried-open jaws and the throat-stroking and the puking and shaking and complete and utter lack of privacy. before the mono or the fatigue that never lifted or the sleeping through classes or the insomnia or the inability to keep a job or the fear of rejection. the blood testing, the needles and steroids, the hypotheses, the ignorance, you have what now, how do you spell that, why i have never even heard of that.

it's warming outside, a white-skied first of march, and I'm stoned on the couch after a restless night. the brain zaps kicked in last night. the only thing that relieves the headache is biking, mouth open to swallow the damp air, headphones keeping my ears warm, free of gravity, invincible, but I'm puking up vitamin-flavored bile in the sink first thing upon waking, so it's sofal orbit.


brain zaps make it hard to think.