"if the world gives you wings / you open those things and fly"

ever get the feeling that all your balls are in other people's courts?
(no testicular humor intended)

a lot goes on, while somehow happening within a week that could easily fit
the phrase 'very little happened'.

i don't think anyone, even the person most intimately involved with my
position, understands my position on recent events. hell, maybe i'm just
terribly poorly behaved, and fighting a battle for something that doesn't
even exist anymore, my white knight to his white lady. worse still,
everyone understands, and i really am that girl now. plans canceled, or
not made at all, and maybe what once was without question has become
questionable, and maybe that's my new consequence to carry around.

and, as always, there's a de to the men, (forgive my inability to
transliterate) i've made two fantastic meals (in my opinion) from the
moosewood lowfat cookbook, read another book, found out a lot of really good
medical news and had my new doctor try and push some new pills on me, and
temporarily negotiated just raising my current dosage with him. I'm
going up to 300 on the wellbutrin, and he'd like to add in something called
Campral, which is apparently, part of a new generation of anti-alcohol abuse
drugs, though blessedly, nothing like anabuse or whatever its called.

i run into this problem time and time again, lured in my history and
confused by my presentation, it takes a couple visits for me to convince my
doctors that what i've got, i've also got under control. and yeah,
dysthmyic disorder is just as good a diagnosis as any other, and yeah, i
really am a functional alcoholic, and yeah, i really do spend chunks of my
day doing nothing but controlling any one of my various desires to
selfmedicate or selfmutilate, but i prefer all of that to going back to
being the zombie i was. and the other side of this coin is another problem
to the same extreme, that my functionality, my fulltime job, my healthy
relationship, my ability not to drink discredits whatever i'm going through,
whatever i've been through, because 'obviously' it can't be that bad if i
can still show up to my job on time and keep track of all my bills. and i
never find the right words to explain that what keeps me from being at peace
with my life also keeps me enough on my toes to deal with the unrest with as
few side effects and/or as little fallout as possible. (i find
lack-of-peace the easiest descriptor of right now. maybe depression was a
better word earlier, maybe it's still the best word, but this strange blend
of self-loathing, anxiety and depression becomes its own designer cocktail
and as such, requires its own word.)

if someone who dislikes themselves metaphorically accidentally selfinjures
while aiming at something else, is it still called friendly fire?

in still other news, light and i bought our plane tickets to go to San
Francisco in april, and may be prevailing on some of you to come tend to the
beasties in our absence so i can enjoy cavorting with my little brothers,
free of the guilt of abandoning them or boarding them. we've picked the
paint colors and talked to tableau, and so hopefully, our house will be
brighter-colored and feel more cleanable soon. light got a cellphone,
which means i'm a little calmer about his commute or bad weather, i just
gobbled up his PS238 comics, and want to send the trade paperback to
junkyard and hopefully i see lilo and host soon. i think i know what i'm
getting Light for the random holiday we're creating that isn't valentine's
day, we got a shareholder number at the FoodBankFarm which means freshlocal
veggies for months on end, and i've now committed to remaining completely
dry for the foreseeable future.

i keep to this format, chronicling and thinking and whining all in the same
breath, but always trying to end these entries with a collage of sorts that
shows anyone who is listening or looking who i am and how i'm doing and what
is meaningful to me. like little poems, except i can't write poetry
anymore, i want the images to stand in for the facts, or the facts to stand
in for them meaning. i once wrote a poem that started with the line
"fuck remembering, just take of me and eat." selfindulgently, i still love
some of what i wrote, if not that poem, and i still have a fondness for the
crazy little drunk and scarred girl who titled a cycle "for three men of the
same basic character" and read it aloud at a poetry reading, half weapon and
half joke, the very meaning of a knife with no hilt, cutting everyone who
touches it. for all my confusion about when i exist and how, i wonder if
anyone remembers her fondly, or at all, if i existed outside my archetype.
a boy who played Bottom in a MSND i stagemanaged told me once i was too much
a tarot card for him to know how to interact with, and while it was mostly a
copout, it was also a compliment in the only language he could use to
interact with the me i was then. i ran into him once on the streets of
northampton, and the shocks made me vomit after he'd passed.

'this is not what you think it is'

no matter how maudlin i make myself, past is still past, and i'm still
moving forward.

