My Goodness.

I have this habit of claiming that my life is boring.

Maybe it is.

It's all relative, there is no undeniable answer to whether it is or isn't. A matter of opinion is not a fact. Whether my life is, in fact, a bore or not, I will say that I feel as though a lot happens in it (and "what happens matters").

B and I have separated (a mess I am not certain it would do me any good to uncap/recap at this point). I should mention, however, that I was incredibly uncertain about my final decision for quite a while;
(discussing the separation originally) was I being too harsh?
(speaking to my family about it) How much hurtful behavior should I forgive one person for?
(gathering my things, packing) Specifically a person I love so much and means so much to me?
(situating my things in the space I've moved into) Well maybe I don't mean as much to him, because he was harmful to me, and not just once... And on and on.

Thankfully, I was given some grace.

The minute I moved back into town, I dropped my things off in my mother's vacant room (safe, away, no immediate rent necessary, one less thing I have to worry about). A friend in said town not only asks me to house-sit for a month for him and his wife, but is passionate about me being the "guy for the job". As I am house-sitting, I am able to be closer into town (where my friends/the attractions are) and, as such, am able to be much more casual about saying yes to certain social events. I get out, I reconnect with friends that I very much need around me, I see how much fun and how full of love my life can be. I am reminded. Single or not, I'll be just fine, thank you.

It isn't too long before my beautiful friends/community members connect me with the odd shift at the local restaurant/bar I used to work at, then one of them hook me up with this incredible job that I could have never conjured up with these bosses I don't believe exist (too good to be true), and as a result I am at work, surrounded by art, artists, art-talks, the ability to organize and be odd and play music I like and sing out loud to it. There are events that I actually care about, with people I love and respect very much. AND it's part-time, so I don't have to donate all of my time to it.

My job: beautiful. The weather: beautiful. My friends and community and family: beautiful. Goodness all around me. The only thing left to do is listen to the Beatles.

Oh my goodness.

A Lovely Saturday.

It is June of 2018, which means that I have officially dropped the ball on blogging.

The coolest part of this, of course, is that this blog is not my responsibility; it is not my duty to "keep up" with/on it, to "stay current". It is simply a tool. Something that serves to aid in getting my thoughts out, to commemorate a personal time/moment in my life, and likely I am the only subscriber. As such, if I do not write every day/month/never publish another post as long as I live, the only person I am in danger of letting down is myself. And I am very much still on my low-stress diet, which means I will certainly not allow the aforementioned scenario to bring me down.

Today I am in Portland. 

It is absolutely beautiful outside. In the park, past the cobblestone path from the parking garage, there is a spirited young man strumming guitar and singing the words to David Bowie's "Starman", a personal favorite for sure. I am in an area of Maine where I normally am not, I am drinking a locally brewed iced Americano from a cafe I have never before been to, and my car is safely in the garage. To further immerse myself into the romantic ease of the day, I recognize the fact that today is not mine to schedule. I have no further dates to keep; my only real responsibility was to make sure M got down here in time for his commitment. And I did! 

M will be occupied at said appointment until about 1pm. So what else is there for me to do but to legally park Jasper for about 4 hours and really appreciate some simple aspects of the area on this gorgeous day? And naturally check in on my blog, hopefully keeping my ability to write somewhat polished. 

Speaking of which, there is plenty to write about since the last post, and since the gift of time has once again fallen into my lap, perhaps I should take full advantage of it.

Happy Hauntings

Have I really only submitted one lousy blog for the entire month of September?? And none at all for this month? Well this is surely hardly done. And given the fact that today is a glorious holiday, it gives me just the right amount of fuel for a quick check in.

Happy Halloween.

I have, sadly, crushed my way (all too easily) through the latest Lore episodes, attended an incredible Halloween party, hosted two very entertaining spooky story-telling events at the bar my sister manages and even seen the haunting remake of Stephen King's IT. So what is there left to do? Today marks the last day of "Shocktober", an event invented by B, designed to go on throughout the spookiest month. An event where a scary movie has been designated to be played each and every day (by him and yours truly). Today we have landed on Tom Hanks' the Burbs. An undeniable classic, for sure!

There are many other things to be written about and updated on since September, but I will leave that for another entry, possibly for another day entirely. Now? It's time to get good and creepy.

Stalemate

I drew The Empress, inverted.

I’m referring, of course, to the Tarot. Admittedly, I know very little about it, and it could be argued that perhaps I shouldn’t be messing with something so mystical and mysterious if it is, in fact, so foreign to me. However! I believe in my mother, my sister and witches of the like who subscribe to the Tarot. And I do hold some kind of guiding merit in it, so the way I see it, as long as I don’t push it on anyone else, selling it as something I am well-versed in as I do, I do not suspect much harm will come from it.

