An Absurd and Peaceable Madness

Not overnight has it happened, the shift in perception and desire. Immersed in decay, a prolonged (or maybe just right) stint in limbo. Digging through the remains, deciding what to keep and haul along on this next leg. I suppose I thought I'd be more embroiled in sadness just now, but the relief makes sense considering the expanses of grief and doubt long occupied. 

My relation to sickness, illness, ability has imbued life with an entirely new manner of operation. The politics of it all-- the way I learned long ago that the personal is extremely political. An injury to one, representative of all. Interconnected existences, strained through a convoluted gospel of separateness and innate difference. The basics of us is quite basic. To rely on any practice of dehumanization is condemning us all. The mad and misfit among us tell the biggest stories-- repeated and mutated through generations, waiting to be absorbed. Providing guidance and reassurance, exceedingly amidst the splintering hopelessness that may otherwise drag one into oblivion. And also, some manner of rabbit holes and shadow spaces are entirely instructive-- trials of unrestrained honesty and reckoning. From this view, it's now impossible to not attune to the many ways the foundation is so very sick, claiming to be the normative path. The relative conspiracy of it all, at times, comical (see: absurdism) and all together deeper and [yet] explicit to the inquiring eye. I've identified bits of hope and imagination in fantasy and sci-fi, in depth psychologies and archetypes, in alone-ness and indifference to how I precisely manifest. The immediate accessibility of self care vs soothing. Intentional reunions with historical, cornerstone persons. Initiating bouts of creative pursuit and practice. Poised upon the tightrope of risk, faith, and a balancing of the breadth. Indubitably, there exists a multidate of paths available to grapple with the void-- I'm quite comforted by and proud of this very one.  

All these things I've collected (as I so often do) to identify parameters, interrogate internal hypocrisies and contributors of dis-ease and disconnection-- with myself and external connects alike. The many lists and promises and pleading demands stemmed largely of shame, the most toxic kind. This new space is accountable, yet honest and restful, realistic and less fixated on the treacherous, false comforts of perfectionism and control. Dare I say peaceful, and not the bypass-y kind privy to in days past. If you build it, it will come. Highly likely and not entirely predictable-- all in the let go, the let be, the wait and see. And what of patience? An entirely unruly beast, yet one to befriend as any other. The rewards are not to be depended upon, they come in waves, and are likely already happening right under our noses. Looking back and in the now, an expanded capacity to absorb and proclaim gratitude. I'm no imposter in this life, I'm the only one who can fulfill the role. The only promise is that we are here, we will one day no longer be (in a currently identifiable form)-- left with only an ability to influence what's within the hyphen.

And because I firmly believe in the power of a good soundtrack and capturing speck of time, I’ve fashioned this accompanying compilation: https://spotify.link/KtTDxKqESDb

**of note, check this out: https://youtu.be/xsgpW98q0M0?si=KfI8vQMsd942MFll

Blameless Nameless Faceless

A blameless inventory. That’s what I’ve been doing with my life. It’s a concept I admire, but haven’t always had the wherewithal to navigate. Following a lifetime of experiencing a black/white cultural practice of assigning heroes and villains in any story, I’ve spent plenty of time seeing myself in each of these troupes. Retreating into and embracing my inner hermit has bestowed a certain deconstructed and open-to-possibilities perspective requiring a ground-up, fierce examination and editing of life as I’ve come to know it.

The tendency I stumbled into of internalizing hyper-responsibility and blame, intellectualizing deeply painful experiences, and struggling to grasp the reality of boundaries led me down a path of depleted confidence, sense of stability, and belief in the power of possibility. 

—-

Trekking back to myself has been the pursuit of many yesteryears, one I am committed to steadfast and wholeheartedly— but damn is it exhausting [and you only know when you know]. I’ve long believed there can be multiple manifestations of the truth, rather than some black/white tidy box as we have been told— nay, the truest recovery has been vast shades of gray. The lessons have been, in the easier streaks, enlightening and humbling, and in the most challenging, shattering and debilitating. 

