Mask

Because you buy hats and warm gloves against the winter

To be the one "who loves too much" is not romantic. Or tragic. Or tragically romantic.

It is hard though. To let go of something, even though it has, or is about to become, toxic. Especially if the reasons you love - too much - are entangled with the things that are what made it so right to begin with.

I don't know if he will remember - or if I ever told him in words - the reasons why I loved him. For the attention, certainly. For the feeling of being wanted, of course.

Loving too much - not wanting to let someone go, even when you know that you are no longer good for them - is difficult to accept when the reasons you love them have nothing to do with you. They are what that person is about - who they are - all the things that make them who they are, outside and apart from the connection made by a relationship.

I don't know if he knew that. About the reasons it was so hard to let go.

Driving through the snow and seeing the man in the business suit, holding up a sign asking for work. A man dressed, not for the cold and horrible weather - but for an interview. You see him as we drive past, and I see you go silent and your face stiffen.  I see that you are angry that this is something that happens to a good person. Someone who has pride, and yet is putting themself out there to get help. If someone, anyone will stop. And cars stream by, oblivious.

You turn around, grim determination. Go to the drugstore. Buy the warmest hat they have, and gloves ,and an think an umbrella. You take these to the man and give them to him, along with your business card. You give him, not just a moment of your time and some small gesture of pity - you give him respect. You give him a chance that he may or may not pursue - but that shows him that someone is willing to take a chance on him. You show him that you see him as a human being, who needs help, but who is more than just his need.

I loved - love - you for that.

The man outside another drug store. crumpled on the ground, not so much asking for anything, perhaps having moved past the point of feeling that help is possible. Feeling that there is no help to give; no one who sees him as worth helping. You go in, and buy nuts, granola bars, a packaged sandhich. Gloves. You take these outside and give them, and as you turn away I see that you are angry, because this shouldn't happen to anyone. People should never be left alone, left behind, feeling that they are nothing more than garbage. Feeling anger that there's so little that just one person can do, but must try, anyway.

I love you. I still miss being there to see who you are in these moments.

Anger at people who bicker and trade platitudes and argue semantics rather than taking action. We find a women's shelter, read their webpage, and find the list of things they need to help battered, abused women, who have had their lives and freedoms taken away from them, come to a space of healing. Gather back their life. We go to thrift stores to find clothes - nice clothes, suitable for a job interview - what they need most is the ability and the means to become self-sufficient again. We buy toiletries - shampoo and conditioner, a curling iron. And children's clothes, for the children who are now their responsibility alone, to make safe, and build a new life for.

Your frustration so often drives you into acts of compassion.

I love you for this. For so many things.

I love you for your convictions. Even those that meant we couldn't be together. For being true to them, and to yourself - I love you.

I think at times you are aware of these things. The things that you do, and what makes you someone who can't stand to stand by, where there is somrthing that really can be done.

Small things, So much more than small.

Giving assistance, sometimes grudgingly, because sometimes to give is to be taken advantage of. You are generous, but you are also intolerant of people who don't meet assistance with action of their own. You've been disappinted by people who take and take and take and never use what they're given in the way that will make their lives better.

And yet you still give. And you allow yourself those moments of surprised satisfaction that an act of compassion - an effort intended to help someone learn how to help themselves - actually pays off. I think you feel the surprise, but perhaps rarely process the part you played in bringing out that success.

I love you for being the one who helps, truly expecting nothing in return. Only that someone can recieve, and match that help to help themselves.

There are many other things. More reaons than I can list right now, because they are also true, but unrelated, connected only in that they are reasons why I still love you.

I hope someone tells you about who you are, in those moments when you forget. I hope you are with people who know you well enough to see your personal sinkholes, and hold out the branch that you can grasp to bring yourself up, and back to you agian.

I love you for those times you fall down, because you get back up again. I love you for your anger, because in this way, it comes from understanding. From wanting for things to change to be better.

I hope someone tells you these things about you. I hope you hear them often.

I love you too much for them.

And I make no apologies for that.

I miss who you are,

I miss all of you.

I miss you.

Miss you.
Mask

(no subject)

Note to Self:

Do something artistic, every day, no matter how small or crap it may be,

Every
fucking
day.

"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something."

So top yourself or STFU and stop whining already.

Jesus.
Mask

(no subject)

The only thing keeping me alive at present is the fact that I don't have anything to make myself otherwise, and my cats, and the fact that I'd be stiffing my vet for the over 2 grand in bills that I just wracked up repairing one cat. Yeah, no, and I'm not exaggerating. Melodramatic, sure. But entirely serious. I kid you fucking not.

For at least the last 3 years I've done nothing that's made me feel like I'm worth a fucking crap. Aside from a few high-fives from something I've occasionally not sucked at entirely, all I've managed to do is get by or fail. I've always been insecure, sure, and I've always done better with praise than without - but in general I've at least been able to point to one thing or another and say, "well at least I'm good at THAT."

I've run out of things to say that about.

I am so fucking tired of fucking failure.

I am so fucking tired.
Mask

Insert Meaning Here

It feels like so long since I lived like I felt that life had any real meaning.

I haven't been a slob since probably 6th grade, when I somehow learned that there was something useful about being able to find stuff when I needed it. And when I finally lived on my own, I always kept my home, if not sparkling clean, at the very least tidy. The only things that sometimes occupied what could be considered a space of disarray would have been some art or craft project I was working on. Something that would be there for a while, because it would be my form of nightly meditation: the clay, or the carving tools; sandpaper; paint; sometimes fabric or beads or the weird homemade sculpting compound that became my medium of choice -

My house, particularly in the last few months - is basically squalid. I hardly ever cook, and yet the sink is constantly full of dishes. I haven't been able to sit on the sofa for months, because it's always covered in paperwork and notebooks that should be collated and organized - and unopened mail, bills of course -

Nothing feels like it matters.

