muddy

I feel muddy with medications right now and sort of ridiculous, being this silly human with needs and inner chasms.  I thank Marianne for making me eat dinner tonight.  I told her I was going to make a salad tonight and I did, I made a salad and had a piece of toast, too.  Last night I just had a piece of toast with cream cheese and apricot jam.  There’s something about dusk falling and the ride to my oppressively quiet home that is very depressing despite all of the anti-depressant substances swimming around in my system, and when I get home, I just want to sleep.  Yesterday I did that, said… I’m just gonna… take… a little… nap,  and then boom, woke up 15 minutes late for my therapist appointment, put on my boots and jacket, ran over there (she’s only three blocks away) and had a half an hour of muddy talking in this muddy sort of medicated mood. I keep thinking oh I should be used to this new reality by now, but it’s only been a couple of months, why should I be used to it?  It’s still very strange.  And underneath the muddiness, there’s this grief and confusion and rage all the time, swathed in some kind of merciful gray chemical cotton or something.  And how stupid that I should have to be thinking about my little life when practically the whole damn country has gone to the hyenas.  I don’t think they actually deserve an animal name or mascot, certainly not an elephant, as elephants are kind and compassionate weeping creatures and not a bunch of misguided human fools whose ideologies are going to destroy the planet.  Not that I care that much, it’s not like I have a family legacy to follow me, unless you consider, you know, “the family of man” [sic].  Just me, end of the line, end of story.  I don’t even have a mate anymore, but spare me your violins, I’m better off.  How silly of me to try to distract myself with online dating sites: what am I possibly thinking?  And then sillier of me to send interested parties here to find out about my habitually exposed murky depths.  I changed my headline from “Still beautiful, but sort of weird,” to “Not just a woman: a phenomenon.” Ah well, there was one guy with cool glasses I liked, I wrote to him and he never responded.  Another guy asked me to marry him. A 24-year old wrote to me: I said I'm old enough to be your mom.  They all seem to want to meet for coffee immediately, but I’m thinking, shouldn’t we exchange thousands of emails first?  Isn’t that normal?  A friend with experience tells me, oh it’s good to meet soon, instead of getting all torrid and then disappointed.  I guess.  In a way, you know, I just want to write; isn’t that most of the fun of love?  Except then you don’t have kisses, or sex, or dinner, if you are just writing, and I suppose that’s an issue, and kind of sad.  Well, it’s way too soon for me even to be thinking of such things.  I still have walls to paint, and I’m talking about making a new quilt for my giant new bed, and performances and readings to prepare for.  This Sunday, I’m telling you, people, I’m not going to pull any punches, it’s going to be FULL-ON drama:  yearning, mourning, revenge, total existential despair, wild ecstatic cadence.  You might want to be there.  Or then again it might make you uncomfortable, all that stuff.  Well, just guess how I feel. Still, the week was relatively drama-free.  Gary seems to have retreated, and his mother stopped sending me emails telling me it was all my fault. No contact is good contact.  The radiator is making radiator sounds.  I read Eileen Myles’ new book, it was an easy read, kind of.  I like it when she gets vague and passionate the best, like when she’s describing her feelings or her ideas about poetry.  Sometimes the more explicitly narrative parts seemed sort of self-romanticizing, to me, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I was just more interested in the parts where the language just took off.  It’s been hard for me to concentrate on books, though.  Hard to stay focused.  I did watch all three seasons of Mad Men (Season 4 isn’t on DVD yet) though, clutching a pillow, one cat on either side of me.  Wow, I love that show.  I really don’t think it’s all about fashion.  It’s about infidelity!  The challenges of relationships!  And it’s about history.   I feel deprived now that I have no more Mad Men DVDs to watch.  I have Les Demoiselles de Rochefort, I started it, but it seems a little too French and breezy for me right now after the dark drama of Mad Men.  I just want to talk constantly.  Talking feels good.  I can laugh when I talk, with a sort of bitter irony.  I’m sure that I have become very annoying, I say the same things over and over again.  But I suppose I will just have to keep saying them for a while until I get bored, too.  It really has hardly been any time at all.  Marianne reminded me of that.  But then, I am such an impatient person.  Must remind self, no peaks without valleys!  Also that nothing is better than imagination.  That wild perfect sweet love, well, it will come again or it won’t, but life is still full of variety and intrigue and delight, Republicans notwithstanding.  Right?  I mean, am I just talking myself into this?  Am I? And what are you thinking about tonight, on this rainy evening?