The Long Road Out

Fooled you on that one. I love to dance and have always danced. So this isn't a rejection of an offer. It's gratitude and acceptance. And of course a tributary in the deep river of grieving. I may never dance again, other than my solo joy moments. Moving in the air. The dance is done.

My home had been taken over by a party my ex-wife and mortal enemy wa throwing. Lots of people I didn't know showed up. There was good music but nobody danced. I left and wandered around town knocking things down. When I came back people we starting up leave the party but the thing was still there making out with two women. Someone told me she had a daughter. They all left laughing and I finally woke up. Why is my subconscious brain wasting my remaining life with this painful drivel? My best guess that it's watching Trump's fascism destroy my country. He too is humorless, unconcerned about my pain, and unable to hold an adult conversation. Narcissus was a minor side story among the ancient gods. Narcissism in humans is the most sociopathic and psychopathic cruelty. It's a plague unleashed on us, and we're unvaccinated. The koolaid you drank will kill us all, you Trump fucks. Or maybe I blame my ex for being such a careless simpleton. For never inviti...

I hope he gets up again. Not because we need armed men—flatulent warriors is all we have these days. But because if Orion stands up as winter approaches I will too. I am not functioning particularly well. I chose the wrong tasks. Interacting with others takes a long time and I'm not consistently decisive. Please don't worry David, or trigger unnecessary anxiety. Other than the cats who need me, what does it really matter if I fade off into self-contained ridiculousness? Does it matter if I can't or won't return texts, or if I stall on simple and complex projects? I think my spirit is telling me how to die happier, which is not to care. Be true and clear as you walk yourself home alone my dear friend. Hello Loveling. Perhaps each day is practicing for the end. Practicing to lie still like a September Orion.

Trump files dozens of lawsuits daily. Recently he's been claiming libel from the radical left press—ie the NYT for instance. Trumpers wouldn't know "left" if it bit them on the ass. It involves free health care, income redistribution via fair tax policies, superior education, and respect for international law. The NYT?  Washed out morally compromised liberalism on a good day.  War hawks most of the other days. Don’t believe me?  Name one solid left publication you read.    I’m waiting.   Citizens don't have access to the courts because fat pigs like Trump waste the resources. Remember 77 failed lawsuits claiming election fraud? Try getting your slip and fall dispute on those dockets! Don't bother. You can't afford it. But worse: is he paying his own bills? Or is he using treasury money to sue us? I'm sure if you look deep inside your soul you know the answer. Motherfucker. You suck as a human, Don.

4:19. Not too bad in the third morning home from Europe. But anxious dreams. At one point I was screaming "fuck" at the top of my lungs in a busy passageway. I worried others could hear me but didn't feel the need to stop. Then I was on a hiking trail yelling the same thing. Hikers were coming up the hill and I had no pants on. I was trying to get a shirt on but it was twisted and damp. An acquaintance was sitting on his legs in a bar. All the rooms were flooding. There was a room that used to be my bedroom. A few people were sitting on wet furniture there. I worked hard to get the acquaintance on his feet to take him home. He had no control of his legs. They had fallen asleep. One foot was facing backwards at one point. I'm overwhelmed. I've overscheduled tasks and projects and since Europe I'm falling behind on house cleaning and work. I have a few social plans and tennis dates and I can't fit them in. I was late for a dentist a...

 L fries get assassinated every fucking moment.  Some wingnut fascist gets offed in Utah, one of the most useless states in our electorate? Get over yourself. MLK was the real thing. He wasn’t a social media phenom. So was Gandhi. So was Che Guevara.  If you’re giving a blowjob to the president, you are not a philosopher. You’re a dead sycophant. 

Will my life improve when I get back? I don't know why it should. I'm still not sure about anti-depressants. I have no interest in sex but I don't know if that's serotonin syndrome, or a side effect of PTSD from my divorce. The good news: I don't care. And the sertraline appears to minimize anxiety. Other than that frequent intimating? I'm 70. Digestive issues? Who knows? Fatigue. Possible. Anyway on with life either way with my now two cats and no one else. I don't want companionship for this part of my life. I don't want to help others. I want to take care of my new house, make it into a place I love, and find ways to treasure myself. So much self-hate! Boring. I'm bored. Really bored. Smile. Deep breaths. Change my worn out physiology. Walk myself home. With gentleness and compassion and gratitude. I made it. Alone.

