It’s cold and there are wolves after me (1/23/10)

this is perhaps the best thing i’ve ever written. the most honest, anyway. i have changed nothing, melodrama and all.

 

 

The moon is behaving strangely tonight. Is is large, low slung and yellowed, a half shut jaundiced cat eye, glowing through the haze of fog to cast strange shadows through the barren trees. I have been doing nothing, all day. I sorted Nana’s books, I took vicodin, I daydreamed about seeing Colin again and seducing him, I flipped through some Shakespeare, some Poe. The moon seems to wink at me as the clouds roll on, and I wonder when I’ll see it. I don’t know what it is, but I know it when I see it. Where is my Jacob Black with this moon? Where are the things that go bump in the night? Galen tosses and turns as she watches Harry Potter, there is complete silence minus the scratch scratch of my pen and the occasional howl of the heater pumping fake air, the well head recycling the water, and Galen’s sighs as she shifts her weight. I talked to Tony today. He is going to hang out with Olivia and they will fall in love and I’ll have to just stand there and watch it and take it.

 

Abbey came over last night and we talked. We talked in the way we have since we were little, the words just changed a little.

Isn’t it funny, no matter how in love you are – or think you are – that you can still see straight through them {men}?

Yes, and this is our mystery.

And I love it. But why do we continue to love them?

I don’t know. More often than not these days I go for my own gender.

As do I! 

We clinked our glasses of whiskey in celebration of sex, sexuality, mystery, and most of all, our enduring tie, that’s kept us together through years and miles, the blood of the covenant and the water of the womb, the sting of labor, our mother’s friendship and promise. To being an Aries girl, yes, to being a girl!

Depending on how I move, I can smell the stale smell of my ashtray, but I am non plussed. I’ve been teetering on such emotional extremes that I cannot bring myself to give a shit about anything moderate at all. Screaming, howling in pain? Sure! Incest? Whatever! Smelling a dirty ashtray? Ehhh. I have to get up and pee, but it seems so unimportant, in this scheme. I am lackluster and neon all at the same time, depending on the angle. The candles on my altar have reached the heads of the saints, their illuminated halos dancing off the strange objects in the room. I feel suspended, in something odd. There is nothing I can say or do for my Uncle, besides let him sleep, in his own hazy dazy morphine induced state. Sure, take four tranquilizers when the box says one. Chew morphine like M&Ms. Anything, my one and only. The moon; the moon is gone from my window. Where is the merciful god where were promised? Where is my light of heaven? How can I presume to know these things? I’m passed out drunk in the backseat of your car.

 

I enjoy lighting my joints with matches. A habit I picked up from Alexander that I plan on keeping. Some quiet piano lullaby plays and I feel soothed. Our once clean room is covered with boxes of books which I wish would just vanish right now. They loom in my head like tombstones for all the ideas and thoughts I could have had, should have had. But I’ve written more in this vicodin vomit than I have in weeks. Maybe even since Portland*. I honestly thought Oncle had died this evening, he hasn’t slept this long in months. What does my father think of this? My lies? Can he see them? Can he see me? I hope I look angelic when I sleep. Galen offered to dump the ashtray, since she had to go outside to pee. Because we are living in the woods, and have nothing but a chamber pot by the door we must take out into the snow every morning, and she’s offering to do the night shift. I turn, my stomach and I, and I’m falling.

 

 

 

  • in this entry, “since Portland” means since November, since I had been on the road since my father died over the thanksgiving hols. 
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last night; she said; dated may 2017

She was telling me about fraud.  I found this absolutely charming and arresting. I eagerly expressed my support and asked to let me know how it went.

We drank gin. I took a whole roll of film, or, rather, all 10 snaps on my little instax. Edith is easy to photograph. Her large eyes and pretty eyelashes and well manicured brown hair. I don’t remember listening to any music, which is a new experience for me. As far as I can remember. I slept in Edith’s extra room, she even gave me a fan to sleep with, because I can’t sleep alone, without noise.

I woke up the next morning and my boyfriend snapped at me from the street, leaving me standing in a pink tee shirt and panties and white vans, hair askew and in shock. I sat with Edith and cried, for the first time in a long time. Edith, the epitome of tact, said nothing as I got snot on her shirt.

