I’m lost, falling down drowning in all the things I cannot say you will not hear. I keep waiting, clinging by the shreds of all I have left to whatever there is to be grabbed. Pacing confused and misremembering, my sense of space displaced presence replaced an uncertain semblance of my struggling self slipping ever so gently into that swirling violet darkness of jagged stars dancing ugly things plucking at the edges of the ground all around and I can’t keep myself upright, I don’t know how to hold on to the parts of me that would be carried away by the biting ravenous blackness sharp and eager with want. My heartmindvoice rocks tangled and tumbled into a polish of silence while just beyond this quiet twitches angry and vulgar all the same sick and unforgiving hauntings reaching deep for what’s left of me shrieking still willful incoherent I’m not there, curled up small now I am living safe inside winter these frozen walls closed around me whispering empty ticking moments time bombs of loss and limits exceeded, and the small crowd of gathered onlookers shuffles uncomfortably while mute I wait for you with tattooed wrists and kisses clenched in trembling fists but the hands that I’m seeking to steady are not reaching back and carving your recriminations into my always yielding flesh I am reminded that I am the only one to blame.

(Yes … I know. You’re all now trying to decide whose job it will be to take me by the hand and gently suggest that I renew my meds. But … what if these are just things I need to say? What if they need to be heard? It’s all there, whether I medicate it or not. So, I dunno. You could maybe not read my blog for a while, if it freaks you out.)

What’s easy: Dropping myself into fantasy scripts and fairy tales; spinning impossibilities to see where they’ll go. The quick mess of anonymous risk and ships easily abandoned,

What’s hard: Standing still and being all in wherever I happen to be for more than 5 minutes an hour a week. Much safer to put it all through the shredder and try a new script at the first sign the plot might be turning real.

Yeah, I know. This would probably be a good time to say … something … about anything … so that the small crowd of gathered onlookers can stop worrying.

Once upon a time there was a boy. And all the boys who came after were the wrong boy. The end.

Yep, that pretty much covers it.

Sun is shining. House is clean. World is where I left it.

So I dunno. Maybe telling my long distance non-boyfriend that I think I’m becoming too used to his presence and I need to back away was just another case of me being my own worst enemy, choosing to run screaming from anything that makes me happy because … we’ve all met me. I am not capable of maintaining a sane perspective. I. Don’t. Know. It just didn’t feel right.

But if I lie very still and push everything out I can convince myself that the unchanging floor and walls around me are all of everything I need and I can almost breathe

… this life, you see, is blender sharp painful and i am not cut out for it, with my all or nothing heart, which is why i try not to slip into dreaming or make the unthinkable mistake of wish hope wanting where i shouldn’t but: sometimes now and then again and again i still fall wondering into rabbit holes and razor blades and all over my own best intentions i forget that enchantments can’t and whimsies won’t be sustained and wherever you are always is where i am not and that is just the way of things tumblings temporarily suspending better judgment i will i don’t i won’t shut you out and that is how we’ll find me sliced to ribbons untying tangled threads crush of edges angles questions pressing corners tighter than breath and i can’t and you won’t and i’ll pretend that the rumbling of the ground beneath me doesn’t carry shivering the tremors of your name

much harder than any kind of doing, overcoming resistance to the doing. fear sneaks in to thwart with all kinds of happy procrastinations, offers comfort to lull and oh so gently redirects from the terrible risk of accomplishment. hands clench tight, refuse to be be pried from certainty. fear of success wears a clever costume, all dressed up as fear of failure, but really: which carries greater consequence?

rewriting the script to account for possibility, the monumental task of surrender submission allowing the ground to shift with new reaching, toes edging fingers releasing breath expanding but the shrieking chorus won’t. shut. up.

do it anyway.

“… but, I’m not very patient, when I don’t know how things will turn out and I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m scared and I want to run and hide.”

Doubt is what I do best. I pick things up and I put them down. I try them on and then I’m not sure what’s right or what fits and I don’t know how to figure out which way to go where to turn what I want what I think what to do. I do everything by feel and I don’t know how to deal with anything less than total conviction and I panic and I run when I’m not sure. Nothing in my life has ever been consistent or certain and I don’t know how to be consistent and certain.

“Run and hide’s not good, though. Embrace and win.” he says, and I think okay, I can do that, I can be brave, and dust myself off, and keep trying.

He manages to tell me I can do it, without discounting any of my fears or telling me there’s something wrong with being less than sure. He doesn’t even need to know what it is.

I know you’re scared. I know it’s hard. It’s okay. You can do it.

Embrace. And Win.

I don’t know who this man is or where he came from or how long he’s going to be in my life. But I will let the simple quiet power of those words be etched like a whisper into my bones and be always grateful for the sweet gift of them.

… but the relevance, you see, was tenuous and left me uneasy uncertain and all out of sorts. Now I’m struggling again to find my way out of Expectation’s Boxes.

Soooo, a small announcement. Maybe a big announcement. I dunno. Possibly a whiplash wtf sort of announcement. I suppose I might seem a little erratic, to those of you playing along at home. I’ve been kinda sorta terrified to share this news, for how it might be judged. It’s just, the path I was on didn’t feel right. It was fun playing at academics and being lost in linguistic relativity prescriptive grammar cataphoric expression language pedagogy structuralist theory innateness and language acquisition devices. I will always be down with bloomfield, de sausurre, chomsky, sapir, and whorf, but

I just don’t see myself putting this to use down the road. Not nearly enough to justify the price tag of a degree. And I kind of panicked, as the drop-courses-with-full-refund deadline approached for this term. I forgot that the reason I was taking these classes was to fill time and explore options because the more practical, skills based college program I’d been looking at was full in sept. 2012. I had that whole plan to take university classes and work part time for this school year, then reassess in time to apply for the college program beginning sept. 2013 …

Too many plans in my head. Too many fears in my head. I panicked and dropped the two classes I was taking. The good news is my heart is sending me a pretty clear message about what I really want to do with myself. I think. The bad news is I’m frustrated annoyed and impatient, and totally lacking in confidence. I just want to get on with my life. Unless I can hide in a blanket fort with a heap of chocolate chip cookies and a stack of books. Then I choose the blanket fort.

You should totally come to my cafe/bookstore/tea shop, when it exists. You could hang out and play a board game or find a copy of a treasured childhood book, or discover something wondrous and unexpected among the selection of small press and independent publishers. You would definitely enjoy a pot of Very Good Tea, along with something lovely to eat. Maybe you’d come for a reading, or perform at an open mic, or watch a classic movie on a rainy sunday afternoon, orrrrr listen to a local band on saturday night … did I mention the tea? And my imaginary boyfriend’s artwork … and my hens. And the beehives …

Or you could book my services as a holistic nutritionist, herbalist, or doula. Maybe. If you wanted to. I might even be qualified to edit your manuscript. Ooooooooh! Or advise you on which small press publishers your work might be a good fit for, and help you with your queries …

Or we could just build a really great blanket fort. With tea. And chocolate chip cookies. And books. Is anyone else noticing a circular trend here?

Dear Life: I’ve got the ideas covered. Please send a partner who’s good at, ummmm … taking action.

Dear People Who Tell Me That I’m Supposed To Be Able To Do It All For Myself Before I Write A Lover Into The Script: Fuck off.

Right. Well, I think you’re all up to date now.