"if the world gives you wings / you open those things and fly"

ever get the feeling that all your balls are in other people's courts?
(no testicular humor intended)

a lot goes on, while somehow happening within a week that could easily fit
the phrase 'very little happened'.

i don't think anyone, even the person most intimately involved with my
position, understands my position on recent events. hell, maybe i'm just
terribly poorly behaved, and fighting a battle for something that doesn't
even exist anymore, my white knight to his white lady. worse still,
everyone understands, and i really am that girl now. plans canceled, or
not made at all, and maybe what once was without question has become
questionable, and maybe that's my new consequence to carry around.

and, as always, there's a de to the men, (forgive my inability to
transliterate) i've made two fantastic meals (in my opinion) from the
moosewood lowfat cookbook, read another book, found out a lot of really good
medical news and had my new doctor try and push some new pills on me, and
temporarily negotiated just raising my current dosage with him. I'm
going up to 300 on the wellbutrin, and he'd like to add in something called
Campral, which is apparently, part of a new generation of anti-alcohol abuse
drugs, though blessedly, nothing like anabuse or whatever its called.

i run into this problem time and time again, lured in my history and
confused by my presentation, it takes a couple visits for me to convince my
doctors that what i've got, i've also got under control. and yeah,
dysthmyic disorder is just as good a diagnosis as any other, and yeah, i
really am a functional alcoholic, and yeah, i really do spend chunks of my
day doing nothing but controlling any one of my various desires to
selfmedicate or selfmutilate, but i prefer all of that to going back to
being the zombie i was. and the other side of this coin is another problem
to the same extreme, that my functionality, my fulltime job, my healthy
relationship, my ability not to drink discredits whatever i'm going through,
whatever i've been through, because 'obviously' it can't be that bad if i
can still show up to my job on time and keep track of all my bills. and i
never find the right words to explain that what keeps me from being at peace
with my life also keeps me enough on my toes to deal with the unrest with as
few side effects and/or as little fallout as possible. (i find
lack-of-peace the easiest descriptor of right now. maybe depression was a
better word earlier, maybe it's still the best word, but this strange blend
of self-loathing, anxiety and depression becomes its own designer cocktail
and as such, requires its own word.)

if someone who dislikes themselves metaphorically accidentally selfinjures
while aiming at something else, is it still called friendly fire?

in still other news, light and i bought our plane tickets to go to San
Francisco in april, and may be prevailing on some of you to come tend to the
beasties in our absence so i can enjoy cavorting with my little brothers,
free of the guilt of abandoning them or boarding them. we've picked the
paint colors and talked to tableau, and so hopefully, our house will be
brighter-colored and feel more cleanable soon. light got a cellphone,
which means i'm a little calmer about his commute or bad weather, i just
gobbled up his PS238 comics, and want to send the trade paperback to
junkyard and hopefully i see lilo and host soon. i think i know what i'm
getting Light for the random holiday we're creating that isn't valentine's
day, we got a shareholder number at the FoodBankFarm which means freshlocal
veggies for months on end, and i've now committed to remaining completely
dry for the foreseeable future.

i keep to this format, chronicling and thinking and whining all in the same
breath, but always trying to end these entries with a collage of sorts that
shows anyone who is listening or looking who i am and how i'm doing and what
is meaningful to me. like little poems, except i can't write poetry
anymore, i want the images to stand in for the facts, or the facts to stand
in for them meaning. i once wrote a poem that started with the line
"fuck remembering, just take of me and eat." selfindulgently, i still love
some of what i wrote, if not that poem, and i still have a fondness for the
crazy little drunk and scarred girl who titled a cycle "for three men of the
same basic character" and read it aloud at a poetry reading, half weapon and
half joke, the very meaning of a knife with no hilt, cutting everyone who
touches it. for all my confusion about when i exist and how, i wonder if
anyone remembers her fondly, or at all, if i existed outside my archetype.
a boy who played Bottom in a MSND i stagemanaged told me once i was too much
a tarot card for him to know how to interact with, and while it was mostly a
copout, it was also a compliment in the only language he could use to
interact with the me i was then. i ran into him once on the streets of
northampton, and the shocks made me vomit after he'd passed.

'this is not what you think it is'

no matter how maudlin i make myself, past is still past, and i'm still
moving forward.