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:: Monday, May 03, 2004 ::

My weblog is a strange thing. Heaping spoonfuls of semi-cloying introspection smashed together with the stranger occurances of my daily 20-ish life. I apologize for the semi-cloying part. I do it because when I write, the self-imposed roadblocks go away, and my feelings are easier for me to read. I don't mean to subject anyone to the possible contagion of depression.

That being said, a few notes on life lately.

Joe gave me a lilac *bush* and a little minature rosebush in a wicker teapot for our 9 month anniversary. I mean, a *bush*. How sweet is that? "This will grow and bloom and be around to make you happy for a long, long time. Just like me." You know, sometimes, he makes himself dangerously adorable. Lilacs are one of my favorite flowers, and I'd been dropping hints because I wanted him to maybe snag a flower or two on his way home when they were in bloom, but he bought a whole *plant* for me. :)

Joey and I, later that night, went to a Beltane circle at Crystal Dreams, over in Keyport. As always, Sue ran a great gathering and I had a lot of fun. I had been dressed as the (Note: Resolution sucks on this pic) mayqueen all day (I had wanted to surprise Joey when he got home, but he was late, out buying the bush) and I actually kind of liked the glances. People should remember to celebrate the season and embrace pagan roots, if you ask me. I was just a red-haired reminder. Another thing I consider pretty neat about Beltane this year is that mine and Joey's 9-month milestone fell on the same day. It's a good omen to have a holiday of growth and fertility on the same day as the 'magic' milestone, 9. Three, the sacred number, by itself makes nine, long thought to be one of the most potent magical numerals. For instance, Nine months, as everyone knows, is the gestation period of a pregnant female human. (Don't get all bent out of shape, it's just a well-known example). As if these events coinciding weren't enough to delight me, we went to get milk on the way home (also a re-affirmation of growth) and came across a woman from PETA with a tiny white-furred dark-blue eyed kitten on her shoulder, getting coffee. White animals are traditionally considered part of the fae, and are thought of as sacred and good luck. A blue-eyed white cat is fairly rare, and to see one on Beltane eve, out for milk on the tail-end of a circle with your boyfriend of nine months.....I know, a lot of you would say I'm reading into it, but I think it's kind of neat, myself.

Well, as far as work goes, I guess they're planning on making me a manager. Thus far, my schedule looks like Managing Monday night, phones on Wednesday, and managing on sunday afternoon. Probably going to do phones on tuesday or thursday, too. I make 7 as a phone girl and 9 as a manager, so, hopefully, I'm looking at about 200 a week. It's not a lot, but it's something. Every time I get my pay envelope, I want to kill you-know-who for making it necessary for me to move out of Baltimore. Yeah, I hated the city to bits, but Chesapeake Knife and Tool was easily the greatest damn job I ever had. Made craploads of money. I miss it a lot.

I went out to the store after work today in hopes of getting some coin-tubes so I can do my periodical emptying of the piggy bank to sort the change, but no such luck. I only made it to the dollar store and Drug Fair. Surprisingly, Drug Fair, which has been there as long as I've been in Matawan (and, apparently, for nearly 20 years) lost its lease, and is in the process of moving. Drug Fair is a step below the so-shiny-you-can-see-yourself CVS, Eckerd, and Walgreens less than a half-mile away (I'm not kidding you, they're within a single block of one another) but I liked that place. Apparently, a Bed Bath and Beyond is coming to fill the space. The entire "plaza" is a bunch of *really* busted-ass stores, like a down-and-out radio shack, a closed and boarded-up building where Stop and Shop USED to be, a weird chinese place that's riding the coattails of a so-so 4-year old zagat review, and the dollar store. Literally, that's it. Then you got this big HUGE shiny new super Stop-and-Shop across the plaza, so the whole thing looks disjointed. Don't even get me started on how idiotic downtown Matawan looks. The bright side? I got a whole bunch of 1980's scratch-and-sniff stickers in a Drug Fair moving clearance bin. (Anyone else remember Mello Smello?) Can we say, ebay?

....twenty minutes later....

I went down to get something to eat and was telling my mom all about my day, and she goes "I'm glad you're in such a good mood, maybe you can deal with what I'm about to tell you better" and goes on to say that Joe and I living here isn't working. So, 4 months, now. 4 months, I've managed to take a little comfort in the roof over my head remaining there. I've just spent the last half-hour crying myself sick because my entire life seems to be a series of wounds that can't seem to close. The stress of maintaining my existence has, quite literally, become too much. And, in all honesty, I don't really give a fuck about all those people out there who are going to read this and instantly dismiss me, because what stress could a 21 year old girl living at home and working at a pizza place possibly have to cope with? To reiterate the cliche of all cliches, no one could possibly understand. My mind is a tiny room that gets smaller every year, while more and more things are added. I can't sort anything, I've completely lost control of my life, and, frankly, I seriously can't remember what being happy feels like. The whole of my days are ashen piles of insubstantial and worthless moments, that, balled together, do not make a day, let alone a life. My boyfriend is increasingly the only light in a pitch-dark world, and even that fills me with a deep and heavy regret, because I know how easily he could simply leave, and how swiftly I would regress. My mother ceased to be an ally, and I know that next time I slip, it will be into the streets, because there is no home for me here.

My entire span of years has been spent running to any parental figures but the ones my dna is scripted from - pinballing from male figure to male figure, bringing them into my life through affection or opportunity....how many thousands of hours have I let die in the hands of men, simply because they were men? How many did I ask after, seeing some ghost of a uniformed memory of a father? How many middle-aged women did I try and endear myself to, hoping, sickeningly hoping, for that one shred of pride or admiration a mother too busy reinventing herself forgot to give? How many long-haired men did my heart pine after, seeing the features of the first man to lay hands on me, and teach me about pain, inside them? I have never known love. I have only known the continuation of a wasting disease of want, of need, to fill the space left by people who were never inside it to begin with - I see that now. I am a human sickness, a moving sickness that touches life and leaves broken glass and seeping poison instead. Even having never raised a human-hewn weapon, I believe, perhaps, that I have killed. Cursed with a heart that knows only how to give itself, and never how to take and live, I end up taking that which I cannot see nor use, and leave scars in the hearts of my masculine past. Am I created to destroy? Do I breathe so that others may cease to?

And this pain, I believe myself wholly addicted to it. With horrible and nightmarish clarity, I feel myself become attuned to the grey plain of wounded transcendence - and I begin to think of the word "depression" as misleading - I am held back from nothing - rather, I see too much. All the secret rooms of the spirit are flung open, their charges long since fled past hope of capture, into the plains beyond my own. I am an empty, hollow space, of storm-smoothed beachwood and dust-covered floors - my windows look out upon a vast and endless ocean, possessed of none of these pleasant inhabitants....lifeless and whitecapped. That is my sacred space. A dead and chilled beachside, so grey neither night nor day claims distinguishibility. I walk barefoot here in inadequate clothing, and the cold sand pours across my scape, soft but devoid of any spiritual comfort or warmth. Even the shadows cannot trespass here..my own silent anguish fills the empty space utterly, from wave to sky.

Each time I cry, another piece of me commits itself to this place...and sometimes, I find the wounds that hurt the most, so my journey can come more swiftly to its end.

~Fox





:: Fox 5/03/2004 08:16:00 PM [Say what?] ::
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