(no subject)

Sometimes I wonder if we get what we give up on. It's an old and occasionally stupid piece of advice, that the best way to find love is to stop looking. But I think there might be something to it as well, that the best way to get to a comfortable relationship with myself is to stop trying to force it. I am no bulb, to bloom out of season. Or maybe all the times are out of season, and I'm going to bloom, goddammit.

I'm not a performer, except in the sense that everyone's performing everything they say, and twice true that for blogging. The audience isn't buying tickets, and I'm not bleeding, or even sweating, for their approval and my next meal certainly doesn't depend on how well I bleed. Which isn't to say that I am better for that, or that they are better than I, just that I can't travel all paths simultaneously.

I'm on the slowly mending part of being ill, just enough energy to think I should clean, but just enough sick that my body tells me to sit the fuck down when I try. I've missed two days of work, two important days, and I'm slipping back into the cooleydick frame of mind where I feel like I'm morally bankrupt for catching a cold and letting it keep me on the couch.

I think I want 2012 to be about lists, keeping track of things, touchstones and schedules. But it's possible I also want it to be about travel, or about anything but BRCA. I'm neither victim nor villain.

It is 100% tattoo time. If this agnosticism of mine leaves me no historically or socially proscribed rituals, I might just have to cobble together some of my own, and I'd love an endcap to this experience of modifying my body in ways I don't feel are entirely voluntary by writing on my body for the sheer joy of being a permeable membrane and a text, all at once.

For now, however, Tamora Pierce and tea. And maybe some Mary Oliver for everyone.

determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

(no subject)

Sometimes I wonder if we get what we give up on. It's an old and occasionally stupid piece of advice, that the best way to find love is to stop looking. But I think there might be something to it as well, that the best way to get to a comfortable relationship with myself is to stop trying to force it. I am no bulb, to bloom out of season. Or maybe all the times are out of season, and I'm going to bloom, goddammit.

I'm not a performer, except in the sense that everyone's performing everything they say, and twice true that for blogging. The audience isn't buying tickets, and I'm not bleeding, or even sweating, for their approval and my next meal certainly doesn't depend on how well I bleed. Which isn't to say that I am better for that, or that they are better than I, just that I can't travel all paths simultaneously.

I'm on the slowly mending part of being ill, just enough energy to think I should clean, but just enough sick that my body tells me to sit the fuck down when I try. I've missed two days of work, two important days, and I'm slipping back into the cooleydick frame of mind where I feel like I'm morally bankrupt for catching a cold and letting it keep me on the couch.

I think I want 2012 to be about lists, keeping track of things, touchstones and schedules. But it's possible I also want it to be about travel, or about anything but BRCA. I'm neither victim nor villain.

It is 100% tattoo time. If this agnosticism of mine leaves me no historically or socially proscribed rituals, I might just have to cobble together some of my own, and I'd love an endcap to this experience of modifying my body in ways I don't feel are entirely voluntary by writing on my body for the sheer joy of being a permeable membrane and a text, all at once.

For now, however, Tamora Pierce and tea. And maybe some Mary Oliver for everyone.

determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.