Terminal Irony 365: Cliché’ that you love me.

I couldn’t sleep wondering if you were going to come into my room. Now, I couldn’t sleep knowing that you weren’t.

It was 6:17 am. Truth is, I couldn’t sleep before I had the opportunity to wonder about you. I hadn’t slept all night. Anxiety. World-induced anxiety. Love of the Earth we’re bending over a barrel, love of my connection to it, love of you and your issues (equal to mine), love of my lifestyle, love, love, love which is alchemized by my backward brain- and magically turned into ANXIETY. I was naked on a bean-bag in my living room, having migrated there from my bed, which was, apparently, soaked with scary, metaphysical, intangible, voodoo juice. Juice that caused very heinous and terrible dreams. That or I was just afraid to be alone. I mean…like…in all of life.
Afraid to be alone?

I prefer to believe someone slipped PCP into my tea.

Hours before, as soon as I’d retired to my bedroom, my heart began to pound and race and kick me in the ribs while I attempted to sleep. It shot skeet and played Bacci ball with my guts. When I did sleep, I woke up every twenty minutes, sweating, disoriented, and fucking terrified of whatever had just happened during the most recent twisted and fucked chunk of slumberous hallucination. These dreams seemed real. More real than being awake. By nature, they themselves did not have terrifying content, but produced terrifying sensations in my body…or lack thereof. Sometimes I wasn’t in it and woke up that way- only to be sucked back into the flesh by pulsing dread and panic.

I texted you a few minutes before I knew your alarm was set to go off. I’m not so big a douche that I would try to wake you up before that. Across the hall, every weekday at 5:30 in the morning, you lurch out of bed, smash your FM radio, pull on your Carharts, and go to work. Tonight, it was oddly painful to be awake while I knew this was going on. All of the night I’d thought that if I could just be next to your long, sleeping body as it rested at solar temperatures, if I could just be crushed by your violent, indifferent, limb-thrashing in the middle of the night, if you could just rest your elbow on my face while you slept, if I could JUST hear the muted sounds of ear-plug-impeded snoring…I would be able to sleep and to not be scared. Scared of every bump and creak in my fucking bigmouthed apartment. I could feel safe and not think about anxious things. But I didn’t want to be a bother or a typical broad…so I could not test my theory.

Finally awake, you texted me back expressing concern that I hadn’t slept. I waited and paced and ate a billion pieces of Ezekiel toast (in an attempt to put myself in a bread coma), jumping even higher at every could-be-you noise. I stared, burnt toast in hand, into the black hallway at the other side of my black living room. The deck door was open. Would you walk through it? Would you sneak in to say goodbye and squeeze the hamstery, nervous life out of me? Would you think I’m being stupid and dramatic? Should I put on pants? I heard the front door of your apartment open and shut, followed by the sound of booted feet jogging down the stairs.

I couldn’t sleep wondering if you were going to come into my room. Now, I couldn’t sleep knowing that you weren’t.

The past few weeks have been interesting. I went to California, Miami, and was, for the most part, quite social. I’ll be writing about those things soon…I may even have something interesting to say. At the very least there’s a picture of me with a spear through my face. Stand by for that.

The outside of me has been partying and indulging and gardening and living the fucking Good Life. Because that’s what I do, I live the Good Life. When people talk about “The Good Life”, they’re talking about one that looks and feels like mine. And I love it, it’s not wasted on me, by any stretch of the imagination. However, when I decided to start living this particular version of Good Life, I had a set of beliefs about myself that I held on to like grim death. I don’t really want to get into it but I will say that it involved an element of immodesty and another of wealth…and one of, uh, nonattachment.

-These were my balls. Once, they hung from my truck. Recently, someone stole them off my tow hitch. Cosmic Symbolism?

I’m OBVIOUSLY not trying to sound deep and intellectual here- so bear with me; essentially, all I think about is dimensional and collective-conscious shifts, The Mayans, Jesus, my Higher-Self…and sour candies. Sour candies have become representative of my thoughts about love relationships. Mostly because, well, I have an uncontrollable taste for them-I’m a sour candy connoisseur…a certain person has noticed this and taken the appropriate action. By that I mean he keeps a bag of them in the cabinet next to his cat treats. When I am there, I get to eat them. Chelsy treats. So. It’s Pavlovian. Sour Candy equals boy. I’m doing phenomenal things for the women’s movement here, aren’t I?

Anyway, It seems silly in comparison right? PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWER! Itty, bitty sour candies. I’ll give a dollar to anyone who gets that reference. I’ll give you another dollar if you tell me in private so that I may be spared from embarrassment. What I’m saying is that there is a fucking huge battle going on in my universe. It’s a battle between the little things, which I’ve always loved-including some new little things which I never believed I wanted (like love and a life-partner, and someone to help me grow my tomatoes, blah, blah)-and the eternal ebb and flow of life energy. A battle of The possibilities of a future “Apocalypse” Vs. the possibilities of a future baby daddy. My spiritual evolution and hand in the shift of human existence, the coming changes to our earth and galaxy, a undeniable pull towards my purpose as one of God’s warriors… Vs. dinner and a movie!

Mad Max Vs. SnuggleRabbit!

-Rabbits!

Additionally, there is a sub-battle. On the sidelines, my wildly independent, Anais Nin/MacGyver-on-various opiates-and-whole-foods Good Life is in a bitch fight with my Nancy Drew/June Cleaver-breakfast cooking -“what do you think about this, honey?” Good Life. I know, you’d think to put your money on Anais, but truth be told, Nancy and June carry brass knuckles and mace, respectively. They also Ball-punch.

I’ve started taking more “artisting” and experimental photos lately…none of which you see here. Next time. I’m taking 2 Polaroid cameras to Peru along with some slide film. I’ve cut my teeth by just taking pictures of…well…fucking everything, so now I will start getting cozy…deliberate…weird. Hopefully everyone will be uncomfortable.

There are ass loads of things going on right now. For instance…I left for Peru 5 days ago. I’m went to the Amazon to have my brain melted. But it’s OK because a Shaman is doing it. Yep. Because of this, I’m not going to blog the rest of everything, I’m just going to post these photos with brief descriptions of what the hell is going on in them. Can’t you see how deep and intellectual I am?

The following pictures are from Freakeasy. A fucking amazing monthly party full of burners and nerds and people that like to hug and be hugged by non-lecherous strangers. Most of these pictures were taken with the point-and-wave-your-disposable-camera-around-in-the-air method.

Yes, that is a see-saw.

Aw.

And they serve hot snacks for everyone.

More Aw.

If you haven’t been. You ought to go. But only if you’re awesome…and can do the hugging thing.

The next set is…um…from a 40’s party we went to at Danny’s. That fedora was not originally a part of my outfit, OK? I fucking swear. It belongs to the pin-stripey fellow. Seriously. I wouldn’t do that.

…Aaaand I’m drunk.

Pictures of my gardening efforts. I talk about this shit like it’s my kid or dog or some other thing that no one else cares about but me. Get used to it.