And yet, I’ve rarely deviated from this pursuit of wellness, better days, and a grounded peaceful knowing. Navigating multiple descents into shadowed wells of despair, I’ve clung to shreds of (sometimes sparse) hope and faith. Often I’ve believed myself a weak specimen, perhaps too delicate for the confines of this fast-paced and sacrificially demanding world. But I’ve also come to understand that leaning into existential discomfort and facing demons isn’t something undertaken by all, it is by-nature a gnarled and often lonesome path. If you’re lucky (and I’ve been quite as such), you encounter knowing fellow travelers battling their own monsters— indeed, over time you sharpen an ability to instinctively identify and form kinship with one another, some reassurance in the storm. You listen to songs and read poetry and glance upon artistic creations, that for even a sliver remind you you’re not the only one trudging through lunacy. 

It takes the biggest courage, it takes unflinching curiosity, and sometimes it takes lives [I’d be lying if I said I’d never believed non-existence a better outcome]. Yet still, we rise and we fall and we rise. And it fuuuucking sucks, but it’s our suckage. It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done or likely will do. Why this life, like this, with these unshakable truths that scare the shit out of me? I have no doubt (and I can be a fairly doubtful and adorably cynical person), that the strength manifesting within is the stuff of true spiritual freedom. 

—-

I’ve been called wise and strong and sensitive and confounding and overthinking and lovely and a great many other things, which I may or may not be. What we think we are and know of ourselves/the world/sentient reality can become a self-effacing box, a box of limiting traditions that personally have brought me to my knees time and again. For me, this initially unchosen roast on the pyre stemmed from a multitude of jarring and destabilizing life circumstance. Yet now, it’s the obstinate commitment to comprehending darkness and fear as an enforcing power to summon and wield. 

That which you fear most, know it. “The unexamined life is not worth living" [a famous dictumsupposedly uttered by Socrates at his trial for impiety and corrupting youth, for which he was subsequently sentenced to death (Wikipedia)]. Majorly, I find this life to be worth living— a cornucopia of maddening and delightfully conflicting paradoxes, ripe for the till. Carpe diem with a big dose of momento mori, the whole damn gamut. 

I find myself ever here, nestled in a blessed rabbit hole, electing moment-by-moment to do hard things, then rest and refuel, then repeat. Sometimes, the length of the undertaking is frighteningly disheartening, but I think this is the sensational reality of a life examined. A life spent befriending fears, as much as one might pursue hope and all the like. 

The blameless understanding that I am human, with strengths and flaws. With big emotions and an even bigger heart. Examined, and for all that I can be, contented with here, right now. 

I Refer to Therapy as the Brain Gym

Lots of writing ought to happen, if improving upon technique and presentation is to be ostensibly obtained. This weekend I stumbled across a YouTuber named Adventure Denali when searching videos regarding the topic of Traveler Notebook (TN) setups...because of course I was. And I did enjoy the presentation of how she uses a leather folio common with TNs to bundle her varietal of notebooks, namely a large Moleskin (my current notebook of usage--at least for about 15-20 more pages of jotting thoughts). I'm certainly not a fully committed journal-er, but I do write often enough that I typically go through a 250 page notebook in a year or so. But Adventure Denali, she actually goes through a similar notebook in a matter of 2-3 months. Wow. And it's a daily practice. As I've delved deeper into what it means to have hyperactive tendencies (I'm not running around or visibly hyperactive, but I am mentally active almost always. To the point of exhaustion, I posit. I knock myself out with thinking, that in many ways I'm so used to that I forget it's not often productive or useful), I know I must incorporate more tools for channeling those thoughts out of my damn head. So I don't intend to downsize my notebook size, but rather I want to remind myself that writing is another means of going to the gym. The brain gym. Because if I care about the aesthetics and bulk of anything, it's my sexy but unruly tending brain (because I'm a human, duh. And I'm aware of it, too. But that power has perhaps been underestimated. There's time, if I'm lucky, to improve upon that [lack of] habit). The process doesn't need to be complex, in fact, it's likely better that it not be. Write out date and time and just write, with or without specific prompting or topic. Also see: art journaling. 

