November 2020

I lost my muse somewhere.

I have lost count of the days wherein I said ‘okay, I am going to write today’, and then I don’t.

Feels like a missing limb.

Used to be there, feels like it should be there, itches like it’s there, but it ain’t.

I have set alarms to wake me mid dreaming, drank extra coffee, fasted. The words just aren’t coming.

I haven’t even really posted here.

This is my warmup exercise.

I am also reading Henry and June by Anais Nin, which isn’t helping to inspire. It’s just a diary really.

That I have down, I don’t need inspiration nor instruction.

After the election and the great internet debate about Kamala Harris’ affair 22 years ago, I really wanted to climb up on my soapbox and scream, HER VAGINA IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.  And I still might.

I just feel like angels could descend from heaven bearing gifts of golden pomegranates and there would be a rousing chorus from the anti-fruit people and the pro silver people.

It is exhausting.

I am writing a new book about witches after the end of the world, and honestly, as someone who can never admit when I do something good, it’s really fucking good. I remember the rush when it came, I wrote for hours on end, for a week or so solid. I wanted to see what was going to happen next.

But now the two main characters have finally met, and I have to rip them apart again and I don’t want to.

I am frustrated. All these magical days happening in rapid succession. Feels like the Lion’s Gate portal all over again, but I am standing on the sidelines.

Just a cosmic observation.

Let’s wander back to March for a second.

We had a Friday the 13th in conjunction with a Mercury retrograde and some moon moon madness.

And the global madness kicked into high gear.

Mars is stationing direct on this Friday the 13^th after spending months spinning backwards and fucking shit up. Plus, we just had a blue moon on the thinnest day for the veils between worlds and Mercury is heading out of shadow phase.

Whatever tangled itself so badly in March is now in the process of coming undone. The cogs in the universe that have been grinding and stuck are about to start moving fluidly again.

I feel massive change coming.

And the prophecy from Dark Crystal keeps repeating in my head.

What was sundered and undone, shall be whole, the two made one.

I’m feeling optimistic. Like overly so, palpably so. Enthusiastically so.

But.

(why does there have to be a but?)

I am jealous, all of my witchy bitches are experiencing necromancy, channeling and inspirations galore. Powering up and coming into their own. And I feel like I am stagnating. Like I am late to the party, but I don’t even have the address.
I want my magic back, and if not my magic, my muse.

I know it is partially me. My fault. I went back to perdition, knowing full well it is a void. I have been spending way too much time on my phone. The complicated solitaire game I downloaded to kill the dead time at the bar, then deleted, has been reinstalled and I have conquered 60 more levels, which is good for tiny rushes of serotonin, but at what cost? So much time wasted and although it might be helping me stave off Alzheimer’s, it is doing nothing for my creativity.

Maybe it’s my mindset.

I do have a lot of gratitude, but maybe I am not showing it.

I mean I have chicory coffee in my cup and a fridge full of my most favorite things. I found this yogurt that is like a happy orgasm in my mouth with every bite. I have money in the bank and the roof I am under is lovely. I can walk outside, and the air doesn’t hurt my face. These are all good things.

Technically, geographically I am in a very good place right now. I adore the little apartment I am currently staying in. It did take a lot of magic, luck and planning to get where I am now. The thing is, I think I want to stay which would be so much easier if I could get this new book out of my head, out of the ether and into the world. Relocating will also take a lot of luck, magic and planning. And I think this is the trip that decides ‘should I stay or should I go’.

I posted a pic, and a status of ‘want’, to which my Kittenface Kayla girl replied,
“Manifest it my love. You know you can. Not everyone can. But YOU can. ”

I can, I know this, so why is all my power eluding me? Or is it?

I mean I am here.

And in the 11^th hour…

I finally I have some answers about my health.

