Kennel

I hate being "in the doghouse". I want to text him good night, be all cutesy and say "sweet dreams" like I've tried to make a habit of doing. But he was decidedly hostile today, and I know it's my own fault. I feel like this:

// Hubert Figuiere //

// Alan Ellis //

Aging

Today I accidentally slept in for a couple of hours. My alarm went off at eight, but I didn't lurch through the living room until ten. I felt disoriented when I got up, and a little anxious. A bit later I had a video call with my boss. Those things aren't necessarily bad, but I don't like disruptions to my routine. My favorite days are the regular ones without any surprises.

Having several personal projects can make a person busy. I always feel shocked when it's 8:30 and I'm only just finishing up my work. I want more time, to do creative things like sewing and collage, and then I can force myself to write. It's a trite complaint that there are not enough hours, and even if the amount were doubled, we'd still squander the supply in the same way.

I don't particularly worry about getting old. I'm currently too young for such a concern to be anything but abstract. X bemoans the hair that isn't on his head and the creases in his face. There's a prickly softness to all of him except his scalp. I like to push my fingers through his beard. The hairs are silky but have coarse ends. He's not as nuzzle-prone as I am, but sometimes he presses his cheek to my skin and makes me giggle.

Driving

I have always appreciated the way you handle a car, so sure and competent. Sitting next to you, rolling the window down and then up and then down just a bit, adjusting to the wind and your speed. I like being able to reach over and touch you, put my hand on your shoulder or your neck.

I am excited to start accumulating experiences with you again. But I'm scared that my cup will be close to running over and yours will stay half full, that I'll spill like a forgotten drink at a rowdy party. Already I resist my communicative urges. "Don't say that; you'll sound needy."

I talk about this stuff with my therapist, and it helps. She eases the tension and pulls me back into actuality. But I wind myself up again.

Babbling Grades

I'm seriously considering taking classes again this summer, but I'm scared. My college experience has definitely had some high points, but also some nosedive lows. I came home from Reed in 2012 because I was suicidal. My most recent academic attempt ended when I dropped out after a couple of weeks because I needed a tonsillectomy--but also because of the depression. I've mentioned before that I have an all-or-nothing attitude toward any accomplishment: either I'm the best, or I'm nothing. In high school, I was the best. In college, I have been nothing. Of course, that's a very unhealthy and skewed way to look at things. Rationally, I realize that. But it's hard to translate logical understanding into emotional acceptance.

I'm starting to dabble again in learning for its own sake, researching because I'm truly interested, and that feels so good. There are subjects that I want to pursue in a structured environment: marketing, for example. But I still can't face the idea of taking a lab science and doing group projects.

My mom says, "Just take one class." She suggests that we visit expensive artsy places. I want my dad to retire soon; I'm not tryna saddle him with $50,000/year payments. There's no way in hell that I'm going into personal debt.

"Why don't you? Yes, but--" has always been my favorite interpersonal power game. I look for excuses not to do things that are uncertain because I feel safer when I don't try, when I refuse risk. The cost-benefit analysis tells me to avoid the possibility of being nothing.

Orchids & Battle

I am forever photographing neighborhood florals. Personally, I have very little impulse toward cultivating plants--although I've watered our succulents a few times and spritzed the spidery air plant hanging in the kitchen--but I enjoy the blossoming of others' efforts.

Yesterday meant watching Come Drink with Me at a chilly theater in Chinatown (as part of CAAM Fest 2014) and then driving back to the East Bay for Italian food at a restaurant where friends worked the bar, in the interest of sociability or something like that. I loved the Caprese salad, which came with yummy olives.



That's a scene from Come Drink with Me. I found the film bewildering, being constantly beset by the sense that further cultural context was needed. Looking up the history of Chinese opera helped a little.

Pre-Dealing With Pet Loss

My dog is getting old. I imagine that his bones ache and let him know when rain is coming, being just as aged as that cliche. He slows down near the end of a walk. If I've taken him too far, he starts limping (cheerfully) before we can even see my house again.

I love him much more now that it's evident that we'll lose him soon. I was an indifferent pet-owner when I was younger. Now I enjoy talking to him in playful growls and curling up with him on the rug. I only mind the doggy smell when it gets really bad. The incessant barking still gets on my nerves, but my general affection for him can override the annoyance. This is even true when he wanders through a door that shouldn't have been left open and pees on my carpet. I can't blame him for his powerful instincts and weak will.