Cover of journal I've been scribbling in since April 9, 2020.

Additional takeaway//reminders from Adventure Denali [Thank you!]:

-I want to travel alone. Just me and me big ol' brain.

-I do want to slow down and simplify in all the ways I can (ex. today just had the thought it might be a worthy experiment to take most apps off my phone, because I haven't yet tamed the beast, that beauty).

-I really don't enjoy my main "hobbies" being sleep, phone usage, TV, and welp...overwhelm and anxiety, I think. I'm just primed to channel it and it's a rather undesirable continuous presence. Anyway, make time for hobbies, like really. Like pencil it in and drudge through the painful bits, all the bits. 

-Yet again, I do want to better target updates and channel my "brand" (that sounds awful, but it's a digestible and helpful term). Do people even care about VLOGS and shit anymore? No idea, no concern really. Just curious. But sure, things like: journaling, curiosity, sociology stuff, handy crafts, wellness, sending mail, et al. Something like that is what composes "me." [[Related, here's this talk with Joseph G-L on not basing creative pursuits on attention seeking desire.]]

Random other thought generated: how can a person be equal parts complex and fascinating but also calming and simplistic? Investigations continue. 

Another related top-notch referral (trust me): Signing up for weekly inbox newsletter Maybe, Baby by Haley Nahman. 

That's all for now, delightful humans.

Rest easy. I'm gonna try my dandiest. Soon-ish.

With the Vinegar, I too, take the Wine

Layers upon layers upon uneven layers. Placed and thrown about at different moments in time, the spaces in which I've existed throughout. And often the layers are little to do with me--not me as me, per say. It's how other people and situations intersect us and augment our realities with their bits and pieces. At least that's the lens through which for so long I've come to be acquainted with grief and anguish and all the rest of it--and perhaps that's the crux. Is it others, is it us, is it our own expectations, or even just the nature of existence? Existence is suffering, I write that to remind myself and reflect yet still.

Today was already heavy. Started and ended weighty. In ways I see how I got the story I thought I always wanted--of being so afflicted I'd remain stuck in bed and touting sonnets of melancholia. To learn the topographies of emotion, big emotion. Big friendship. Gray spaces. Losses and gains, but mostly all that is in between. Indifferent and often unseen. 

This day was a day of re-introductions. "Allow me", said the layers of gray and gloom. These days I open the door most times, I instruct my psyche to entertain fear insofar as it might be impactfully utilized. Yet there are places I get so stuck, frozen in numbed seconds or the span of full days. The full damn day feels a waste, but I conjure up as much patience and presence as I might know. I slip into a yellow garment and line my lips with red and if need be, dig through the tool box of reliefs that have been elicited over as many years. Did you know that when you find yourself enveloped in big sadness, you're advised to bite down on a pencil? The act of biting on the pencil forms your face into a perhaps unintentional smile that tricks your body into releasing endorphins. I've done that and been there, and I'm not so lofty that I'd envision not being there one day again. Resorting to biting pencils and watching videos of baby sloths as tears stream and I rock back and forth in the shower. I think rocking back and forth gets a bad name, it for me has felt a means of dispelling tears and tensions.

So as all that remains swirls and churns, I label sadness and solace with a name. Let it exist and be holy. Less and less do I feel an urge to protest these realities, demand fairness or justice. For if not my own, I would have some that were another's. Along with the joys and less hapless emotional signposts I've come to know, the sad and heavy ones instruct me all the same. Just listen and attune yourself to their pitches and peaks, come to decipher best practices and advisable routes. Books and blog entries may only guide us so far and after that, you're off the map. More these days when I find myself lost, I sit down and feel the ground beneath my own body. Breathe deeply and belay myself to the board. I did that in ways just today. Sitting still isn't always what I'd imagine it to be, it's not grand and revolutionary--mostly I sense myself suspended in a solitary somber wheel of freebased emotional analysis. 

