Monday, June 28, 2010

Events which I have become more blase about this spring:

It's been a long summer. Content temporarily pulled for editing.

excellent. pilgrim's progress continues.

I still have 670 new e-mails of the 1,000+ from the 20-days at/recovering from Lilies War. Please continue to be patient with me, I am responding as quickly as humanly possible.

I am still boxing, scrubbing, cleaning, moving, and striving not to unpack anything and failing. I now have zero dollars, some pocket change, and way too much need for an industrial-strength vacuum.

The hatred I have for this convent and its violations of the laws of thermodynamics knows no bounds. In four hours, the allotted time will have expired. I declared Friday that ere the fine city of Saint Louis failed to net me paying work by 9 a.m. Monday, I would begin the process of moving south to NOLA or north to OMAHA.

Now the craigslisting begins in earnest. I have no actual cash-money or W-2 jobs, in spite of a week of schmoozing, cruising, dropping apps and hoping/praying. Fuck this shit. Fuck this city (or not, rather). I am exhausted, I am impoverished, and I am applying for government assistance like a paper-work-monster.

Dear US Government: I paid all my taxes, even when I made little-to-no-money ever, at all. I dream of a day where in a calendar year I net more than $10,000 - $14,000. I made/had more money as a professional student. Now I'd like to benefit from the pseudo-Socialism that upsets the main-line Republican party so much. Thanks you!

In good news, all this industrial-strength cycling is adding definition to my thighs. Awesomesauce! My core muscles are improved, as are biceps and forearms. When I grow up, I will be an epic fencer for my kingdom. DRACO INVICTUS!

Sunday, June 27, 2010

demarcation delurkification dissipation dilution

It's been a long summer. Post pulled, to be restored at a later time.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

This was going to be articulate...

Instead, in short-form:

Lilies War outside of KC in the kingdom of Calontir was amazing. I had no internet from Tuesday June 10th until yesterday at 5 p.m. Thank you to #phoenix who made the netartubez run on the laptop of exploding doom yesterday evening.

I love Henri's, rainbows, mud puddles, and new friends.

I hate that every pair of shoes I own is now growing its own mold farm.

I am moving. RIGHT NOW. So if you have a basement/truck/strong arms/willingness to do an act of service for a pirate, she promises handsome rewards. In the form of brownies and awesome, mostly. Looking for pirate booty? Helping Pasqualina di Bisclavret move/get a ride to Crystal Chamfron over the river/re-auth in rapier/not kill people has rewards.

The latter's not a joke; I've been good for the first 26 years, 6 months, and 28-odd days of my life this far, what with the constant moving, boxes, bullshit, lonliness, library books, guilt, shame, neuroses. If you choose to cross me/slow me down/criticize me (like my father/family/teachers) then I will throw things at you. They could be water balloons. It could be napalm.

Please don't find out the hard way.

This PSA brought to you by #tiggerears #woootstlPRIDE !

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Once upon a time, when I was young(er) and foolish(er)

From salon.com's article, "How I Became a Pothead" by Cary Tennis:

"Sometimes in recovery we will say things, like, For all the trouble it caused me, this drug or that drug also saved my life. These things we say are sometimes true. We need something at a certain time in life to get us over something or get us to something or through something; we are lost and empty, and some of us would kill ourselves or kill somebody else if we couldn't find something to momentarily give us what we need. So we find these things. We find pot or alcohol or pills. We take it and we feel better. We figure, now we know the answer. Later, because this is only a substitute for an answer, or a temporary answer, our reliance on this thing brings us to grief. But we can understand how these things happen, especially when we are young and don't know anything."

[ http://www.salon.com/life/drugs/index.html?story=/mwt/col/tenn/2010/06/03/marijuana ]

I've been feeling pensive about drugs, addiction, the medicated mind, and the need for even legal, prescribed medications following an experience with a room mate both dysfunctional with and without his perfectly-legal medical-industry-approved need for Adderal to function. My own trip to the ER, sent by well-meaning co-workers, and the hell that was the 3 days it took me to process the Atvian out of my system has generated its share of rage, shame, and tears.

Frustration that I let myself get so burnt out and spent that
1) someone in power concurred that I needed to go the ER
2) other folks working there who had known me for all of 2 days declared that I was surely drugged out of my gourd
3) a new friend, seeing parallels in my experience and her own (all true) took me in and promised it would be okay

I had suspicions of what anti-anxiety drugs would do to me; I've avoided like the plague other pyschotropic drugs. I've also avoided the therapy that could lead to such prescriptions: I watched all my friends from 1997-2010 bouncing from experimental drug regimen to the next, hoping for balance, feeling, life. Thirteen-year-olds shouldn't have been put on Paxil, as far as I'm concerned, because I was the one holding the hair, pleading with my friend not to slit her wrists, not tonight, oh please, at the age of 14. That's a lot for anyone, at any age.

I had pitcher ears, a deep shyness and social anxiety, and because I was so much better at hiding my own brokenness, I was often called, "the most stable" of friend groups, always available to help sort the pieces, encourage the anorexics and bulemics to eat something besides celery and gummi worms and laxatives. This makes my friends today laugh, belly laughs filled with pain and disbelief. For years though, I was the best post-Victorian Methodist-Minnesota-raised Protestant-Christian girl -- I couldn't sin, I wasn't permitted. But Jesus said, "Make me a servant, humble and meek," and I have that song memorized as perfectly today as when I learned it for choir at the age of 12.

Serving meant listening, hugging, hoping, praying. It meant holding sobbing bodies and telling them that no matter what the teacher had said, the parent had said, the ex-boyfriend had said, that I believed s/he was beautiful, intelligent, and perfect. What else could I say? I believed these truths; I could see inner beauty glowing through spiderwebs of self-doubt.

At the time, and even today, I often have trouble seeing my own beauty, in mirrors, writing, and in life. I have those same spiderwebs wrapping me up tight, tangling my hopes and dreams in a slurry of disbelief, anxiety, and conviction that I shall never be good enough, not for anyone, any job, any man or woman, or for my society/religion/family.

I believed myself an ugly duckling, a boyish, bookish girl trapped by obligation to God, family, education. The first boyfriend was a shock to my system: how could he think I was cool, or pretty, or worth his time?

I doubt there is any surprise that this kind of emotional roller coaster has chased me up and down my teens and early twenties, even to today. How could I be loved, when I couldn't love myself most mornings, days, and nights?

I'll tell you the lie I tell myself when I wake up in the morning, and before I go to bed at night: I am better now. I love myself. I know that I have imperfections, that I am learning, that I often fuck up the church's money and that I will likely continue. I will try too hard, I will give too much, I will let my people-pleasing, child-protecting, heal-and-serve mechanism devour all of my self, my being, and my energy and I will crash and burn.

Once downed, I shall wallow, deep in shame and regret. I will wish I had done x, or y, or z differently. I will dream of how, one day, when I grow up, things shall be different.

When I crawl out of that gutter of despair, it will be with a rope-sheets-braids-ladder of love for myself.

And if some nights, it's nicotine or alcohol, loud industrial dance music, or Ani diFranco sing-a-longs with my cat that help me to believe that I love myself, I will use those tools. I will drink the last martini, polish off all of the rum, and smoke 10,000 cigarettes until I am hoarse and hacking.

With these crutches, I will remind myself: there is love enough for me. And when I have more, I'll share it again.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

When I grow up ...

... things will be different.

In the meantime, piracy as usual means paperwork. Who knew letters of marque took so much energy to maintain?

It was a true pleasure to make some charming new acquaintance this weekend. Best wishes to all on their travels homeward!