someone.

I lost a lot last year. Everybody died. And now, I feel alone (not always lonely) wading through this life. I want to rebuild my life and populate it with better choices, bigger hearts, softer landings. I was just talking to a friend about people that we can be alone with, alongside. Aren’t they the best? And so crucial to a healing, loving, growth. So yea, I want that. I want someone with whom I can be alone w/ on a Sunday evening spent at home. Someone with whom I can feel quiet next to after a long brain zapping day at work. Someone who gets what I do (and also what I love to do / not always the same). Someone who understands my fears and neuroses. And can match my humor. Someone who will catch my eye from across the room; someone I can claim. Someone I can remove my mask around. I want someone who sees my value and values my shortcomings. I want someone who will show up for me. Someone I can show up for—. I’m building home base everyday; my own ground to stand on. I want someone who is doing the same. We’ll build a bridge, meet in the middle, where love, loving, the need to be loved and seen, isn’t anything to hide or be ashamed of—.

(Christine, maybe it’s time to get a dog)

Dear Mars,

I miss that time, last year, when Mars was closer. And the Moon. And we were, too. Or,maybe the anticipation in the days upcoming? I miss both those things— us, especially, then— long conversations predicting the future/(now)s. I miss us hoping otherwise: two lovely, lonely things enamored with the other. A Girl and her Planet. a Moon and Mars dancing over the 101. Eating donuts on Alvarado.  Two little demons falling falling into one another, happily. Pancakes and LSD, downtown out of the cold. I mean to say: I’m sorry. I’m freaking out for many reasons other than Her pull or yours or His. I know we’ve made wrong turns and may have worn out an adventure; and who knows where we’ll end up, all grown up? But, it was nice to revisit them—the Old Us (spatially! even temporally). Them. Summertime. Desert air. “you & me” by Penny and the Quarter’s (put it on you’ll thank me.) the Old Us before all-that-othershit fucked it up. But I’d like to say that I am proud of our bravery. And I am terrified and so exhausted of what it’s done. Such the dichotomy that is loving Somethings like us. Pyrite, still pretty. Anyway, I hope that they are alive and happy, together. It was so nice visiting the old house, their clothes and haircuts, the newness and discovery—and I hope they still exist somewhere, together. Being very boring, together. Got their shit together. Goofing off, together. Enamored. Unguarded. Never needing to have to think again; just to feel—

thinking about recovery...

some days, it’s just really really hard being a person. no reason. just really hard to human, sometimes. even after a string of good, productive days. even on a beautiful day...a good reminder that Recovery is never a straight trajectory. It is as the crow flies, shot down. It is two false starts, a squiggle, another fake, and a ditch every umpteenth IKEA footstep (or so). It is a deep-dark-hole and then a pink flamingo and a sandwich. It is an uphill climb. a stair step. a curiosity. a baby step. and another. and next. and a couple “FUCK THIS!”’s. a broken chair leg. a long dark night, alone. a loss—but a bitter sweetness; another— but a gratitude. it is crying in the car; but getting out of it nonetheless. a fury and so much flightiness. it is fucking terrifying. it is a heartswell on a sunny day. It is breaking something because it might be too beautiful. It’s Jamiroquai in concert. It’s Patti Smith. & we’re Just Kids. It is a car wreck and a wrenching love. It saves you just to destroy you. It is not ever remembering anything and writing everything down and realizing you’ve written a something good. It’s the creative resistance to finishing something good. it is excitement and insecurity. Its a dumb idea. It’s a repeated pattern. Its making peace with your age, laughing at your vanity. It’s a broken cycle. It’s listening to Taylor Swift because awesome and then feeling all achey because you’re just sensitive, okay? It is living in cities you do not like living in, to learn that you feel this way. it’s that productive, not destructive heart flutter. Its always being broke inside and out. It’s a pack of strays to the rescue. It is forgiveness at six am in a desert motel. it’s counting blue cars. its visiting Brooklyn but never moving back. it’s a lion and a pit bull and a bell. It’s self care; but the stupid go-to-the-gym, eat breakfast, take-your-meds kind. Its forgetting to take your meds. It’s rolling a “back to GO”. It’s going, again. Its flashy dice with many sides. It’s your fucking horoscope. It’s having to talk on the phone. It’s a long nap. It’s throwing a fit. Then a triumph. Recovery is everything behind you, already. and it is everything that you will face and fail and fail and fuck up and learn and fail better, ahead. It is “No choice but up and stand”. “Say yes that the bones may stand pain till no choice but stand. Somehow up and stand. Or better worse remains.” [Beckett]. It’s true what they say— about it being a scribbled trajectory, another “FUCK THIS” then “YAY!”. Let me tell ya; Recovery is an earnest validation and a fucking bitch. It’s never a straight line going up and up. It’s never a straight line, anywhere. #keepgoing