I'm sitting in a southern European cafe in a town square, watching happy couples stroll by. Thanks for the Coke Zero and the diavala pizza…things could be worse. It occurs to me that I don't expect to ever again enjoy the feeling of knowing someone is attracted to me, or cares for me above all else. How sad and lonely that makes me feel on this perfect day. I see women who are attractive to me—hey, it's France. But—no more pain. Please. No more pain. I strive to be self-content and self-sufficient. I pray my mind holds up long enough without the guardrails of love so I can learn happiness again, with myself. No idea if I'll survive to pull this off. I guess I'll see, won't I!

Day 4 of living alone with my cats. I didn't return calls and skipped a social invitation I had accepted earlier. I worked on home projects, but didn't complete anything. I forgot to take my meds think. Hey not every day is perfect right? I don't cook. Or shower. From the outside this wouldn't look good. Doesn't look super great from the inside either. It is what it is. We'll see if I'm transitioning or failing.

I worry more each day for myself, and now I have complete freedom to make of each day whatever I can.    I don't know what I want.  I don't know what to do.  I am lost, and my dreams are of my family turning against me.   I don't have any family except my beloved brother Glenn.  I am such a bad brother because I don't love myself.    Writing to this journal is my moment of peace.   I feel better after therapy sessions…where I get approval even for this.  For the me I live inside now.  The small withdrawn shell of previous episodes of me.   Zoom calls are too much.   Completing projects is too much.   I have a business trip Monday.  I'll never get packed and don't care if I find my passport.   Love is too much.  Sex is appalling.  These are activities that have caused me more pain than joy and I'll do anything to avoid more pain.   This is me on anti-dep...

I'm appreciating Gilbert's Substack writings these days. She's made the memoir into a wide open depiction of crossing the line between the I'd and super ego in a profound way, and tying it to actions that read better than a Ken Kesey novel. I too would destroy myself to preserve what love I can derive from those I cared about. I too find myself alone and celibate (and with short hair!) as a result of my decisions. I too respect the role of psychedelics in gaining an infinite connection with our shared network for grief, love, joy and pain. I have been shocked by cruelty with no purpose. We live in a foul country with an ego the size of the universe. Why not kill your cancer-laden lover? We're not in the top 10 in a single ranking of cultural or economic value and we have no rule of law. Why not learn to love yourself? The only reason any country engages us is to minimize our capacity to capsize their more valuable assets elsewhere with these childish arre...

Some message of kindness that matters… Some sort of indication that this hasn't all been a waste of resources. I travelled through my life as lightly as I could.  I tried not to despoil.  But still...I took up space and I don't think I made many people happy.   Today I'm so anxious I'm feeling nauseous.  It will be a long tough day but maybe this will provide some slim openings for new connections with myself and the world. I hope so.  This happened, to some degree, last summer, but then I botched it and took a roommate back.  Now it's a surreal mess again.   Stay away from horses, landscaping, and the kitchen when Diana is around!  I'm sure there are a few other areas where I've transgressed. I feel safe typing in my journal here, under a warm blanket, on my bed with Tico.  The poor guy.  He's losing his best friend in a few hours and senses it but doesn't understand.  And then a strange new cat is showing up at 5:30...a cat wi...

So I'm moving my roommate out.  I'm paying for her new house rental for a year.  We're barely talking, and when we do it's beyond superficial.  There is no warmth coming from that sector.   She can't lift anything, but she's packing up her stuff and asked me to move boxes out to the car…the heavy ones.   Then she got a phone call from a friend, and disappeared into "her" room half an hour ago.    Idiot that I am, I carried two more loads up the stairs and out to her car.   That's enough.  I'm also paying for the movers on Wednesday.  What the #)%$ am I doing carting her exit packing?   This is abusive.    I long for approval…though I also recognize that my desire for approval (the roots of this desire trace back to my mom, etc.) is now leading me to make some very bad decisions for myself.   Wednesday is a good decision.  And I'm not carrying any more boxes.  The movers can h...