If you think this might be for you, it probably is.

if you’re reading this right now, take caution. the middle man is shaking out the sheets from his bed where he’s shed his dragon scales and laying them back down over our eyes. he eats our affection because nothing else satiates. he’s good at unearthing it too, affection from our dry barren gardens, so much so that we have bare none left for ourselves. he says, “your garden has the freshest herbs. you alone have saved me.”

take caution: the middle man LIES. you are not over reacting. do not apologize like i have. the middle man lies.

Listen, I have to tell you this because my biggest fear is hurting people. i exist with a fear inside me like a bomb thats certain to explode, shrapnel tearing through the cheeks of everyone around me. Theyll wear scars for the rest of their lives and say, “how selfish. how fucking selfish.” im suspicious, maybe, you recognize this pain.

and i apologize in advance, for my skin is sharp as swords and my words seer flesh like poison without trying. this means that my hugs end in wounds. and my “i love you”s end in burns. i hope you believe that im taking diligent notes on how to be kind and i watch Good people like lab rats with the intention of learning how to be better by the textbook. but even when im standing completely still, im bending the grass beneath my feet. im sorry, earth that im so heavy without meaning to be.

if you’re reading this right now, know that im so sorry my presence has hurt you. this isnt the first time and believe me when i say i recognize the pain. and i recognize how irrationally angry it makes you feel. but in my version of events, we’d have our own stockpile of meaningless jokes by now. but thats assuming a lot. thats assuming i wasnt predetermined to be the joke long before i arrived.  it really didnt matter who i was, did it. but my mother once told me, “sometimes you have to be the bad guy to protect someone else.” is that whats happening here? do you need to hate me? do you need to scoff at the things you think ive done? because if im not the bad guy, then someone else is. and god would that hurt so much worse, huh?

a very tired and anxious

A

 

Dream Analysis//2

You need to get your life in order.

Mess 
To see a mess in your dream symbolizes the state of your waking life. You need to get your life in order.

Fog 
To dream that you are going through a thick fog symbolizes confusion, troubles, scandal, uncertainty and worries. You may not be seeing things the way they really are. You may have lost your sense of direction in life. Alternatively, a fog represents mystery, secrecy and protection.

Scream 
To dream that you are screaming symbolizes anger and fear. You are expressing some powerful emotion which you have kept pent up inside. If you try to scream, but no sound comes out, then it indicates your sense of helplessness and frustration in some situation. No matter how hard you try to get someone’s attention, they cannot hear you. The dream highlights your difficulty in communicating with this person. You need to immediately identify your fears or feelings and confront this situation in real life.Alternatively, your inability to scream may be a form of REM paralysis.

To hear or dream that someone is screaming indicates that some friend or family member is in need of your help.

Suffocating 
To dream that you are suffocating signifies that you are feeling smothered or oppressed by some situation or relationship. Something or someone is holding your back. You are experiencing a lot of stress and tension.

Elevator 

To dream that the elevator is out of order or that it is not letting you off symbolizes that your emotions have gotten out of control. It may be a reflection of your life or your career. You are feeling stuck in some aspect of your life, whether it is your career, relationship, etc.


Yelling 
To dream that you or someone is yelling represents repressed anger that needs to be expressed. If you are yelling and no one hears, then it suggests that you are being overlooked in some waking situation. You feel that your voice does not matter or that your opinion does not count.

In particular, hearing demonic yelling in your dream means there is something you thought you have left in the past that is still haunting you.

let me tell you about my morning

when i write my own story i am both storyteller and main character. i get to rewrite my narrative. i get to choose how to see my world. i get to open the door and invite you into my universe. 

im back in salem and it sits the same, like a heavy weight in my stomach or a feeling of being a little unseen: a window partially covered, a light flickering, a cloud over the sun. this morning especially so, though my friends are in the kitchen, though a breeze drafts through my room, though the day sits waiting for me to fill it.

something about overcast days and creaky houses reminds me of stress and sadness and im worried im letting so many people down. two days, two separate situations saying ‘im annoyed’ and ‘you messed up’ and im too sensitive for this. when people criticize i want to hide, i want to crawl under hills, i want to wrap myself in blankets and curl into a corner and feel the feelings and so this is what i do. with tea and candles and telling myself that when people are upset that doesnt mean im wrong. when people are upset, sometimes they are wrong. when people are upset, sometimes i need to take my own side

and the drama in me sighs out, oh, sometimes living is like being an open wound and the salt is just text messages and casual words and how can i be so thin-skinned in such a gouging world

and with that sentiment, sad-me leaves my little cocoon nest and goes into the kitchen and makes myself breakfast oats and tells the roommate whats on my mind. there was miscommunication with someone and its this whole thing and when i explain it he laughs and its so clearly ridiculous and i crack a smile and then we are both laughing and —

its not all so bad.

