Eavesdropping

There is absolutely no stability in my life. I'm weaving all these webs of secrets and lies, and now I am fast running out of places to hide. What can I do when I've let my guard down enough to have the demons peak through? They are coming faster and faster, and I can't stop them.

Reading has left me. God, I want to pick up a book and lose myself in his covers. I want to write poetry as freely as I once did. I hate this new room. Since when is it perfectly okay to trod all over me? Well, fuck all of you and the horses that you rode in on. It's not my fault that you are fucking him up. You should have thought all of that before you elected to make him a social outcast. Epic fail, family, epic fail.

And you know what? I'm proud of my grades. I'm fucking proud of the fact that I can skip class and not study and still make A's and B's. I told you this place was a joke, but you didn't listen, did you? Now I've gone and proved you wrong, and I can't even tell you.

I wish that I was concerned with bigger and better things, but I'm not. I'm trying to stay afloat. I'm trying to puzzle out who and what I am. I need to make a list, a list of things I need to do.

-- Read more. (I probably have close to fifty books in my room currently that I haven't even read. How sad is that?)

-- Think more. (I need to stop pushing away the big issues and actually sit down and figure out what they mean.)

-- Practice my fucking guitar. (I bought the thing. Now I have to practice.)

--Write more. (I'm supposed to write everyday. A poem, blog, part of Mr. Foutch's novel, anything.)

-- Work on my tarot readings. (How else am I going to travel around in an RV of voodoo?)

-- Keep in touch with my family. (I feel like I'm losing sight of them.)

-- Study. (I won't learn anything in college if I don't study the material and do the homework.)

-- Exercise. (I need to start going to yoga again, using the treadmill, something.)

-- Stop spending money like crazy.


It seems I've merely traded one set of sins for the other.

The Spider and the Fly

I'm back again. Was I ever gone? I've come back to graze upon your waters, gaze into your eyes and see what? Myself, perhaps.

I would like to think that I've grown up, that all of these signs are pointing toward a positive future, but there's just one problem. Oh so tiny and quite frail, my writing is dismal at best. I'd like to think that I am deep, one who must be read. The truth is my thinly veiled writing is not worth the time it takes to puzzle it out.

Does this deter me?
Possibly.

Will I stop altogether?
Probably not.

There is this thing inside me. This thing with Mr. Foutch. I know him, and I desire him like the serpent slithering through the Garden. I want his story to fill my head, to cloud my thoughts with a lust for him. I need all of him within me so that I can spill him out onto the page. This sounds mad. Maybe it is. Maybe Foutch is the name of the madness within me at the moment. I don't think I'll ever get relief from this. I'm out now. I'll return again to tell you that I have abandoned him, that have sunken back into my depression. Fare the well until then.

What I Would Say

Part of me hates you, hates you for adding complexity to the simple process of death. The thought of your existence is so foreign that I wonder if your corner of the coffin weighed more heavily upon your heart or if my mother tasted like tears and death when you kissed her in front of me. Did you recognize the bottle of scotch that you so carefully caressed in prolonged innuendo from their first uncertain Christmas together? Are you pleased to know that it has symbolically waited to touch only your lips again?

Because of you, I have lost what little faith I had in marriage. True love is only for old, fat fools who die in car crashes. Lust and selfishness, those are sleek and modern. Sangria red like the new car that takes my mother to your Nashville bed.

Now onto another point that I must address. This episode has thrown into light the fact that I have no morals, boundaries, or definition. I have become merely a sponge that absorbs these experiences and then attempts to ghost understanding into people through watered-down versions of myself.

Thank you for making grief an outpatient procedure. “Truth enlightens the mind but does not always bring happiness to the heart.” And “truth will out,” right? Therefore, I must say, “Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.”

Combat

I'm being attacked again. By who you may ask? Well her, of course. And him. And maybe a couple of thems thrown in here and there. What mistakes have I made? Should I defend myself against their attacks? Throw up a shield? I'm a thief, they say. I steal people's happiness. I ruin their plans. I don't fit in with the mold that they have made for the society they surround themselves with, and they accept me into their folds thinking I will bestow upon them continuous amusements. But I am not some circus freak, set to 'perform' on command. I am a human being with thoughts and feelings, with needs and wants. I am curious. Oh god, so curious. If I press this button, which ones will react in reflex? If I push this domino just a little, will the whole of the world fall like they have set it up to?

No, I think not, and so I push and prod, dissect and dance around how they think the world should run. And they hate me for it. They claim I do it on purpose, that I have no respect for the sacred sanctity of others. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I have dignity, by God. I come from the South, not the region, not the racism, but from the pride. I have known dignity and respect and pride beyond any that their feeble minds could even comprehend. I know of shameful shortcomings and family secrets swept under the rug. Caged inside of this pathetic exterior is the soul of a lady, who can set tables and throw parties, who can divine matches and help the poor and without. I have the power to be what they cannot, and yet, I have fallen into their traps and made it to where they cannot see this beyond my paltry actions.

I am a lady, not black, not gray, but Wendy the White. She can't understand this because she is trash, but I am not and will not fall to her useless tricks.

Maybe I'm Updating

God, what has happened? My mind has turned to mush. Maybe it has always been that way. I'm not sure. I see such problems with the way I am living now. I watch too much tv, eat too many preservatives, spend way way too much time on this idiot box I am typing on now. I need to clear my thoughts, need to get away. I'm going to the cabin this weekend. I've decided. I am going to take pictures. I am going to read Edgar Sawtelle and 1984. I am going to write and relax by God, maybe work on curing this harsh and removed tone that my words have taken. How funny that in a harsh and removed place I believe I will find the answer to the coldness of my mind. Nature is warm and inviting, the mother and womb of my thoughts. I need that loneliness, need it like the air I breathe. I have to rewrite my life, reset my goals.

Why are they so concerned with setting me up with a lifetime goal? With a location and an idea? I have spent so much time worrying over not fitting through these hoops that they want me to go through, and maybe all of my protestation against these shackles is exactly what they expect from me. Maybe they want me to believe that I am different to keep me the same. Think that my uniqueness is satisfactory so that I won't cause too much trouble, so that my contempt can be swept under the rug.

This is just a stream, a waterfall of words with no meaning. I've lost that meaning that I could once bestow on words with such accuracy. Where has it flown in its desperation? What have I sacrificed when I applied this haze around my mind so that I could not hear the whole of nature screaming in agony? So that I could no longer see the actions that I must perform in order to see myself as human? I am such a monster. I have become the monstrosity of which I spoke. The monstrosity of humanity. And I can't stop it. I am sitting in the cave unable to turn my head. Unable to look around and see where the hell I am, locate myself on a map. But even if I could, I have no idea what map to use because I can't trust them. I can't see what their intentions are, what their biasis would make them do to me. Harm me. Maybe they wouldn't. There is no way for me to tell, and where once I would have trusted them, now I am beginning to fear them.

There was a crazy man at the gas station today, looking for a ride. And I had no idea what he was doing. I thought he just wanted to talk to me, and then he goes and asks this woman who is alone if she is single, and I suddenly start looking at him. If I had been alone and driving, I would have given him a ride. What does that mean?