I walked home on the unpaved Beltline, fighting kudzu and listening to Placebo as loud as my phone could manage. I felt hollow. I took an adderall, gearing up to do all this work. I slept for hours, waking only when Liz called me to get dinner. I was in a haze, and accepted. I told her to dress cute because there was no way we couldn’t be that cute together. Liz cooked dinner, we talked and danced and drank champagne and played with these ridiculous expensive Bengal cats and the fancy future hash tampons and all of it. I got home at 3am.

I got home at 3am, and H was spiraling. I couldn’t keep up, the texts came too fast and I was in the back of an uber, speeding home to an empty bed.

I’ve made a bad decision.

I oscillated between rage and fear and anxiety. H, lives alone, in a shit city in Ohio. If he died, there would be no way for me to know. Or to tell anyone. His insistence on the protection of his identity means that only a few people in my real life even know his real name. Liz doesn’t even know, and she was there with me through our entire manifestation of our friendship. From when I was wavering on if we should meet, where we should meet, how we should meet.

I’m doing very bad.

I was calling him before I even got through the door.

Tell me tell me tell me.

I’m invested now, five years in. He can’t die on me now.

 

under 30 three time divorcée seeks companion

I went to get divorced this morning. In many ways, and from many, would I be seeking divorce.  I have been reading a lot about changing attitudes towards death, and “treating death”, which of course leaves you in a place to talk about other things, the other things that make up life. Speaking and thinking so much of that unknown blackness instinctively takes you back to something brighter. To something less nadir and more on the way to zenith.

The first of course, being my actual husband, who I was divorcing in some quiet Judge’s chambers on the fourth floor, yes there was that one.  I went to the wrong courthouse and lost my phone thinking about _, the other work husband.

The second was _, my work husband at my old job. Husband is the only decent word I can give. I cared only for his happiness, I thought he was devastatingly attractive in a favorite way of mine ; like the stranger on the bus you were convinced you were going to get up and get instantaneously pregnant and have your life changed in a milisecond. His country life mirrored mine, his naivety about things I found mundane, thrilled me. Every innocent little stone was a revelation in simple joys I could enjoy again, lived through his little honeysuckle moments of discovery. He’s getting married in October, and when I finally went to his house I desperately wanted to see where he showered, where he slept. He gave me nothing. Ostara, that one was. I took a half day from work, and came to him with sun leaking out of my skin.

Comic book stores and showing him how to buy records. I wanted to fuck him terribly. I didn’t. Neither of us really wanted it, we wanted how it used to be, the sexual tension in the “office”, _ throwing kegs around for me, taking his shirt off, writing very neatly on the chalkboard, bringing me small perfectly portioned cups of rare beers – these small erotic tortures kept me going for months after our ‘breakup’ which occurred when I went to China.

Having these little honeysuckles keeps him as a real person in my life, even if only in the sunset and sunrise moments. He’s reading Harry Potter for the first time in his life and sometimes that alone is reason for me to jump off a cliff. Being with  _ is an experiment in pure Americana. His family farm in Wooster Ohio, his multiplicity of siblings, aunts, cousins, relatives, – it was an amazing thing to experience and to escape. I’m being unfair in placing words in his mouth but that’s the way things have to go. Enough about the long prolonged death of _’s two years of office romance, and move onto an even more pressing problem. A more pressing divorce.

 

Margaret, my queen of cups. She leaves my life next Friday. Probably before that but I’m going to suck all the blood and marrow of her before she leaves. I’m terrified Wendy hasn’t passed out all the information, her emails stopped coming last week, before she went to Ossabaw. I have to trust that she believes it, but Joan and I are not so sure. I have no idea what to do about the Wendy problem. But Margaret, that’s fine. I’ll just asked for all her Evernote notes and then call that it. And watch as she becomes a perfect mermaid. Her spirit, her animus, her manna, it’s something unique. I can’t believe she tolerates me. I think I puked in her car which is a horrible thing, but I can’t apologize for it now, too much has happened. I’m about to turn 30. Although, it would mark the first time I threw up in someone’s car. My intense dry spell (no drugs, alcohol, sex, or masturbation) purged me of this, or so I hope.

 

Margaret, I’ll keep harder. _ Is at the end of our time together. Not Margaret. But yes, the one husband I really had to get divorced from.