My dog is always happy to see me. He is easy to please and forgiving of human faults (e.g. tripping over him). He is never duplicitous. He is always kind. In fact, the concepts of kindness and cruelty simply don't need to exist in Marcus' worldview. He is simple, and easy to understand.

I wonder if I would enjoy having a boyfriend with a doglike personality. Docile, except where food is concerned, and ever attentive? Probably not. I can't stay interested in someone if I'm convinced that they're interested in me. It is perturbing. I should be able to conceive of X feeling about me the way I feel about him, but it seems impossible. My self-judgment precludes that.

What if I could believe it? Would we still be together then? Historically, emotional security has bored me.

Sometimes as a joke X will pretend to be a dog. He'll pant, and be SUPER ENTHUSIASTIC, and lick my face until I laugh and push him away. It's adorably goofy. I like scratching behind his ears and asking, "Who's a good boy?" He goes, "Is it me? Is it?" I am glad that he will joke around and be silly like that. Petting him is fun. He keeps his hair very short, so rubbing his scalp is like stroking prickly velvet.

It's a joke because X doesn't have a canine personality at all. I don't know if I'd call him feline either, but by his own description he's petty and passive aggressive, much more catlike qualities. Somewhat aloof, and self-sufficient.

I am in the process of falling back in love with him.

When my dog inevitably dies, it'll be heartbreaking. I can anticipate the wailing of loss inside me. It's a kind of disbelief. "This really happened," it says, "and to me?" Then I will settle into a dog-less life.

Pale Petals

Spring is delightful. I'd forgotten how much I love it. The flowers are coming out, like these ruffled white roses. Unfortunately, downsized photos can't do them justice!



I finished reading The Age of Innocence today. The story was sad, but it didn't wrench my heart as much as I thought it would. Next up, the movie! Hopefully I can get my mom to watch it with me.

Anxieties about my rekindled romance with X keep cycling through my head. Therapy helps, but it doesn't turn off the inner voice.

Rising Like Bread Or Smoke

I'm not a patriot. I am grateful to live in the United States, with all the entailed advantages, but I'm not a patriot. How can I be proud of a country that was ripped from its first inhabitants and built by slaves? I abhor anyone who reveres that legacy.

The scene is a high school basketball game. It's sparsely attended, but solemn attention is still given to the rites of the sport. All of us in the bleachers, we stand up for the piped-in national anthem. I notice that most of the audience has not laid hand over heart--is this not done anymore? "The Star-Spangled Banner" overtakes me, and I don't dwell on etiquette. Instead I am surprised by the swelling sentiment under my palm. It feels like church.

The country, as an institution, has made progress. For the most part you have to zoom out to see it. But the melting pot is melting, ever so slowly. So slowly that it hurts. And it seems that many people are willing to poison their own bodies in order to taint the melting pot (if you'll allow that continuation of the metaphor).

The salient question is: How can I best hold my own identity as part of a flawed assemblage of history and shifting finances? How can I regard my position healthily?

With compassion, I suppose. For my own agonizingly "correct" opinions, for the weak character of government, but especially for the factions that must rise according to Maya Angelou's words.



Photos by Anthony Quintano.

I Want To Ride My Bicycle

// Father and Son by Sedat Gever //

The parent can pedal faster and harder as well as having the bigger wheel. I remember this situation, albeit with my mother rather than my father. Nowadays there's not much of a disconnect between her goals for me and what I want for myself, but we used to face in opposite directions. A little bit of the tension remains.

The issue of the moment is me going back to school. I've agreed to look at catalogues and visit Mills College when my cousin does, but my acquiescence came reluctantly, after much prodding. The idea of taking classes is appealing, if I get to choose ones that I like, but on the other hand the prospect of re-entering academia terrifies me. The last couple of times that I attempted to do school, I held it together for a few weeks and then fell apart. The mitigating circumstances involved tonsillitis and subsequently surgery, but I remain convinced that it was my own lack of willpower. I could have powered through if I wanted to. I just couldn't manage hard work sans passion. But I was depressed, and depression is antithetical to enthusiasm.

I don't know!!! The feeling of unsurety makes me want to hide. It doesn't help that I woke up with a headache and likely exacerbated it by drinking three mugs of caffeinated tea.

Grey Tears

My heart is an oblivious beast, 1 & 2, by Marie Hochhaus.

I know I haven't posted here in ages. I've been thinking about this blog, not sure whether to shut it down or start working on it again with renewed vigor. Self care tip of the day, something like that. Do I have the time?

Despite the un-cheery photos here, I've been doing so much better. I'm happy, I think. This might be what it feels like to be normal???