March 31, 2012
Tell me anything. Sounds like you may be the person people need stuff from but then you walk away drained and carrying stones when really you should be holding balloons every now and then. But it’s good to be the stone holder too because we can’t always float. But remember to pass them on too for your sake. Stone masons are no good if buried.
I don’t know which I’d prefer, mental or physical strain. Both is taxing in its own right.
Maybe at some point I’ll matrix my way out. It makes me feel better when I can imagine time as nonlinear. I feel as though sometimes pain is a laser or a string that leads to another way of viewing the day’s events.
Anyway, please sleep. I sometimes can make people sleep by rubbing their feet.
PS the only sleep meds that help me are actually anti anxiety or something but the knock me out. Lorazepam. Have you tried it?
April 1, 2012
you know me. Probably better than most. And thank you. I hate to admit it, but I kind of needed to hear a warm fuzzy tonight. And it means a lot coming from you. And I miss you too. Honestly.
I think I have warm fuzzy feelings / thoughts a lot but only because I can go through times where I delve into the not warm-fuzzy. My mind is a great thing, but it also turns into a monster once in awhile. I like to think because I go dark, I can see light in ways others can’t.
I am writing, yes. Slower than the past, but that’s because of work.
My stomach is a bit better. Getting there.
I don’t think anyone has ever rubbed my stomach. But weird thing is, I used to dream an angel would come into my room and rub my stomach. I had those dreams a lot. But never a human has rubbed my stomach. I think that would be nice.
I like what you say. And I like your energy.
I missed home too a lot when I was in NY. And I know how you feel. And how it can be hard sometimes. And when you DO come back to this part of the country for a visit, it’s like you can finally THINK. Or the sky makes it to where you can SEE and OPEN UP. But I also know I have to get out of here again soon. I know I don’t want to live in a big, BIG city, but maybe somewhere close to nature but near culture. I’m sure when and where will sort itself out. For now I will just try to work on being the best I can be where I am located. It makes me turn inward more, being here. In a good way. Well, it’s hard, too, because I see my weaknesses and flaws. And being back home makes me scared (scared I’ll fail/not leave??) and then I get all dependent and lazy instead of driven and strong. But maybe facing all of these things will ultimately make me stronger. And I can help people more. I don’t know.
Thank you for talking to me. It means a lot.
PS you know what’s good about being home? I’m finally going there with my self. If you know what I mean. Writing things like this—> (PPS, can you send me something of yours?)
The bracken is thick. My throat is sore. These things are related. I have a pen but no knife. I left it in a box near the kitchen so you could find it. I was afraid. You know what I mean. There are snails in my shoe. I put them there. You may find some in the cabinet next to my grandmother’s napkin rings. They like the dark. Give them a bit of moss. Though you may find it hard to gather any in the desert. It may rain. I think I felt it in my bones before I left. The desert welcomes it then floods. That’s what I’m doing. I stayed in the house too long. I need too much to go. This isn’t a normal story of being lost. I am not afraid. I was afraid, though, which is why I left the knife. While I’m in the bracken, I think of breasts. The kind that as I kid I wanted to learn to cut open. I never did learn, not really. I watched the other men do it. I hear you have to start at the bottom and work your way up. Careful not to cut the intestines or it will contaminate the meat. Mostly I was good at reading books and diagrams and instructional manuals on the porch in the heat drinking Big Red soda that I stole from the freezer where the men kept rabbits and rattle snakes. I liked the look of things frozen. Whole. Sometimes there were trails of brown that used to flow in veins of whatever rodent or reptile, on the freezer door handle. Worlds came off their brown gloves. Bodies. I was fascinated and frightened, which I suppose should have scared me. But instead I felt alive. Even as the shots rang out. The men walked through the brush in heat. Happy. I knew in my bones a kind of thrill they breathed. Though I was a girl and sat on the porch and drank Big Red and threw horseshoes. I have a knife hidden in the cabinet. At night I’m afraid I’ll swallow it. There are reasons the desert swells after a long drought. And it floods because it cannot accept too much of what it longs for. Because of this I had to leave. My throat hurts. The bracken is thick. But lost I am safer. You know what I mean. Keep the snails away from the sun.
I wish I could write longer, but I am borrowing sleep meds from a friend until I can get a prescription of my own. I ran out. My life revolves about sleep meds, or no sleep meds and insomnia. Sometimes I feel like an old person. But you mentioned Hemmingway and I think, like him, most people drank or drink to quell things like this. I, however, can’t. Because drinking too much makes me feel sick. And then I get anxious and the whole cycle starts all over again. Maybe I should just do yoga a lot and things would be better. But for some reason, yoga is expensive and I’m not disciplined. I try to meditate, but my mind usually wants to wander. They said that on my evaluations when I was a little kid “Shannon lives in her own world and has problems paying attention in class.” Good thing, anyway. I mean, I think I turned out all right.
You never leave me hanging. In fact, you usually surprise me with words at the perfect time. And any time to be surprised with your words is a perfect time, really.
I hope you’re feeling better. Just pretend there’s a spirit rubbing warm light into your tummy. Breathe. Repeat. Sometimes this helps.
I promise no one but me reads or has access to it except me and once maybe the cat but my ex boyfriend took his cat back and I’m still sad about that.
I definitely think you’d be a good hermit goat herder with me. I think we would get along well. And the goats, too, would like you for sure.
And keep writing (to me and otherwise).
Can’t wait to see what you send!