Monday, July 31, 2017

Pitty Party

You see, I have a sad. I decided, today, I made all the wrong decisions in my life. I didn’t stick with jobs and passions when I should have. I quit things when I felt that people didn’t like me. Example I haven’t sung in like two weeks, because I was sick, and because I was writing. SO I decided that maybe I shouldn’t be singing.

Without Sara there is no one to sing with, and none of my musical friends want to invite me over to sing, I decide, because they don’t like me. That means I sing the same songs to myself and the songs I was writing, I decided, weren’t good enough.

I shouldn’t have left the museum, just because it was pointed out on my first day that no one wanted me there. And I could feel it against my heart and the hotel was pushing me away and I wasn’t able to work a full time job and work for free in film and no one liked me because I couldn’t pull my weight, I decided.

I came home and hid in a place where if people didn’t like me I didn’t care. It was just me. And now me and my cats. It just seems like everything I do is not good enough. The music isn’t good enough to take me outside of my livingroom, yes it makes me feel like a million bucks, but I’m alone. The writing keeps being rejected by publishers and myself and I think If nobody likes me: Why am I doing it?

I’m writing it because I have to, because it’s how I process, it’s how I figure out myself but if there were another way, a relationship where I wasn’t alone, would I still keep writing down my every thought my every feeling?

Well that’s a pitty party… I’ll bring the crying clowns. The point is those feelings are still alive in my heart. I still want to quit, like I did when I was twenty. Maybe I need to fight a little harder. Say it doesn’t matter if anyone who is any good thinks I suck, I still have to jump forward and do what I love.

I realized today that we watched tv and did homework when we were little. It’s been a hard habit to break. Writing was my way out. Writing is still my way out of being alone. Of nobody liking me.

Sunday, July 30, 2017


I have a new life. I say “maybe in this life, I’m the only one who comes to dinner.”

There was this one time I had dinner with The Queen , who brought Her King. Her hair was full of baby birds that demanded to be fed and she would feed herself a fork of pasta and flavored tofu and slip her well manicured fingers into her purse where she had a collection of worms, the kind you find in the garden when you are pulling out the weeds. She would feed them to the baby birds in her hair.

“They’re my babies” said the childless woman: some blamed her rigidity, some blamed her husband’s ability to perform.

“They’re her babies,” he said, and smiled as if it was the most grotesque act that could ever be performed. I never once wondered, until I left the table, where all the bird poop went.

I had dinner once with the daughter of my soul. We sat at a long table with each place setting set meticulously, vanilla candles burning in the day light. She was so far away that I saw more clouds than I did of her. We talked words that could only be mumbled in the centre of a dream and I tried to write her poetry but my hands were broken and I tried to show her love, all the emotion did was become trapped inside my heart.

I became stressed and woke up ready to go back to sleep and dream a better life. But the alarm clock was going off and I needed to start my day after the queen with the birds. The daughter I fell though the clouds for, and woke up, and lost.

Perhaps I’m the only one who really came to breakfast that morning. Perhaps I’m the only one who sat beside me and talked to me through the night.

“There, there darling,” I say, “you’ll be ok, no one will understand your Prozac induced sleep, so deal with it now. Before you have to step outside the door into a world of real people who hear the words you say and take them to mean something else. 

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Bones is my Therapy

Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to be in love with writing. Perhaps when I left DAL I left the love I had for theatre and creativity behind and closed off my love like “Bones” closed off her love for her father. Perhaps I’m in an emotional tangled up relationship with writing, a sick relationship that has pounded me down for twenty years.

Perhaps getting me a tv and letting me only write when I want to not banging myself over the head for every second I’m not writing is letting me fall back in love with writing. Perhaps when university became a loveless piece of shit in my life I closed everything down. From relationships to creativity. I turned it all off and decided that it wasn’t worth doing it going forward.

My creativity became enslaved and I couldn’t sit down and write like I wanted to because everything needed to be edited and put into acts and compared to all the pieces we studied. When for me creativity was an act of the heart the world speaking to me. The world speaking through me. I couldn’t do it anymore I lost my passion who knew it would take 20 years to get back something that took three years to steal and rob from me.

I was thinking about people who have been abused and raped and the dreams that I have: their intensity their emotion their reality the reliving of a moment over and over again. If that had happened to me I would be dead inside, in shock inside unable to move or function.
I get like that just with the stressful things that were in my life.

Maybe I haven’t really tried, haven’t really fallen in love and felt a broken heat for a person. But my university life was so traumatic and not what I thought it was going to be that it broke my heart in more ways than a real person could.

In the past two weeks I’ve been healing the scars from the last twenty years, reaching out to people who were really there for me and explaining how thankful I was to have them and trying to find a way to bring all my friends together in the present show pictures of me in all stages of life tell stories and feel and heal.

I can’t force myself to be in a romantic relationship I can’t force myself to read a book. I can only ponder along until I find out what heals me and moves me forward. In love and or indigestion.

There will be more to come...

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Feed theBeast

Warning i don't eat cake.

My generation counted calories, instead of fueling ourselves. I find my self a current weekend warrior but i do walk about 40 minutes everyday.

My personal trainer and friend gave me permission to eat avacados and coconut oil as good fats are fuel. I found that adding a little to my diet along with a session with her gave me emotional and physical streangth.

Instead of taking away and burning all that i had eaten i had given myself fuel to make it through the day. I dont have the body i had in 2011 when i ran an hour a day and counted every calorie in my body, but i have the brain power and self awareness to be proud of the person I am.

Yay food