Welcome to my blog. I document my adventures in travel, style, and food. Hope you have a nice stay!

most of this really doesn't say anything

Morning time, writing time, awesome laptop that people stop to look at time. I’ve got this great closeup photo of a lavender field that came with it on the desktop, there was such a great selection of stock stuff – I don’t know how I ever lived in the computer world without this! I have to install that Apple Care software or whatever the hell I’m supposed to do with it, I keep forgetting.

I make up stories about people in my head that walk by. A guy all bundled up, with a backpack and eight layers on, cutting across the parking lot to walk down Route 1 against the cars. I’m immediately storytelling – or maybe it’s prejudging – that he’s crazy or poor or has some bonkers shit going on, and he’s probably just walking to work. Being more environmentally responsible than a lot of us.

Do I have some lazy American kind of disease? Where I sit with a four dollar soy latte in a cushy coffeeshop hammering out my angst on the keyboard of an expensive computer? Car in the parking lot, cash in my wallet, lamenting over everything I don’t have and everything I’m not? (As a cover of “Creep” comes on, I think it’s Damien Rice or Joseph Arthur or someone, all stripped down and perfect…)

I want a perfect body / I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice / when I’m not around
You’re so very special / I wish I was special

Sometimes I just can’t make all this stuff fit. Damien Rice, I think. Sounds very Closer-soundtracky, even though that stuff was just on the album and not on a soundtrack – that movie pulls my heart right out of me and throws it on the floor. I need to get the Glen Hansard movie, I don’t know how I haven’t at least rented it already. I’m so retarded sometimes.

So, yeah – so there’s got to be some balance between being ok with what you’ve got and being motivated to have goals without feeling like a putz for wanting more when your life is already so full of wonderful things when there’s people starving… and I get all caught up in the perfection of a chain coffeeshop that’s all hip so it makes you feel better about spending the money and it’s really more of a Wal-Mart thing… but there’s this magic thing that happens in coffeeshops, for me at least. It’s like a sanctuary, a church with caffeine, a place where I can go to shut everything else out and quiet my mind and clear my slate off for the rest of my day…

Sitting in a coffeeshop writing about the beauty of writing in coffeeshops, is that like holding onto a picture of myself, or a picture of you holding a picture of me, writing in a coffeeshop, while we write in a coffeeshop? (I am thinking about Kristin and visiting Seattle and she was blogging and I was blogging and it was all computers back to back finding our coffeeshop thing, and she was writing about being with me in the coffeeshop… writing. She took a picture and everything.)

There I go all explaining myself like I think someone is listening, you know? This “you” I address, I suppose that’s really no difference than the “they”, who know so much and say you, that very same present yet invisible you, should do certain things.

What a wacky pile of words this morning.

If I don’t do laundry sometime today, I will have to put on summer clothes to go to the grocery store. I literally do not have one stitch of clean laundry, like, how far can we keep driving before we really run out of gas? I bet we could make it home… I have to go take some pictures for work, meet Ava back here to talk about her website at 10:45, get cat food (picky fuckers), drop off Raf’s laundry, clean the apartment, do my laundry, and tomorrow is grocery time. I love that I’m making the time to write in the morning, I almost don’t want to talk about it because I don’t want it to go away or anything. It’s mostly because I have work early and Raf has to be here for his job to get picked up every day at 7, and then I don’t get going until 8, and going home after to shower and get ready just seems silly, so here I am – even on this Saturday, we both have some work so it was get up and get ready time.

I feel like I’m writing about nothing.

Do we address how I’m not addressing my fears about The World and the vortex of insanity that everything seems to be falling into, and how it’s making me panic? Or how I think that people are assholes because they have the balls to complain, when I sit there at night missing my parents with an ache the size of a canyon that nothing seems to comfort? I guess I complain about stuff too – what am I saying I guess, I do – I can’t believe this dialogue just goes and goes and goes in my head. Maybe maybe maybe why is it saying I’m saying maybe wrong? I thought grammatical errors were a different color than spelling errors, whatever. I don’t want to wind up being someone I don’t know, and it seems like it’s something almost like going to the gym, I have to work at finding things inside me and staying true to my truth. It’s so easy to just hide inside other things, underneath other layers… being true is being lonely sometimes. Not a lot of people are into really dealing with some of this shit – really really, not just really in private and then not out in public.

I must sound crazy. Dogs in cars, heartbreak through the speakers, maybe all this writing about nothing is to get me to the place where I can function in real-time instead of all the perpetual angst all the time.

Ten more minutes… it really does feel like I just went to the gym. The discipline, the result, following what I’m supposed to do when I’m stuck – just like stretching when you need to, I’m writing through the stuck… even though I don’t think you’re supposed to stretch a strained muscle, but you know what I mean.

I’m just a pile of words and a pile of thoughts, all consumed with self and balking at the thought of really having to do anything else – is that true? It is sometimes, but I think it’s the good kind of self.

I still don’t feel like I’m saying anything, really. Is this the last set of reps?

I am sad sometimes. I have a hard time wading through the sludgier part of my relationship with Raf sometimes. I wish we could move away sometimes, and not to run away from anything, but just to do some different stuff. I get all caught up hoping for a better past. I am so bloated and pms-ing right now that I want to shoot myself. I want to finish the apartment because I hate feeling all in-between all the time and looking around and seeing a big to-do list, and it’s such a freaking waste of energy.

I think there are some AA people a few tables over that just got out of the morning meeting.

I’m judgemental and cynical and painfully self-aware (sometimes). I feel like my life is flying by and I’m missing something, but when I really go, okay, then what needs to change? Where would you go, etc. – there really isn’t too much that needs adjusting. I need to write more… check. I need to plan out healthy meal plans and shop and prepare accordingly… uphill battle, but I’m doing the best I can. I want to go to more shows… money’s rough right now. I have a laundry list of places to visit… all in good time, see previous statement. I just thought of a whole stack of stuff that’s hindered by money… what a fucking drag.

I don’t even think I’m going to post this, I feel like I just wasted a bunch of time sitting here and not saying anything about anything.

Why do I feel like I’m screaming and yelling inside but I don’t seem to have anything to write down about it? It got all quiet in here for a second during that Feist 1234 song. I think sometimes that I’m jammed up with Raf. It’s hard to differentiate what’s normal relationship stuff and what’s trauma of parental unit death stuff and what’s growing pains and what’s this or that… it’s so wintertimey for us right now, work work work and eating and napping like bears, then bearing the cold for meetings and more work, and then more sleeping. I look back in my blogs and I know a big part of feeling this way is the time of year, by the time we get close to February I’m out looking at shotguns and at the end of any ropes I’ve managed to hold on to. And I can’t do anything without knowing what’s what. I am in a good relationship with a good man, my parents are dead and I’m all fucked up and I can’t figure anything out so maybe I should stop beating the shit out of myself and trying to make all kinds of decisions like a rational person would because I’m not normal and I’m not how I used to be and I’m kind of shot and this shit is hard. It’s really fucking hard. Sometimes brushing my teeth another day in a row is hard and sometimes just sitting there with an ache is hard and sometimes the good stuff is hard. It’s almost been a year and that doesn’t mean I’m supposed to be magically cured right now from all the hard and all the hurt…

There. Now I feel like I said something, and that it’s okay to go.


this is not my beautiful wife

all these minutes I need that I spend freaking out