I can almost see it.

I can almost see it, my life past these woods. The structure, the ease, the clarity. My tomato plants blew over and I choked on sobs. They probably be just fine. Alice Coltrane’s Ashram was lost in a wildfire. She left before the Woolsey, though. Missed it by seven (lucky) years. One of death’s opportunity costs is no longer having to suffer the loss of that or those which are so loved.

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June 9, heh, good one.

It ain’t bad until it’s really bad. My life is like the top of this desk. Scattered onto more scraps than I can count. My thoughts, scrawled, barely legible, if at all. Dates are rare. Context, a luxury. Most things hardly realized. Does any of this make sense to you? 

I find these notes for myself, often scribbled into the margins of college-ruled paper from the time-period in my life of its namesake. I use the surplus for taking notes during all of these Zoom calls. Waste not. I’ve moved these blank sheets from college to my folks’ place, from there to Barb’s, from there to a duplex in Lakewood, from there to a high-rise condo in Lakewood, from there to a higher-rise condo in Lakewood, from there to Nashville, and from Nashville to here. I have no business carrying around all of that undergrad energy with me from place to place. And yet.

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Dear Fridge: She’s lost it, folks.

Dear Refrigerator,

In yoga class tonight, during the cool down, in the seated forward fold, I instructed those in attendance to imagine a kitty cat pawing slowly up their back, all the way to the base of their skulls. I assured them the kitty cat was hypoallergenic. I barely had a filter on my inane cheesiness and cheerfulness before being locked away from the world for a year. There’s no hope for anyone now. I’ve always wanted to know what it would be like to be mysterious or cool-demeanored. Some things are not meant for me and any longing only results in painful, poisoning baggage. Like a beautiful skirt that even when it fits, does not fit me. I will never be able to find the right top or shoes. Knowing full well that I will never feel comfortable in this skirt, I keep it still. Fashion and reserved emotions cannot be forced.

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A dirty soul.

My Dirty Soul.

Let them see me.
Crack open my carefully constructed opal casing.
So what?
Did you find a shriveled nothing?
That’s what I always thought was there.
Pronouncing “dahlias” intimidates me more than growing them.
A tryhard who tried hard.

“I’ve got a dirty soul,” I tell the man behind the counter.
“You can wash it or wear it,” he replies.
I hem and haw over my choice.
It’s not that dirty, I think. I smell the armpits.
I could have sworn I had washed it last week.
The nervous stench is undeniable.
The acrid smell of fury-sweat.
It clings like the smell of cigarettes on a smoker on a bitter-cold day, who works in a small, stale, windowless room, with three others.

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Flowers are reincarnation: Nothing else looks so soul-like.

Being outside now feels like rediscovering a world I once loved and had forgotten. I am finding so much peace in yardwork. I love when the cold air is tempered by a bright sun. My favorite flowers, daffodils, are more broadly known as narcissus. I learned this today from my preferred florist’s Instagram story today. I was surprised to not know this, though I’m not sure why. I’ve never researched daffodils before.

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2021 Goals: High Hopes.

Goals and growth give each day of mine direction, vague guidance for how to adjust the sails. They fill that space between things when I might otherwise wonder what on earth I am doing here. The desires are self-imposed hero’s journeys, the mountains we insist on climbing. Our souls say so. I don’t make them, I’m just listening to mine. 

But what are these mysterious goals of mine? 

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3. The weirdo with a pizza face.

My fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Schultz, taught us math and science, but also handshakes and hygiene. He was not a man who minced words. He called worksheets dittos. To this day I flinch when someone says “ditto!” They mean “I concur!” but I am lost, my mind retreated and ducking for cover from memory of hundreds of multiplication table exercises. Or perhaps it is more from the memory of my mom begging me to do them. Who would even want to grade all of that? I was lucky to have picked up on math from an early age, thanks to my grandfather. Science was interesting. It was the hygiene portion of Mr. Schultz’s curriculum that would turn out to be the most treacherous for me, personally. 

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2. The broad who followed panic down a rabbit hole.

Nine of out the ten friends I trust as designer drug connoisseurs recommend I never do cocaine. They have each said this un-prompted and independently from one another. With a gentle sincerity, it has been explained in many words and few that I am not a good fit for this particular substance. I trust that. The rationale has always been consistent too, “you stay up all night anyway, you talk too much anyway, and you’re too frisky anyway. You don’t need it.” Fair.

Vegas is sort of like that for me, too. It compounds my nature. Sin City has repeatedly tried to give me the hint we are not a match; I pretend to not hear. This is how I get myself into pickles. This is how I ended up trapped outside, inside of a casino. That’s no place to start this tale, though…

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A New Frame. (of mind)

There is a little meme flitting about at an increasing speed that says something like, “I wanna go back to the places I’ve cried and laugh in them.” My initial reaction was a roll of my eyes. This adverse reaction means more about me than whatever elicited my judgment. The idea of letting go of my suffering to make room for joy…*that’s* what made me roll my eyes. Ever digging my heels into the earth at the mere suggestion of being worthy of happiness. 

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