its not all so good, the world, our nation, right now. but its not all so bad, not all of it. not laughing over oatmeal and not me, at my core, and thats the fear, right?


so, anyways, ashley wrote about blogging and i tell you these little stories, these morning oats and little thought because

i write so that i can speak, i write so that i can see the words i need to read. when the world pulls me down and im confused and tense and disappointed in myself, i get levity. i get agency. when i write my own story i am both storyteller and main character. i get to rewrite my narrative. i get to choose how to see my world. i get to open the door and invite you into my universe.


i dont know if you see me as i want you to – as a friend, as someone doing their best, as someone constantly apologetic and trying to be kind, as a thinker and brave doer and all the things i like to think i am. i do know that i dont like opening up out loud, i stutter and sweat, i avoid hard conversations, and this is why i dont like telling someone off for blaming me for someone elses mess and this whole situation, but anyways, when i write

i want you to see how the corner feels when i wrap the yellowstone-green blanket around my body and sit in my too-tight hat from b and feel the comfort of walls close and warmth closer. i want you to see how i sit and think and ask myself whats happening in my heart and slowly the sun filters through the broken white window blinds onto the scratched up wooden floor and how i start to remember all the wonder that is me and my life. i want you to taste the oats as i eat them slightly under-cooked in a too-hot-to-hold metal bowl and talk through my mouthful to caden and the sun shines a bit more inside me too.

i write so i can feel, and so you can feel it, too.

-h

 

 

 

Why I Blog

After the late film critic Roger Ebert lost his ability to speak as a by product of numerous intense surgeries, he threw himself into online blogging. It was called Roger’s Journal, a title that I particularly latched onto because the writing wasn’t limited to what had become his niche profession, but instead was a collection of anything in his mind. Journalist Janet Maslin said, “Ebert writes as if it were a matter of life and death. Because it is.” 

After the late film critic Roger Ebert lost his ability to speak as a by product of numerous intense surgeries, he threw himself into online blogging. It was called Roger’s Journal, a title that I particularly latched onto because the writing wasn’t limited to what had become his niche profession, but instead was a collection of anything in his mind. Journalist Janet Maslin said, “Ebert writes as if it were a matter of life and death. Because it is.”

Ebert was blogging because he had to blog – because it was a matter of being heard, or not being heard.  A matter of existing or not existing.

There is plenty to dissect here. Ebert was, more or less, shouting his final thoughts and musings for the world to hear, all so without a voice.  I’ve often wonder what kind of benefit this project had on his grieving process, deep below the surface. At the end of the day, one our most human fears is being forgotten once we’re gone. We live inside our own heads for so much of our lives. We have thoughts and fears, small pleasures and intense joys that, really, we can only feel because these things exist solely inside our own selves. So, once we die, so do these things.

For example, I can tell you about how the song Suicide is Painless by Manic Street Preachers makes me sleepy. Sometimes, it even makes me cry. Maybe the song stirs something inside you too, but still, you could never hear it the exact same way I hear it. You’ve never listened to the instrumental version play in the dark from my childhood bedroom from down the hall before a rerun of MASH.

This is a memory or an event or just a human thing strictly for me. These are passing shower thoughts, or while driving to work alone in the early morning. They’re often so fleeting that we don’t even ruminate on them too long ourselves.

But these small, every day thoughts and occurrences are what end of piling together to be our lives. Feel them. Acknowledge them. Out loud, I have said hello to the trees in my yard, or the rocks I sit on overlooking the ocean. Hello, good morning. I’m alive again today, isn’t that wonderful? It’s certainly a pleasure to feel you today, breeze.

These are the kind of things I want to blog about. To celebrate the ordinary and to be the archenemy to apathy. Much like Ebert, this blog has become a practice in existing. A thesis on staying alive. A matter of life or death.

I want to mention here that it’s terrifying to share these things and I have to imagine it’s equally nerve wracking for Heather. When you share, you open yourself to criticism. And criticism has and will come. Some harsher than others. The ones that will hurt the most come from people you would hope understand. The people who fear criticism the most will attack you. Keep that in mind. Someone once told me that if you like what you’ve created, then chances are so will at least one other person on Earth. You’re not an island, you’re not so different. You’ll find your audience, you will find your people. And won’t that be so wonderful.

You can find Roger’s Journal here.

A

what I’m reading: Show Your Work! by Austin Kleon

what I’m listening to: Snowmine