I reflect a fair number of my broadest smiles have emerged at the same time as tears, in the complimentary seconds of observing some massively consuming anguish. For I have found that in sorrow I am often transformed into a human of gratitude-filled acknowledgements in all that has been a blessing. I don't want to feel sorry for me, not because I perceive it weak or anything of that ilk, but rather that it's limiting and useless after a stint of marinating. No doubt in varied dates throughout my history I've been both the vinegar and the wine, unsure of which might be most befittingly useful. 

I truly cannot attest to being grateful that this or that has happened or that things unfold as they have or will. I am, however, glad to be continuously crafting myself into a truly skilled navigator. I'm wearing sweatshirts more because there are far more frequent cuuute options than I realized and they mesh decently well with kooky leggings and sensibly spunky tennies. And not to forget the accessories--a long draping necklace or big bold earnings and a pop of bright lipstick. It's all necessary on certain days, but often I find comfort in the mashup of stylings and functionality--feeling truly rounded and grounded and wise, ready with a chic but utilitarian (tool) bag. Lastly, some swimmers and floaties. To rest as I must, float on as I can, and strapped in for the ride. Because truly, it is one helluva dang dong ride.

A note. A commitment. A love letter. BLM

Song:  https://youtu.be/4976Fgvf5Ps

Commentary:

Silky smooth musical medicine.

Maybe corny, but this popped in my head this morning and I’m thinking tenderly especially of my many BIPOC friends and fellow humans of the world who are receiving in no uncertain terms, as is typically the case in this unjust world, that they are disposable, undervalued, not loved, not important, or worthy. There’s so much horrid brutality and oppression about this universe, that once you become aware...REALLY aware, and THEN can comprehend your space and place and role in upholding injustice and perpetuation of pain to others, you begin to sense an unshakable urge to disrupt it. For me it has been a steady comprehension all through college, coming from a small majority white town, having a curiosity and openness to all that is other and new, to asking questions and leaning in and sitting through defensiveness, committing to the process of unlearning all the ways whiteness does mean expansion and possession at the expense of those deemed “lesser”, further understanding that whiteness isn’t skin color really—it’s a vibe, a purposefully invisibilized upholding of correspondingly dangerous philosophy of domination and a unshakeable belief in some “god given” “betterness” of a way of being and safety existing in the world and everyone else damned, it’s an unexamined commitment to all that is whiteness (again, it’s actually not skin color—it’s an oppressive world view and philosophy that propagates colonialism through indoctrinated adherence and unadulterated loyalty). And I’ve seen it folks, I see it now and back throughout history, a toxic cancer with many faces and power sources, arms of the state which extend through all of us when we uphold and perpetuate everything that whiteness is. All that to say—I’m in this, deep in this, and because I’m in this and have seen and felt and heard enough indication that the doctrine of white is as alive and well as ever—from dear friends and random strangers and people I’ve dated—that I don’t need further “proof”, I’m not here to argue about whiteness and racism and if it’s a thing or doing harm. It is undoubtedly, and will continue to wreck havoc on innocent persons the world over until enough folks with power (I.e. whiteness) get fed up. I been fed up and I do my damndest every day and moment to bring others into the fold. The path toward justice and the future of a truly equal world is unmistakably long and treacherous and fraught with all kinds of problematic bullshit that has and will cause harm, buuuut... I’m on it, more and more I’m getting in lock step, arm in arm with all the rest of those who are coming awake or have been to the real reality that injustice is real and thriving. This pain is all our pain. These deaths and killings are our deaths. And these protests are our protests. And you know, maybe they need to be “riots”. I like to think of them as bullshit identifiers. You don’t have to agree with or understand the approaches or tactics of those who have been perpetually abused and downtrodden and “other-Ed” into oblivion. You don’t need to “agree” with that to agree with the wrongness of injustice, in another court case where a woman in her bed was murdered and nothing like justice has been shown (yet again, yet again, yet again). The “evidence” is there so all I ask myself and all anyone with adherence to whiteness needs to ask is “Is this a system I want to contribute to? As it is currently, without much indication of possibility for real sustainable change//that isn’t hinged on actively harming others?” That’s it. And for me the answer continues to be no, hell no. And any implication or outright detraction of being a “race traitor” doesn’t phase me...you know why? Because I’m not white in any way beyond the fact that I’m pale as fuck. But the cool thing about that is that I also possess this power of White Girl Dangerous (most commonly exhibited by subspecies of whiteness genus “Karen”, neo nazis, straight up nazi, et al)—but I am the type of White Girl Dangerous that knows things, that understands more and more the power in this skin, the good I can do in leveraging the knowledge of whiteness to tear (nay, even burn it down), via sure, protesting, but also through tough conversations with even often truly well-meaning white folks who may come in the form of friends and family (hiiii, y’all). I’m White Girl Dangerous with a smile on my face, fist in the air, and the knowledge of many avenues I can go about fucking up all that is colonialism and genocide and whiteness and all other  wrongness. An injury to one is unequivocally an injury to all. And y’all, we’re injured. We’re way culturally injured and lost and scared and angry and seriously...just wrong. We need to get right. Don’t you want to get right with us? I damn do. I pray and hope you may join us. And soon.

