Studying thankfulness

I want to step back and take a moment to determine what skills I’ve picked up that i’m thankful for by practicing them, and practicing thankfulness in the things I enjoy by doing them. I can’t keep running from enjoyment off of base assumptions and not diving into whatever quirks make me as a person. I spent nearly all day yesterday cooking and cleaning and in the end I had a clean kitchen, ironed clothes, homemade food, breakfast and lunch for the next day, and polished shoes. And there wasn’t a moment of the day I felt bad about, except the brief sob meditation on the life addict and parallelism in relationships, more superficially known as the dislocated jaw and bacon incident.

There’s also something difficult I need to face in myself which is that I’m glad i’m toning down because I really would like to adopt by around 30 or 32. This poses a big problem for me because as, much as I’ve seen single parent homes can work, I think multi parent households are somewhat more ideal – more opportunities for socialization, more accountable parties as social, emotional, and financial resources, and most obviously more sage experience. Problem is I haven’t met a single person who seems interested in joining me on such an adventure. Part time, sure, but who needs a part time parent?

Every martyr in this jungle is going to get his wish

The urge to run away, burn, destroy what’s been built and throw all new energy towards a larger exhalted mass is the closest thing I can get to a rush anymore.
Chemicals don’t do it  and frankly i’m too jaded for that. An escape is an escape is an escape, but when the lights are on what do you have left?
Yes, I’d prefer if the vision out of my eyes looked like zooming lights constantly, everything glowing in blue, and a warm fuzzy feeling breaking up my spine. And then what?
I miss more than most other things the vast expanse of road, the feeling that probably everything was going wrong and yet was still alright. That knowledge made everything better than okay.

Now the best I can do is catch a solid unrestrained burst of melancholy.

Dreams – scrap art and congas

Everything in my dreams last night suggest that I do not take advantage of the basic pleasures of life or find joy in the things which are so abundantly around us.

Also, my dream had me falling for a girl I thought was 19 and was 15. ¤ face plant ¤

A big theme was finding these scrap sheets from earlier art books -  lines of text arranged for visual impact, all angst and passion. We were in a studio shared by a drumming circles. For whatever reason I was more determined to find my not so hot artistic musings than to grab a drum offered and wail on that.

Under the boot

Hesse always makes me feel unfairly entitled to the position of having thoughts. I’m embarrassingly reading Steppenwolf for the first time.

I primarily continue to hope that this will simply turn into Venus in Furs, but I know a good deal better than to expect that, at least in literal terms.

The narrative which builds out a dominant woman can catch my  attention well within a short span of time. I’m still quite hesitant to try to give myself up in that way sexually, but within distinct  intimate communication episodes, perhaps spells that betray body language, I am entirely over eager to feel a little caught off guard and whisked away.

Internally, I am fighting through shame that never used to exist at wanting a close cuffed power play of leather, boots and discipline.

This is roughly the same as my fear of being boring – consumed by it, I am immobilized.

Thinking this all over, that fear is pretty unfounded except when self imposed. I’m reflecting on myself too much and not letting any part of greater existence do that for me.

Maybe it’s not really in the stars for me. Too much suddenly realized self shame and embarrassment to all at once push off on others. I feel almost as though my deepest internal moments need to be squeezed from me, plucked and claimed as some bizarre curio to look over and store in I display case. I have no idea what sort of tired, bitter go-fer has taken up residence inside me. No single command could summon all this out and bring it to bear.

Letting myself be scared

I let myself be scared off by popular opinion. No one wants to read journals full of emotional crap.

I beg to differ, and more importantly, I need to exercise getting it out and not caring.

I think some things have changed in me for the better. I have a sense, however vague, of what I look like in the world of others. This perhaps terribly vain study has been helpful in accepting that I am a person amongst people.

I am currently visiting my mother, and this always makes me crazy about the notion of romantic love. I find myself considering lately that polyamory is overrated, that it allows no time for developing deeply satisfying life goals. So much time is spent trying to balance who is best to be with at a particular moment, how are parties reacting to the concept of the others’ intimate presence, and what would they rather be doing. At the same time, this would allow for the perfect space of intimate familiarity  without destroying that prized sense of agency shielding the eyes from the fear to commit.

Funny that I would seek so many loving relationships when I can hardly keep in touch with close friends.

Never quite so tired as when I wake up

I’m not entirely prepared for this quick degree of forward movement. I can feel useless thoughts overcoming me, concerns about things, breaking items, things I could do with resources I was keeping in hiding. It makes no sense to hesitate in the slightest and somehow that’s what seems most appropriate.
Somehow this all falls in the same category as preparing for natural disaster, sickness and death. I should be surprised by nothing and prepared for the possibility of anything at all.

Jezebel

I’m falling down a well and each moment is more consuming. I am seized by visions of women in the dress and fashion of a mythological harlot – dark hair arranged in a swoop over her left shoulder, framing the delicately exposed collar bones which themselves support a dangling diamond choker, all set of suddenly by a rush of scarlet riding here and there to reveal an expanse of flesh so long any mortal would become lost. In divining the distance between skin and hers I lose track of the air pushing persistantly at my back, peeling my ears and cheeks upwards where the sky once hovered. A million stars scattered throughout the universe and in mine there can only be one ever again.