 

After sitting through almost half an hour of testimony about incest, custody and mental illness, my lawyer came to rescue me and take me to a backstage sort of area (Judge’s Chambers) to discuss the particulars. My mind was lost, a million different ways, the Ativan in my bag and under my tongue, the panicked heart rate after dashing up to Central avenue after going to the wrong courthouse in an overpriced Lyft, it was all too much. And Karri, so kind, trying so hard, to gently usher me through Yes I have not seen him since this date, and no, he has not contacted me since then and mother is in prison, house in foreclosure. The judge is very pretty, and she has an extremely proud southern drawl. She admonishes my lawyer in Spanish — are they both the kind of black women who speak Spanish? — and says that since Febuarary has only 28 days, I have to give Azul more time. Until the 4th.

“The fourth, of April?” I asked, because this couldn’t be happening.

“Yes, then you can come get your certified copy of the Divorce Decree.”

“That’s my birthday.”

“Well Happy Birthday, Miss Eleanor. See you soon.”

 

All seems fine. As fine as it can be. I don’t know what else to do. Fall asleep and try to wash the pain off me. My mother, my mother sent a picture of my dad, and I stole the James Baldwin from work. I had to have it. The gods will forgive me. But I need it more than my sterile office needs me. My god. I should probably keep crying. The urge to purge has not abated. My altar calls to me. My ridiculous, amazing parents. How to think of them. I need to clean off my altar. A New is emerging.

patriarchy & incest ; or; on life with daddy

This Aries time started off with a Manic Rush, a burst of feeling, a reeling, sun kissed delight. Perhaps I feel even more, with this Aries New Moon. Work – has been absolutely intense. I got swamped up in nothing all day and could have been working, but dealing with that later.

I’ve been assailing myself with sound. I am testing radio like app for work and am hesitant to even begin because I’m afraid I won’t stop talking. I’m even worse in person.

 

I think I fucked up and bought a car. But I think I can explain that. It’s Angela Carter’s fault. Making me think I can do it. Iris, Iris Murdoch too. And all the wild words. All of these narratives I’m reading. Stealing feminist theory papers from European libraries. This is an extreme reaction to what is happening in the world. But I can still get up and eat and bathe regularly and I am always on time for work. So whatever needs to be done.

 

The text below is taken before anything else happened, before The Tower happened.

 

 


today [3/22/17] I worked with an un ending amount of noise – harsh noise at that. But no, this has to start somewhere else.

yesterday. [3/21/17] ostara, Aries time my time. I spent the day with _, drinking, smoking cigarettes, talking about comic books. And he’s so naive and so handsome and some sort of distillation of what america thinks it is in some way or another.

His joy came easy, and being with _ is never stressful or dull, even when we are reduced to things like I just can’t explain it. It’s always there and always winning.

The day was so perfect. So stark and brilliant the sky was almost white with pleasure. I wore a skirt and a white shirt, and let the sun flow through me. What a day.

The tarot cards for that day were Knight of Cups and 4 of cups. (Double check that but I think I am right)

Today, my weekly card was The Devil, reversed, and this morning, I pulled The High Priestess up right. But no, I’m still skipping things here.

I left _’s around 5:30. I ate so much food when I got home, I nearly made myself throw up for the sheer misery of it all but it wasn’t misery because the bed was cool and the Florida water felt great against my skin and the sky was pink and I said it was all healthy looking. A heat storm moved through, lighting shooting around the sky and wind snapping limbs.

No, it starts even before that. It really starts on Monday, when I’m listening to Diane Arbus’ biography at the office. I had to turn it off because there was so much discussion of incest, in the first few chapters! I’m a libertine and all but it’s easier to play Leftover Crack in the office than Diane Arbus fucking her brother. It started me down a rabbit hole, the whole psychic weirdness of it all.

I found out that The Voyage Out was a super edited version of another book, she had written when she was in her early twenties. She being Virginia, She being Virginia. I fell into research papers and dizzying search term requests like /incest / female narrative/ historical/ and saving them along with a convoluted string of thoughts that had to do with Lana Del Rey and Maleficent being a rape revenge film and that song  [Once Upon a Dream] and all kinds of other things about life with daddy. but I didn’t, because I’m almost on my period, and my energies flux like mad, I haven’t felt this manic in years.

The Storm wrecked me. I had over filled myself with food and sun, I felt like I was about to burst like a seed into the ground. I drank soda.

I woke up at 1 in the morning and we had sex in the slowly dying after.

And now I am caught up. And now my body is in the correct standing. But I mean now, I am at today. Wednesday. I think I’m dyslexic. I cannot give directions. I cannot do left and right correctly. It must be my problem, it happens so frequently. I’m not good in cars. Trains, even buses are most calming to me. I let Margaret drive me because she’s an angel on earth and a divine creature. If I should die in a car, be it that one, with her. Fuzzy steering wheel cover on and talking about T.L.C.