And truly to my BIPOC pals and friends and all other form of online connection. I do my best to see you and I want you to know I see you and beyond that value you and am protective as hell towards you. Always and more each day. I’ve no interest in virtue signaling or hollow promises of togetherness and oneness. But I do have a commitment to holding myself accountable and being as equipped and non-Karen White Girl Dangerous on any given day (it might not be possible to repurpose the white solidarity fist, but damn I wanna try). Heya hey, you lovely humans. Please do all you can to rest for even a bit and continue to shelter from all the horrible realities that show all the work that hasn’t been done. I hug you now only to say...I’m not going anywhere. I’m here and exploring all the ways to commit others to throwing out and burning the whiteness decree of foreveryear. Cause fuck this shit, since forever. I am certain this song is in my head for you. I want you around. And many of us want you and Breonna girl around and I’m in this. Don’t take my words for it, I aim to show you. 

✊🏻✊🏻✊🏻💛💛💛😳😭🤬😫😘

Just a Babe-ly Lil' Skeleton Lass

Tonight I chatted with a good friend about past relations, about seeing ones that used to be a regular part of our lives. Once they were active lovers of ours. And seeing where these people are now, meeting them or thinking back on what we were and had and where things fell and remain.

*
*

Sometimes I get caught up reflecting on how a select few splices of my loving heart are walking around in the world, held by varied and treasured souls. It's not that I even want those pieces and moments back, but I feel them, know they're around and about. Wonder I do, as Whitney sang, where do broken h#$*rts go? I can't perceive those slivers ever fully making their way back to me and it's ok. Once after my last major breakup I found myself gravitating towards this locket that was my grandma's and/or great grandma's--I started wearing it regularly around my neck, it felt urgent to have a consistent physical reminder of just how precious it was, how precious and to be treasured I am. To contend with what's perhaps really at stake. What's offered up and brought to the table, ya know?

I comprehend and do believe to know why some become callused and distant and build up a shell around what remains. The prospect of losing even more seems ghastly and unwise; indeed, I have moments in which I sense this desire within myself--to close up and remain so. Relatively, I grasp the appeal and function, I want to close people out most explicitly and find ways to sustain on alternative bonding and hobbies and a many other thoughtless and time-sucking occupations. To distract oneself from the inarguable void and loneliness we all sense as sentient and emotion-filled beings--and believe me, it's not a bad thing, rather just a real thing. A thing that once felt cold and unfeeling and broken and now seems honest and comforting. There's no amount of people or food or sex or jobs or writing that might ever fulfill that darkness, rather it's a sensation to channel and sit upon, to befriend. And indeed, I have found myself much more than ever at one with the skeleton babe in me that I begrudgingly drug along and ran from for my whole of existence. The view to her is as clear as ever and still rattles me, but I know her. Have greeted her many times as a friend. And I should venture to suggest that anyone who continues to meet me these many recent days and beyond will come to know her, too, now a tender and unshakable part of me. The worn and skeleton-ed pieces of me walking around with these specifically special others, that as much as it ripped me to shreds in moments, I find such grace and comfort and contentment in knowing them. In knowing I loved as wholly and deeply as I knew possible in those times. And dammit, I'm glad. I'm honored to have been blessed with so many connective opportunities.

