i am looking at this screen, listening to my fingers tapping. i can't type for shite. i'm in my kitchen. my kitchen/foyer/office/pie-central. i've gratefully cleaned up from yesterday's foray into a new pie for b-day peeps. baking always forces me to clean. not be lazy. get focused. 9 times out of 10 when i bake, i bop around the kitchen, what room there is in here. & for the cleaning that always follows, i bop around the rest of the apt, aka what i lovingly call the salon. over 7 years i've lived in this place & i still can't seem to put something on the walls. mismatched picture frames of people i love clutter what surface there is but still the walls are blank. as if reminding me that i once painted non-stop, daily. but i look at those paintings now & i wonder what the hell i was thinking... even though i know exactly what i was thinking. that girl is still in me, she's always there. i look to the left & see the tv on, the lord of the rings: the 2 towers playing without sound, captions on. i fell asleep with the tv on. surprise. the only way i can fall asleep. sleep the thing i miss, save for the one night i took a fraction of that hard, blue pill tena gave me. slept for 11 hours that night. i look at the rest of the room & want more of it. room, that is (sleep, too). yet i've almost always lived in small spaces, oddly comforted by the size, perhaps because it's cozy, perhaps because it's that one spot carved out just for me to occupy, with no one else. except that fraction of friends who are welcome here. the ones that post up on the kitchen floor waiting until a steaming pie comes out of the oven. rarely can they manage the hour or so it takes before they should dig in, they hate the time it takes for a pie to set.
crap. i paused. stupid editor.
part of natalie goldberg's practice is to keep the hand moving, still works when you type unless you're me & out of practice & have a pretty adamant editor. also a good practice for sex, that elusive other practice of which i get none. uuuuggghh. i've become borderline intrusive on my friend's sex lives, vicarious living a poor pathetic substitute but it'll have to do. it's hard to bring someone into this tiny home of mine, my life with my friends always comes first & after putting myself through 2.5 years with that sociopathic monster of an ex, it's quite frankly terrifying to be remotely intimate with anyone. those friends who i hold dear, their trust paramount, they are encouraging me to be more open, take off the blinders, don't worry about losing membership in the exclusive club, it's not going anywhere, blinders off doesn't change who i am. but doesn't it?
hm. the fingers stopped moving at that one. the free-flow of one thought to the next, it's coughing & spitting a bit, now. i'll try again.
now i am looking at the cigarette i just lit, too early to be awake, too early to smoke, dammit, not cool, botkin. but it's almost a fuel to keep this going. a bit hungover, my perpetually feverish yet foggy brain cinematic, running through the images from last night. it's always the images, the smells, a tone. rarely the words. i can tell you what you wore, what you smelled like, what you sounded like, where you were when you spoke, the way you gestured, the sincerity in your eyes (or lack thereof) but not precisely what you said... story of my life. maybe that's why i need to write. so much to take in. must make it come out somehow. i'm thinking this week it's time to get the old sketch pad out again & get those juices flowing. i'm out of excuses.
this is enough for now. the brain barf, that is. the practice helped somewhat. more soon, it has to be. i am grateful i found that goldberg book again, however corny it sometimes is, it's releasing something & that is always a good thing. am grateful for the experiences & the people i am continually blessed with, that inspire me to keep my hands moving & my thoughts flowing.
must get brain into work mode, hating that for today, knowing the work is going to be longer than necessary, i am longing to be outside, 20 layers on with camera in hand, or dancing with anthony, sweating & stripping, music so deep, the bass so strong, i feel it in my gut & the hairs on my arms fly. that other kind of movement so necessary to free up the spirit. oh well. at least i have this.
off to the chariot races.
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