Now, allow me to explain, for those of you who are on my level of understanding; The Empress card essentially stands for creation, abundance and other mother-earth-like properties. When any card you draw is inverted, it stands for the opposite properties that it normally would represent when upright. And so, allegedly, I drew the news that I had reached a stalemate in my creativity. Naturally, being a self-proclaimed writer, I am no stranger to the ceasing of creative flow, the inability to end a piece; writer’s block. However it also, evidently represents dependance on others. Which I don’t like.

I have lived depending on others and not and I certainly prefer the latter. It is nice to know you have people you can count on, but making a habit of relying so heavily on them? I would really rather not. Perhaps this means that I am getting too comfortable in depending on B, my live-in love, due to the fact that he is so lovely and certainly makes it easy to ask for favors. I hope this was my opportunity to catch my faux-pas before it became a legitimate problem, because of all my relationships, there are three that I consider far too important to put stress on. My relationship with him is certainly one of them.

I will say, additionally, that drawing this card has given me the kick in the pants to get going on my writing project again (and finish it! *fist pump*). It is as if this card was some otherworldly witch energy calling me out on being a schlub and allowing my creative duties and accomplishments to wither. Leaving me to retort with an “Oh yeah??” of finishing my piece.

Thank you, Tarot!

In other news, I have since drawn another card, leading me to believe the actual creative block the original card was alluding to was that of the occupational. You see, the season is almost over and, as such, I am in a very interesting spot that I have never before been in. I am not quite out of this job, but am not quite within the two-weeks-notice realm. There is too much time left at this job to hand my resume into another, and yet before I know it, I will have no source of income. A thought, naturally, that scares the bejeezus out of me. So! I have been applying much more lazily and casually than I normally would and, as such, it appears I have made a lapse in creative judgement.

Something will work out (it has to). There must just be a job that I am not thinking of, for some reason or another, that I would be able to do and/or just love. Hopefully both.

Mill Town

This town I live in is what they call a “mill town”. It is a town filled with old mills of yesteryear. I think this might be the reason.

When I first was scouting out places for rent in the areas surrounding my new job, I hadn’t quite fallen in love with any area like I had this one (and I get to live here, now! Lucky, eh?). Being reminiscent of the Goldilocks story, one town was too touristy and bustling, but in all the ways I prefer not to bustle. Another appeared to be virtually untouched by tourists… or much of anyone, like something out of a Stephen King book, really. Which! Would have been perfect to plummet and fully immerse into the madness I love most - writing - however, not ideal for keeping sane at a customer service job anywhere outside of my house.

And then, there was Mill Town. Mill Town was juuusst right. It reminded me of a slightly larger version of the place I called home (also a mill town) and felt as if it had just enough livable/explorable space and was safe enough with just enough of an edge. I returned to Mill Town quite a few times before I landed, scouring the area for anything; a one-bedroom, studio, even a rentable room with common areas. However, once I got here, this darker side fell upon me. Suddenly it didn’t feel livable or explorable or safe. It simply felt strange and dangerous and I quickly wondered what I had done. Where was the fun and excitement and comfort that drew me here? That kicked me into such a high gear to buckle down and get here? Then I realized the problem.

I wasn’t really seeing daylight.

Literally - the job I had entered threw me into a different, sloppy sleep-pattern where I would sleep whenever I possibly could and rise only for work. At night. And return home even later at night. Any days I had fully off were spent hitting the highway and returning for a home visit to spend time with my mother, sister and boyfriend. Of course no place is going to feel great so late at night, and of course it’s going to feel a bit more dangerous; it’s unexplored territory! Unknown lands and people, and there I was alone and afraid of the dark! Once I realized this, I made more of a conscious effort to be awake and stay in town - no matter how it pained me - more often when I didn’t have to work. A little earlier on days that I did.

Since then I have grown to fully appreciate exactly what Mill Town has to offer me; another form of freedom. Being able to get up, get dressed, go downstairs and venture in a new place. Walking here and there, attending new restaurants and returning to my new favorite spots.

A place may suddenly seem dark and horrible, but often you can still find the light.

The Smoking Vegan

And to think, it all started with my refrigerator going.