That was kinda the big, bad distraction of this season of my life. Reoccurring, debilitating pain that couldn’t be massaged, medicated or stretched away. Led me to a walk-in clinic, 17 separate appointments for x-rays, ultrasounds, urine tests, and ECG, a retinal exam and the extraction and examination of about a pint of my blood.
I did a full STI screening again, for peace of mind.
Good news is, I am rather healthy. Everything that was supposed to be negative, was. My white blood cells are doing what they are supposed to be doing. I am a little low in iron and B12, but as the keeper of a vagina, this is not news.
There was some bad news.
On October 26^th I was diagnosed with Lyme disease.

Today I take the last of the antibiotics they use to treat it.
I am going to finish them regardless.

Ya, ya, I took the blue pills.

 You see dear readers, a week ago I was ‘undiagnosed’, for lack of a better term.
Cliff’s notes, there are 2 tests for Lyme. One is reactionary, they add my blood to some liquid and if it turns a color, I have it. Like a pregnancy test in a way, you are or you aren’t. The other test is a blot test so some person in a lab coat looks at my blood under a microscope and physically searches for the antibodies to the Lyme bacteria. I don’t have those. It takes substantially longer to process, hence the delay and the confusion. I had another blot test last week, I am quite confident it too will be negative.

(it was)

At the beginning of this I did not quite make the mental leap that what is ACTUALLY happening in my body could trigger a real false positive. I just thought the symptoms were so similar that they were easily mistaken for each other.

Not so.

Silicone migration triggers the same inflammation as Lyme’s and Lupus among other things.

I got kinda lost in my diagnosis, as anyone would, I felt dirty and unclean. I was terrified of the ramifications of such a delayed diagnosis. I tried to stay positive and decided once my body was clear of the bacteria, I could start healing. I went for the tests to make sure it hadn’t damaged my heart, eyes and spine.

But I forgot one really important thing along the way.

I walked into that clinic 5 weeks ago stating, ‘I think something is wrong with my implants, but we have to eliminate all of these things first.’ I have a vague recollection of writing about it here.

The last appointment I had was an ultrasound, I had to jump through all the other hoops to get to that one. And voila, the sweet technician listened to me, took her time and found the rupture.

These tits I have are 9 years old. The last bastion of trying to keep my husband from cheating on me. I became addicted to and abused the pain medication for months afterwards.
Physically, the implants themselves settled badly.
Emotionally, I healed incredibly well after I left him. My eating disorder has been conquered to the point wherein I am carrying an extra 20+ pounds over what I weighed when I was married and depressed, resulting in a cup size discrepancy on either side. Also I have a booty now, a good juicy booty.

Maybe I am manifesting. Things that have long bothered me subconsciously coming into the spotlight and both facilitating and downright demanding amendment.

Maybe my magic is so big I can’t see the edges of it.

The witches I am jealous of, are a decade younger than I, and I remember the exhilaration of realizing what I was. But it was also scary and overwhelming. Maybe my cogs are turning exactly how they are supposed to be, nice and smooth.

Regardless of what my tiny human brain can rationalize, I am exactly where I am supposed to be, or I would be somewhere else.

This is what is, and honestly, it is what I want.

Maybe I am just not used to contentment this complete.

Now to open that other tab and start working on something with substance and a future.

Inspiration exists, it just has to find you working ~ Picasso

I think about the girl who is in love with that broken rollercoaster sometimes.

How one sided that must feel for her some days.

How good her imagination must be to keep that going with the opposition and perceived silence from her heavy, metal lover.

I think I was her once, or close to it.

T’was the last day of retrograde and all through the house, the cats were asleepin’ and the rooms were clean and life was pretty okay.

I watched the mini documentary about the girl who was sexually attracted to and romantically in love with a broken-down rollercoaster at an abandoned theme park ages ago.

Story hit closer to home than I would have preferred.

I went through a phase where I said the Hulk ride at Universal Studios in Florida was bae. And it’s true. I still love him. But that isn’t what this is about.

I don’t want to taint what I have to say by re-watching the doc, so I am going from memory, I will attempt to post a link at the end in case you haven’t seen it and now want to.