But. I prefer trains. I use the exact same route for everything. I never waver. Am I OCD or just realistic?

I put different sized coins in each of my shoes to tell me which direction is which.

I got a security key. Am I paranoid at work? I suddenly feel that in my professional life I’m not dealing with enough security and I doubt anyone else is. This is a real fear. I will not waver on that.

But we’ll see if it keeps going at work. Hopefully not. The sun is out and I want to catch some more of it. More of it more of it more of it. My time in the sun. It’s not Diane. I wish I knew it wasn’t Diane. It was D-ann, with a sort of bastard French spread on top. But it makes it sound more intimate. More cat like. More….odd, strange, marked for some sort of realization. Some sort of real expression of the human spirit, even in the triumph of being broken in love, as people have always died in that splendor.

Yes, catching some more sun. Then I’ll reorganize this mess of a job.

My brain is stretched in so many ways, I haven’t even gotten to the story and I doubt I ever will.

Sunday before Equinox

Waxing Moon in Capricorn

Sun in Pisces

  1. King of Pentacles (Reversed, AM)
  2. 4 of Pentacles (Reversed, Noon)
  3. 6 of Swords (tilted left)

4. Monday – The Emperor (tilted left)

5. Tuesday – Knight of Cups

6. Wednesday – The Devil (Reversed)

7. Thursday – The Hanged One (slight tilt left)

8. Friday – Queen of Wands (Reversed)

 

 

Aries time (3- 2 – 1)

 

9. 6 of Cups (Reversed) 10. Strength 11. 2 of Cups

12. The Tower.    13. 3 of Swords (tilted right)

14. 2 of Swords (tilted right)

 

Saints

8 of Wands (right) 4 of Wands (left) and 6 of Wands (right)

Dear Cassandra,

I’m writing you now just to be cruel. It’s been years since I’ve seen you, and years since you’ve written. Some, like Drea, flit in and out of my life, but once upon a time I thought nothing of you, always of you, always of your happiness, always of your being. No longer. Now your face just appears in the faces of others, the faces of other women who look like you, pretty pale and fragile.

 

Now what are you. A mother, a mother probably again. I don’t follow you anymore. I know your son must be in middle school by now. Your son I encouraged you to abort. The son I named, Silas.

How the time flies? Your disgusting Army man of a husband, whose idea of exotic was to take you to Las Vegas. It’s the only time you’ve ever left the state in which you were born, in which you live. In this way I almost pity you, but I enjoyed telling you of my travels to Berlin, Hong Kong, Milan, Tokyo, Paris. Because I could hear your jealousy in your measured letters back.

 

You once said I was really smart but I had no actual knowledge. How can you know about a painting if you haven’t seen it?

 

Well my dear, I’ve seen them now. All of the ones you loved and I still don’t understand or really care about art. I’m not a creative person, and this no longer bothers me. You no longer make art. As far as I can tell. I don’t look at your internet life anymore.

 

I wanted to end it, officially, of course. To say goodbye to you, and banish you to the forgotten dust of my memories, kind of like how I know I went camping as a Girl Scout and I remember the cold and the dark of the mountains, but I can’t tell you anything else. I can remember Cassandra, her pale freckles, her smooth skin, her milky smells, the tears on her face. But there is no voice there anymore, there is no body.

 

Why did I love you? Did you ever know? Did I? Sometimes on accident I stumble across something of yours, and I think there might be a piece or two of your art still around my home. But like you, it’s becoming harder and harder to place.

cold light, hot night

I remember when I figured out your name.

It was shocking, and cold, milk in my mouth. My stomach flipped and I dropped the phone, unable to control the shaking in my hands. What a crushing thing to say to someone. The screen was so bright and the tiny flecks of glass from all the cracks bit at my fingers.

I don’t remember when I learned his name, didn’t really matter, not when we shared such a secret.

This is not going anywhere. I want to write a short story based on Hugh’s friendship with me and I’m not sure where to start. I want it to sound as scary as it actually is – a rich white boy with controlled tastes, and me, whatever I am. But there must be a beginning, middle, end and a conflict. What will the conflict be?

the scorpios from new role as? tony is a scorpio. twice. god. something about scorpios.

so gossip girl.