When I moved to the apartment in my new mill town that I currently reside in, I moved in by myself, anxiously awaiting my boyfriend, B, to join me in three months time. Sure, there were a few quirks (i.e. the knobs on my new stove being installed backward, making every meal an adventure), but nothing too terribly detrimental. Nothing I couldn’t handle, and certainly nothing that bothered me enough to be considered a problem, or much more than something to laugh at. However, that all changed when I opened my refrigerator door to find the contents to be only slightly cooler than room temp. A discovery that was especially disconcerting considering the already sauna-level heat of June filling my rooms. I called my landlord, she had it fixed and simply said the freezer portion of cooling air that is designed to cool the fridge had been blocked due to over-freezing/freezer burn/ice chunks blocking the airway southward.

Long story short, the gentleman that came to remedy the situation came equipped with a hair dryer and plenty of free time to melt said ice chunks. This, of course resulted in me doing just the same in the weeks to follow. Anyway.

After expunging the moldy, melty, putrid foods that occupied my quirky appliance, it was clear a big shopping expedition was in my future. I remember that day I had been talking to and thinking a lot about my older sister, N, and her husband, C, who are both very beautifully devoted vegans. I thought of how lovely it was as an idea, how I always loved the food they shared with me and how their food never filled me with the bloating, sweaty regret of other types of foods. (Foods like meaty stews, mac n cheese, fish n chips, cheesy pizzas, burgers etc…)

That’s when it hit me; now was the perfect time to attempt the lifestyle.

I was out living on my own, so I had complete control over the foods in my cabinets, over the foods I made for myself. My mother wasn’t living with me, creating temptation with the old lifestyle we shared of convenience and boxed/instant foods, and if I failed there was no one living with me to see/judge the rise and fall of my attempts. I remember thinking of how the restaurant I worked at may tempt me, but in reality, they made mostly rich, large seafood plates that weren’t particularly up my alley as it was. Naturally, I could still have french fries.

Not to mention, my refrigerator had just been reborn. And that was decidedly that.

Sure, it hasn’t exactly been five years or any amount of time that is close to being impressive on the general scale. And sure I have made the mistake of accidentally ingesting things like worcestershire sauce (anchovies, who knew), or the occasional canned soup (why do they ruin a good veggie minestrone with parmesan? Such a waste), but the important thing is that I try my best. And God forbid I fail at all/any of this and fall off the wagon (recently had such a nightmare and woke up sweaty and guilty), I believe that any amount of animal product I deny now will have been worth the effort. And feeling so good in the interim from better eating is certainly worth trying again.

...Plus I still smoke cigarettes, so I'll take any health I can get.

August 13th

Today is my father’s birthday.

My father and I used to be thick as thieves; laughing at the same punchlines in any given Mike Myers’ comedy, filling our ears with the same nonsense from David Byrne, or the B52’s, he even took me to my first concert and my first stand-up comedy show. We had the same favorite comedian at the time. Which was convenient.

After the divorce we still stuck together. And after that some hard, strange times befell us all as anxiety reared its ugly head. Long story short, my father became less of the man I looked up to and more the thing that I ran from. But I couldn’t run; I was trapped because I was under a certain age and my mother was panic-stricken and finding - it seemed - all the wrong ways to rescue me. And, of course, my sister was not old enough to claim me as her own and was going through some similar, and surely some differing, difficulties of her own.

I will never forget how fucked it seemed to be occupying such a large, beautifully white, museum-like house in the cul de sac, alone, lonely and cold. A place where I was not so much “welcomed” as I was to “not touch anything”, or “locked out of most rooms”. A place where none of my things - including, but not limited to, my heart - were. When I remembered it as the warm, charming house of my childhood and early adolescence. And my mother used to be here, and my sister, and my father and all of us were welcome and happy and my sister and I would have nothing more to worry about than our grades. I wasn’t upset about the divorce. Plenty of people get divorces. I was upset about being trapped. In a place that used to be home and was now the fifth ring of hell. Complete with a cold, uncaring creature who bared an astounding resemblance to my father.

I scuttled between classes in my sophomore year with a hobo-like bag strapped to my back. I didn’t know whether I really was staying at Dad’s, or if I would be lucky enough to get a “forget it, you can stay at your mother’s” text from him once school let out. I never strayed from being hopeful of the latter. Most of the days that year I was not so lucky.

I would leave school, essentials on my back, ride the bus to my father’s, get into his house, leave my coat on, so as not to get a chill, and head down to what used to be my bedroom. Where, merely a year before, I received my dream bed set comforter etc… for my 14th birthday. Where, then, the walls were bare and even my breath echoed. I would lay low, pretending not to exist until he got home, when I really pretended not to. All we did once he recognized my being was fake and fight. He would fake that he really still cared about me, showcasing his ability for dramatics and I would fight him on his false congeniality. I said my first “I hate you” to him in that scenario. Once I had been brought to it, of course. On my best nights there, I would be ignored.