It would be easy to say this girl is mentally ill, delusional, and sad. But she looked happy to me.

And maybe that’s the difference.

I was happy until I wasn’t.

And eventually I cured my broken heart by lying to myself.

I have waxed nostalgic a million times over about how I consciously decided I was making something out of nothing in my relationships. The only problem with making something out of nothing is when the nothing starts to show through. They loved me by halves, I know this, if they loved me at all. And then they all ended, I mourned, I healed, and onto the next. They were gone and compartmentalized, archived, but not forgotten. After some time went by I’d stumble on an old message and I have to grieve all over again because my coping mechanism was to decide that they were a broken down rollercoaster and I was just hearing voices and creating imagined scenarios. The loss of futures that only existed in my head. But then to be slapped in the face with written proof that I didn’t make it all up. Or they message me once in a blue moon, never on the blue moons, but still on some timeline that doesn’t line up with mine.

Or worse

“Died in an amusement park accident, I came back for you, so you wouldn’t be alone, and if I go away again, you can have my stereo.” Matthew Good Band, Indestructible

I was always getting really good at being alone right before they came back. I rarely answered their queries with “I’m with someone else now.” Because I wasn’t. I went long periods in between, enjoying  my own company alone.

I am indestructible really.

Until it came to those old messages, then I’d crumble and rust under the weight of what was.

I don’t do that anymore. I can barely remember what it felt like to be with anyone else. I don’t really want to. It’s all like flashes of B movies you’d watch late at night when you’re exhausted from a double shift but you’re too physically tired to go to bed and there is something comforting about the glow of the tv screen and the background noise as you adjust to finally being home. Could just as easily be mistaken for a dream I had a long time ago, or a little bit of déjà vu.

I have also gone on at great length about how I am the archivist. I have Star Wars cocktail napkins and a tiny, empty bottle of mediocre scotch that I spilled on a plane. I have screenshots and memes aplenty, hotel keys galore and, funnily enough a picture of bae riding the Hulk.

I am in a position now where I spent the bulk of yesterday cleaning out my Gmail account, my Hotmail is beyond redemption. I found things I couldn’t hit delete and send to trash fast enough, but there are 5000 + emails in there I don’t want to lose. 7492 to be exact There is a panic driven part of my brain that is screaming “What if he goes away and they are all I have left?”  

Long distance is a strange beast. So is love.

I think for the first time in my life I am in something that I never want to sully by pretending it wasn’t real, because it is.

I want to remember this as it really is. Because it’s good. Its transformational. I am not who I was before we met, not even close. And part of that is letting go of old rituals and habits and thought patterns.

There is also a part of me that has a lot of pride in how we speak to each other. I think (with some heavy editing for protection purposes) our conversations would make a beautiful book, even if we were the only 2 who ever read it. The story of us (if that wasn’t already a movie title).

I will figure this out. I always do. My luddite brain gets sluggish and grunts a lot, but I can do this.

And I had a realization yesterday that if I can’t, for the first time in my life I might be able to let this go and just back in what is instead of holding onto how we got here.

I am the girl who is in love with a rollercoaster, and so what if it’s all in my head and my memories. My perceptions are all that there is. Everyone around her questioned everything about how she was feeling, and she held fast. “This is what is because I say it is.”

I think she is my unlikely heroine here as I try to navigate a new way of being.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away I was the girl who monkey barred her way through relationships, never letting go of one without a firm grip on another. Then I learned how to let go and enjoy the space between.
I don’t have a back up plan, there is no longer the idea that ‘if this doesn’t work, I can talk to so and so’.
No safety net really, not outside of what resided in my inbox.

I am scared to delete our history. And rightly so. Its beautiful, dirty, sweet poetry and should be saved. But we can always make more.

And if he goes away, I know I will never be allotted the luxury of forgetting or thinking this was something it wasn’t.

It just is.