Look, Casanova, you've got it wrong.

Secret: I looked up how to spell "Casanova" to make sure I got it right.

It's much warmer than I'd anticipated today, which makes me think of defied expectations and some kind of unexpectedness.

Back to the title thought: it strikes me sometimes how desperately blind we can be when we are simultaneously desirous and afraid. I finally got back on good terms with s., not because of working things out but because I came to understand that I had been right about her- about her confusion and how divided she is. Truth is, she's terrified of being lonely. I can't resent her for her behaviour. I have to be honest and even.

Although I will continue to make bad puns in her presence just to bother her. Girl needs to be annoyed every now and then.

And then I was wrong, too. Desirous and scared. It's been just over a month since ------- and I started to think that I was being punished. I was growing number and colder to the touch every time, and it began to make me feel like a vessel. More than that, it made me feel like I was supposed to be one. Like I deserved it.

This can't be blamed on d. I don't mean to say he misused me in anyway or didn't try. If anyone behaved poorly it was I.

There I was, still blaming myself. And then, just hours after the worst of it, he proved me wrong again.
Smart bastard. He's always right. It's probably why I love him so particularly much.

And now I'm walking to meet someone else who might have been wrong, might have been misled.


Why do we make the same mistakes, or at least get caught in the same situations, over and over? Are we all idiots?

And why did I made the mistake of wearing a skirt that makes me look like a schoolmarm? Is it because I use words like "schoolmarm?"

crone: living in fables

Last week, I was walking home when I saw a cat playing with a mouse. I stopped, and the cat scolded me and leapt away. The mouse fled to my foot's protection, then ran up my leg to the end of my jacket. I picked it up and it sat in my hand as I carried it a block or so away. Then it raced up my arm and disappeared over my shoulder.

A block or so later (and yes my walks home are long enough that I measure them without minutes), I saw a bee on the ground. It was just barely alive, so I coaxed it onto a leaf and then carried it to the first black-eyed Susan I could find. Everything deserves to die well.

I don't know. It seems that I live differently from a lot of people in the sense that those moments made me really happy. In a way that sometimes other people can't. Maybe I'm more childish than most people. It's a little hard sometimes.

I hate seeing people get frustrated with me. I hate knowing I lost control and did or said something really stupid or annoying. I'm still not used to a lot of the things that go along with being with people, and I think I overcompensate.

Speaking of which, things are getting bad at home. I feel a little like the bee.

mercury in retrograde

aw, hell.

i destroyed my phone and my SIM card today.
and i'm bored as hell, tired of not having friends, and amazed to find that i'm just as invisible and, well, lame on the internet.

blaaaaah whine

i'm embarrassed to even post this. but hey, fuck it, right? i'm the only one who looks.

Our Lady of Benevolent Axe Murderers

There are bad things everywhere today.

Last night, or early this morning, I dreamed that I was living alone in my mother's old house. It was slightly more decrepit than when I'd lived in it, and I occupied my days by cutting, displacing, and storing parts of corpses. I packed them, freeze-dried, into cardboard boxes, as though saving them for sale. None of this affected me, even though in waking I can't watch the violent parts of movies because they bother me so much. But as this dream me, I was fairly certain that I'd killed some people, but it didn't really affect me enough to be of even a passing significance. The only halfway normal part came when my mother, stepfather, and younger sister came by to visit, and I had to stash some of the boxes under chairs and tables, and sit on a few more, for fear my ever-snooping mom would peek inside. So, yes, dramatic irony, sort of funny.

But why would I dream that? It bothered me all day.

The only conclusion to which I could come was that, since I've been running myself so hard and refusing to feel the stress, my mind was trying to let me know that I was feeling things, and that something wasn't right, and that being numb to it and ignoring it would only make it worse.

It even gave me a marvelous idea for a painting. Hence the title.

Now, however, I can't bear to work on it. Put the idea aside, might not even begin it, ever.

I was walking down Franklin, the bad five blocks to the bus stop, and one of three men passing me in a group called this out:
"Hey, how you doin'? Can I preserve you? I've got some Saran Wrap."


Since then, terrible images have flooded my brain. My skin feels taut and itchy, and my mind plays two reels at once: violence, rape and plastic wrap mixed with the more detailed shots from my dream.

I'm home alone tonight, and for the first time in a long time, Powderhorn seems like a shitty, scary place. The cement walls of my apartment feel paper-thin and not protective. The locks on my windows have never seemed rustier. All of my intelligence, all of my defensive anger seems useless, because the truth is, I am a woman, and a man could decide that he is stronger than I am, and try to prove it. And he might catch me off guard and prove me right. Because he is a man and I am a woman, he could hurt me.

That's a fear that no one should have to go to bed with.

d. says that something is going around, like something negative has infiltrated him, me, and everyone else.

I know he's right.

I just feel it too deeply to let that make me feel any less isolated and... unsafe? afraid? Neither word seems right. But that sense of security I've always felt deep down isn't there.

Fuck....