Everyday, I feel like I don't do anything right. I work for, rather than with, my mentor teacher, and after weeks of telling me how perfectly smarvelous her last few student teachers were - she's basically given up on me. I'm only supposed to be spending 5 hours a week at the school - I'm spendning an average of 20 hours a week there, and she still behaves as though that's not only what I'm obligated to do, but that I don't do enough, even then. There isn't a day that goes by where she doesn't indicate that something I've done wasn't the way it's supposed to be done. Every day is an exercise in just getting there. That's about it. Knowing I'm walking into a losing proposition, every single day.

And I'm PAYING for this. Not GETTING paid - I'm paying the university to make me feel like shit. This is what passes for "teacher education," apparently.

And Twister's at the vet. He's been there since Wednesday and will likely be there at least a week. His bladder was obstructed, which is a literal death sentence for boy kitties if not immediately diagnosed and treat with 48 hours, maximum. Crazy. My vet's been taking him home with her every night because their clinic doesn't have 24 hour care, and she's that dedicated. I helped her do a procedure today, because the clinic is closed on Sundays, he'd had her up until 3am kicking out his catheter but still needed additional flushing, which requires two sets of hands,etc. - and I went to get catheters and feeding tubes (they use them to run into the bladder for irrigation, and he's wiped out their supply because the catheters kept getting clogged with crystals, some of which looked like table salt, but others that were the size of fucking SEA SALT)  and then I helped with the irrigation and the flushing and holding a squalling ball of fur, fangs and rage as we had to unkink his IV in order to get the tranquilizers into him so that he could get him on anesthesia to get his catheter sewn back in.  And then off he goes with Dr. Flowers again. Not even sure when I'll be able to take hime home again.

I don't know. I just can't seem to get motivated, however hard I try. I think I'm trying to get failed out of grad school because it genuinely sucks so very hard.

I may have already succeeded.

I don't know what else to say.
  • Current Mood
    drained drained
Mask

(no subject)

It's windy as hell outside tonight, so of course there's the sound of that - the wind itself, scraping over the roofs and dragging leaves across the streets; kicking cans and collapsed boxes and whatever else it can drag to smash, clattering, against walls -

But there's also a lot of human traffic out there as well - it feels like more than usual for a weeknight. And they're making different sounds than usual, also - some talking to each other loudly, so as to be heard; cars making complicated manuevers, ostensibly to avoid flying debris -

If you put your mouth to the edge of an oil lantern chimney and blow across, that's the voice outisde my window right now.

It's the epitomy of "change" out there tonight.

Crazy.
Mask

Aaaaaaannnd -

Tonight's the kind of night that keeps dragging me back to theatre.

Because it is true, unequivocal magic.

Yesterday's barely competent cast made the train wreck of a script acutally work tonight. For the very first time, I didn't wince every few minutes or find myself feeling as lethargic as the actors looked, or silently curse the useless excuse of a director for rummaging through the Demeaning Stereotypes Handbook for every shitty, insulting cliche he could squeeze into 90 minutes -

Tonight the cast took the next to nothing they were given, and made it work. Overnight. What I saw tonight was literally a completely different show from last night.

It's not high art, but during notes I got to tell the cast - we all know this has been a challenging show to get up (....!!!), and there have been a lot of hiccups getting al the pieces to fit together (!!!!!) -

But tonight, you guys made it worth it.  All the time and effort and stress - this is why we do it.

Because it's fucking magic, man.
Mask

(no subject)

So I think this show has finally, officially put me off theatre for quite a while. I've put too much time and effort into doing what I do, despite all the bullshit I've had to put up with, to be treated like crap. In the next few days I'm going to get as much done as I can and then it's quits - the fucking Production Manager can have his keys back, and if they need any repairs or maintenance they can goddamn well take care of it themselves. I didn't think a show could possibly top the hell that was Fiddler, but by golly, was I wrong. And then some. Was everything I did perfect? Of course not. Were there times that I was incorrect amd had to fix something or apologize to someone because of my own error? Absolutely. So with all that, I expect the same in return. Some fucking respect, if not for me personally, then for the position and the work. Failing that - they can fuck right the fuck off and fucking fuck themselves.

Fucking Fini.
Mask

(no subject)

Behold the t-shirt I am longing to make. I am so. sick. and tired. of being stigmatized. Or rather, living with the constant background radiation of being discovered and disbarred from 'polite society' just for being my own damn self. Dear World: get over yourself already. Y'all aren't perfect, either.

Bi Polar Shirt

Mask

(no subject)

Simply put, I am in no way convinced that Obama's healthcare system has done anyone any good. Just from what I see on the ground, there's been no improvement in health care - just an increase in health insurance.. What people couldn't get before, they still aren't getting - only now, they're required, and fined if they don't acquiesce, to pay for what they still aren't getting.

I'm not slamming the President personally for this - I'm just sick to goddamn death of hearing people who already had healthcare before praise what others are now actually being punished for still not having. I would love to hear from one, just one person who has actually benefitted from this bullshit - just one truthful testimonial from someone who can say that they or an immediate family member has received any kind of actual healthcare they didn't have before.

Insurance doesn't help people heal. The services of a goddam physician are what do that.

Are we any closer to that?

I dare anyone to prove to me that we are.

This is an issue about which I would absolutely love to be wrong.
Mask

Quote du Jour

The three most oppressive words
in the English language are
Joyce Carol Oates.

Gore Vidal*


* I do so love that man. And loathe Oates. Quantity does not equal quality, you monotonous, monotone bitch.