thinking

there's this feeling of trying to understand the impact one has on others. the need to know that a mark is being made, while simultaneously trying not to blow yourself out of proportion. to ignore the eyes watching you is as delusional as believing everyone or no one is staring. it's the ones that silently drink you in that seem the most affected. they change in subtle ways and forever pinpoint you as the crux that caused it.
I remember volunteering and slowly watching the outcasts mimic the patches I wore on my clothes, and their hair got shorter and funkier the longer I stayed. I tried to say it wasn't me, but the delusions wouldn't stick. I had little followers and didn't do anything with it. I was too scared to figure out what it meant. maybe all I needed to do was exist and show that it's possible to be different and alive.
since I moved, my sense of self has been out of whack. I have this new community I influence, and again I'm trying to ignore the impact I have. what do I do with it? I try to preach words of inclusion and tolerance but I don't know how far it goes. I don't know how much it matters. I am still an authority figure to some, and a friend to others. my failure in the past was in holding myself too distant but there's the other side of things, where I get too close. what do I do with this? where do I go with that?

I miss having words that make sense of the world, or express the lack of understanding currently apparent. I stopped writing because I wasn't sure how to say things were going fine. my life got a little dull, or when it was bad I didn't want to talk about it. I found someone to listen and I've been pouring all my words into him instead of here.
the people I think about enough to mention have already been written out. my proverbial pencil is down to a nub thanks to Pants and ex-otter and ex-husband. all the other people I'd want to write about, people like von or bones (she finally left me, 3 or 4 years after the fact) or anyone else -- I just don't see the point anymore.
the thing I could write about, my cat having cancer, I just don't want to bring up. I talk about it to Fig. I don't keep a lot in these days. I guess I have other outlets. I guess I don't want to talk about it.

A realization

All my romanticism was used up on my love of decay (and the punk mindset).

I'll come down

it's a tightening of some parts and a loosening of others. it's your skin floating off your body. it's your world like you're wearing 3-D glasses and every dimension has been slightly flattened between planes. all the good feelings go up by five and the bad ones go down. no pain. no anger. no fear.
but a dullness and inability to think or focus. a balance. everything feels better and part of feeling good involves not acknowledging the shit. so that just bobs away, concealed by some kind haze. a brain-wise haze.
sometimes I love this, when I don't get analytical. writing is the worst thing I could do in this frame of mind.

how many years?

hard heart. beating fast. wrap the string tight around your finger, now. feel the throb. heart beat. I remember how it felt when I fell. I remember that body pressing me against the wall. I remember his eyes, unblinking, all pupil, no iris.

wrapped hard around his hips, carried into every room in that apartment. he fucked his pain away. I let him use me because I needed it. it's so trite, it's so sad. he didn't want to leave and I didn't want to be left but we had so little to do with each other. me in my coat and furry hat, stomping in my untied boots. him reminiscing of ex-girlfriends burnt in my image. I wasn't them. I wasn't right. he wasn't right. we were only ever wrong for each other.
but I remember whipping him once and his gritted teeth. I remember the marks on his body and the sweat on his back. his shark's eyes, black and staring. but never at me. he always seemed to be looking through me, or near me, rarely at me.

I wanted to teach him how to fuck and said he couldn't wait. but things got complicated. and then he stopped responding. in time I won't remember this anymore. but the irony is that he will. because he always remembers.
he mattered so very much to me, but my memory of him is fading. but he cannot forget anything. it's his curse, he would say.
I don't know why I loved him except that for a short, very short, time he needed me. and I needed that so badly. every moment I was with him was a compliment. he was so unhealthy for me. I never had control. I still don't.
the worst part is I was so rarely myself.
no, no, the worst part is that I miss him.
and I don't want to talk to anyone about it.

a reminder

I want to make more puppets. Different kinds of puppets. I want to use papier mache and make jointed puppets. I want to use cardboard and make huge creations. I want to create and create and create. I can't figure out why I don't. I think I'm scared.
Art is terrifying and necessary. I don't feel complete unless I am making something. If I go too long without working on a project, I get depressed.
I am putting this here to remind myself:
never stop creating.