I continue now on this path alone and lonely, but not frightfully so, primed to go toe-to-toe with fellow warriors--perhaps ever wearied from the storms, but with eyes and spirit open and in the ways I might be, too. It may be corny [as so many things might sound], but very honest to assert that knowing love and and non-expectant vulnerability and tenderness is to also likely know vastly wide loss and arching and warring with oneself and the forces beyond. This warrior skeleton lass is weary but not worn, is parts broken and remade, and is in this kindly raw space of accepting fully that others may come and go. Yet I shall stay here within my own perfectly imperfect being, finding the healthiest and happiest mechanisms for sensing and riding it through to the honest to goodness destination and truth. Anyway, it makes sense to my spirit and head. So that's something.

The Living and Judgements of Messy Unfurling

America: "...a culture obsessed with positivity and a people without traditional customs to appropriately navigate grief. Instead of acknowledging overwhelming, painful situations, Americans shove our feelings down and sputter out phrases like, “It’s for the best,” “Now we can appreciate…,” (via Bust)

--

To appropriately navigate grief. I stop. and ponder. and read it again. To navigate grief. Quite recently I've begun candid analysis of myself being immersed in grief and yet not grieving, in not allowing and sitting with anger, in not carving space for the messiness of raw processing. Even to just myself. To be messy is ok and vital, I'm telling myself. For forging forth. I've often wrapped "lessons" from trauma and painful loss up in gratitude and reframes that allow for streamlined, digestible, and perhaps seemingly regurgitated sharing. So strong and so wise and so resilient and positive. "It made me who I am or now I can appreciate," I might have said. I probably did say. And perhaps the root of such a method was and is survival or maybe it makes it easier for me and easier for befallen ears and hearts. That I couldn't bear having to hold your heartache next to mine own. It's not the heartbreak hotel or olympics, but I've had a sad or hard story in these days. Another manifestation of caring and care taking. For anyone but me. 

Having been groomed into many modes of abandoning. Of abandoning myself. Of knowing and propagating abandonment. Of seeking that which is familiar. Let me do it for me. It doesn't matter. She doesn't matter. Those feelings don't matter. Except that they do. They always have and always will. They're there. They're me and mine. 

I feel positivity even through this forced isolation and distanced socializing. Aims that I held up to manifest during my previous stead from work but didn't fully uphold have revealed themselves deeper and more true now. And truly I'm glad for the tendency towards gratitude, in quickly recalling the most basic of universal offerings that maintain thine sanity. And yet I am short and judgmental and projecting of what is "productive" and valuable and worthy of time and energy. I am harsh to prescribe and define "appropriate" timelines for adjustment. We should all over the place and everyone. All over us. 

"Judgement demands punishment," he said. Punishment of self or others. Demands punishment. And the truth is, I have been punishing and shaming this little girl. 

The truth is, it took me a month or so to settle into this shift. The truth is I likely haven't identified or grieved all the ways life will never be the same. In realizing what we lost there may be gratitude, but it ought not serve as substitute for bereavement. It too, has been a death. A death of immense proportions that is worthy of remembrance and takeaways, sure. Of messy unfurling.

Happy and accidental discovery #whatever: I so value and wish to protect my space and time. For myself, to savor, to hold near and love and appreciate the fuck out of. For just me. #fuckyea

and still

Not every pain and loss is positive or need be. The positive reveals itself most naturally when in reference to that which is not. That ying or ying, black and white, or here and there. The gray spaces I've inadvertently become adept at occupying. In not having the answers (because there aren't always solutions). The answer is the silence, the truth is in the muck and mire, the mud and the lotus. Writing this now I challenge myself to be better, more eloquent and varied and descriptive. But if I don't write I'll not harness the craft and without those less shiny entries,  I become no better. No different or improved. Just stuck in the mud, paralyzed to seek the surface. Which requires swimming and thrashing and being seen. Really seen. All up and wrapped up in this mess. This mess right here. This (to be) non-judgmental mess.

Source: Instagram (@sed.b0i)