Day 453.

In the kitchen.

Day 452.

I am not woman or man. I am not lover or beloved. I am not the wind, not the stone. I am not water nor air.

I am not perfect nor imperfect. I am not my sorrow nor my joy. I am not what you see nor am I what you imagine. I am not what you desire and I am not what you've decided I am.

I am not here, but I am not invisible.

Day 451.

Well, there I go, looking like I've been crying again. Everything comes full circle. You can't avoid anything. Sometimes it all comes back to the beginning all at once. Sometimes all of your heartbreak rushes into your body and you've gotta just let it ride.

Day 450.

Day 449.

Me and Robert Burns.

Day 448.

Day 447.

I am so so so so so so held. I am supported and loved and saved. Nothing is unsolvable. I can always ask for love and get it. Fuck. I love these people.

Day 446.

Yeah, so, this is what I look like when I've been crying . . . as you may or may not recall, depending upon how many times you have secretly visited me here, practicing voyeurism in tandem with my online exhibitionism. Looking at my pictures, getting glimpses into my thoughts and my heart, and occasionally my companions, but so rarely into the facts and happenings in my life.

Day 445.

Sometimes you just have to make a fool out of yourself. Ask for something you want, even though you're pretty sure you won't get it. Do it because the asking is important. Because speaking your desire is a thing you've been taught not to do, and because it is in fact radical and revolutionary and beautiful and evolutionary to believe that your desire is worthwhile, deserving of a moment of recognition, deserving of being amplified. Even if it doesn't result in you getting what you want. You are allowed to want it! You are allowed to want, at all. In a world that says no, take these scraps that we throw you, and be grateful, in that world, a loudly spoken true desire is a big ol' FUCK YOU to everybody and every system that has ever said that I don't deserve to want and I don't deserve to dream that I get to have the kind of life that I want. I want what I want what I want. I want want want want want. I'm not attached to the getting of it. Just to the okayness of the wanting. It's totally fucking okay and human to want.

(Even if it means suffering is imminent & unavoidable. That's the next conversation.)

Day 444.

I take some time to myself and am faced with the things I can't ignore. I try to write about them and I can't. Or I do, but it's crumbly, nonsensical. How about, boundaries are good. Heartache is confusing. I never know what to do with all the things. A good night's sleep oughtta help.

Day 443.

Quick lunch, pre-work.

Day 442.

My nose is red from two consecutive afternoons in the sun.

Day 441.

Brown, callused hands at the ends of arms extending off of torsos
Of bodies that cough blood and can't breathe so good after the spill
Drop nets
Pull them up
Bursting with eyeless shrimp
And fish with oozing lesions.

Day 440.

Two Firsts

Sunspots on the back of the left hand, as had by the mothers I grew up around, who chopped without cutting boards, peeling cucumbers and slicing them against their thumbs, letting the pieces drop into a bowl.
(And later, so many years later, an elder remarking that I sliced the carrots into my salad the way women from "the old country" chopped veggies.)
Tattoo. Ask Baba to write down the word, and size it, and send it, and don't tell him why. Sit with with a 22 year old witch who doesn't seem to know her power yet as she dips a needle into India Ink and pierces your skin gently and repeatedly until the intention won't ever let you forget it again.

Day 439.

Day 438.

Yesterday I discovered my first sunspots on my left hand. Aging is so weird.

Also, odd witchy shit is happening that I have no idea how to write about yet. Soon enough.

Day 437.

We got Cafe Bier'd. 

Day 436.

Don't be jelly cuz my hair does this and my life is awesome. Just come join the party. Plenny o room in this here hot tub. *waves you over*

Day 435.

It was a perfect night. Alice Walker read us poems over a background of rain and thunder and lightning. I then deliberately and slowly shared a meal and conversation with a couple of delightful people. And now, sleep. Maybe I look shocked that life is this good?

Day 434.

Oh my god, look what a fucking hussy I am.

Day 432.

Everything felt so profound but a moment ago. No longer.

Day 431.

I am sick of this stupid blog and I am sick of my own stupid face and I am sick of my hair and I am sick of getting sick every month and I am sick of heartbreak, the big heartbreak and the little heartbreak. And I just want to shave my big stupid head that always has so much going on in it and stop with this stupid vanity project and instead I'm just going to keep going because sometimes life is about discomfort, and sticking with those you care about through discomfort, and I am the person I care about the most, and so there. Fuck you, me. You can't get me to abandon you. Here I am, whether you like it or not.

Day 430.

Body has forced me to slow down. Sick again. Just got up from epic five hour nap, plan on going right back to bed.

Day 429.

Photographic evidence that he loved me, found on the internet. Then laughter and love and food and friends. The universe doesn't let me open wounds without helping me heal them.

Day 428.

Wild woman.

Day 427.

Day 426.

Things to say, things to say, things to say. Half-started poems. Distracted.

Day 425.

Fuck all this heartbreak, yo.

Day 424.

That's right. I'm tired. And my hair's pulled back. And that's about it.

Day 423.

Good morning.