On my sixteenth birthday, I retired to this place after school, he and his fake fuck of a wife were there with their facades of caring parents - complete with homemade cake. Who were they doing this for? Were they trying to convince themselves that they were good people? Attempting to grasp at some kind - any kind - of victory from my mother in this? I surely will never know.

After fighting about how clearly awful I was as a child and me shooting back with how my father may not actually be my real father, the night eventually ended as it typically did then; with me crying so hard I could already feel the headache and physical hangover of it, and finally heading to “my room”, exhausted and very much alone. The next day as my father dropped me off at school, bright morning sun stinging my swollen, shining eyes as it often did then, my father said the words I will never forget;

“I think you should stay at your mother’s tonight.”

And me, being the oh, so clever, freshly sixteen-year-old that I was, came back with a “Gee, ya think?” And I slammed the door of his expensive company car. Didn’t look back. And I did stay the night at my mother’s that night. And when he didn’t attempt to communicate with me, I stayed the next night. And the next. Until I finally realized that I may just be out of the woods and in fact I was. To be melodramatic, my father (ex-hero, ex-buddy, ex-parent) had abandoned me on the day after my sixteenth birthday. But to be more realistic, that is not at all what I am sure he had meant to do. I’m sure he was just tired. Lord knows I was, and I was much younger than he. For a while I had been afraid that it was all too good to be true and that he would surely come back to my mother’s with the police again to claim me, but he didn’t. And I was glad. And I wasn’t hurt. And it was all just as well because I had already began to research how to emancipate myself.

He made a feeble attempt once to reconnect after a year or so, but I worked hard to keep him out of my life and said attempt was crushed, killed and destroyed quickly, and for good. And I know it was for good because he never tried to reconnect with me or my sister.

It wasn’t until after I had graduated (I believe? It’s all a blur now) that I heard any news of him at all. It was through my sister and it was that he had suffered a major and minor stroke. My sister and I visited him in the hospital and it was strange, to say the very least. I saw yet another form of my father (the third, at least, if you’re keeping track). This one was much less powerful, less sinister, but just as scary. He couldn’t walk, really, couldn’t talk, really. As I understand he even had trouble seeing, but who knows, since he couldn’t convey a thought himself.

The years to follow were filled with my sister accidentally showcasing just how strong of a human she was and is, and certainly what a coward I had grown into. His birthday - and special occasions of the like - serving as a cheap excuse to think about him, to see him, lest I be filled with guilt. Bring him some shit gift he didn’t need or even want. He didn’t want things; he wanted my sister and I around more. Or at least I think that’s what he wanted. For all I know he didn’t remember us in the least and just got happy to see smiling faces, not knowing he created and raised them. Many people have the unfortunate event of death to deal with. I hadn’t even been dealt that hand, and yet I still lacked the strength and courage to physically see my father or even go near that beautiful white house he had gotten in the divorce. The house had hit its third form as well, technically speaking, but I would always remember it as a metaphor of my un-freedom. I wasn’t there for my father.

I saw my father one more time, semi-recently, this time with my mother in my sister’s stead. It was his fourth official shape. He seemed infinitely smaller, to match his shrinking voice. He was grayer, thinner and boasted a jean jacket, a cane and a knit cap in the thick of winter. At a glance, he was adorable. Just another strange, sweet old man about town.

Many things have transpired since then, and certainly too much to handle in this one entry, as it is already a gun, locked and loaded. Long story short (too late), I haven’t seen my father in a while. And I honestly don’t feel as though it would be realistic to say that I would again. Word on the street is he has dementia, but is refusing to take his pills, as they are affiliated with the Devil.

Many people have had it worse. And if you think I have it bad, think about my sister. About his wife, my mother, who chose him out of everyone she knew, at one point, to live with and grow with and love. To have so many firsts with, at the young age of seventeen. Think of my father, for fuck’s sake, who thought he was doing right by simply living by what he had read in the Bible. I still don’t know how to feel about any of it. So far I have been choosing to miss and cherish the first form of my father, romanticizing my past, as one often does. Being entirely bitter at the second form of him, what he had put me through and remembering to, everyday, be more than grateful that I am no longer in that position. To be grateful for my freedoms. And a healthy mixture of self-pity, self-loathing and such a deep, deep sadness for what we both have finally become and currently are. Some days I don’t think about it. Some days I cry about it. Some days I miss him and some days I don’t. Some days I choose to be what I have assured myself is strong and choose to live guilt-free about the whole debacle.

Today I am allowing myself to be sad.