I am thinking of posting sexy pictures to my facebook account. Almost everyone in FB knows I’m kinky, and these aren’t nude, just pin-up type risque. But neat professional pictures that I had done. On the fence about it. It’s just fun to feel confident, and I kinda wanna show it off…
I have been more productive today, particularly in the last 6 hours, than I have been the whole of last week combined. On Monday night the world suddenly got huge, leaving me a tiny speck clinging for life on this rock, being tossed by the careless laws of gravity in any manner but up. Despite my inability to stand upright, I managed an even more unlikely fate: to fall deeper still. Lying in bed, buried under blankets, bound by my brain’s endless banter, I blanked on any form of Brittany. It was a pity party that would have made Hamlet proud. It was likely a process I needed to see through, but goddamn. When did it get to be over a week into November?
At least I didn’t lose the time. It was more thoughtless neglect than blackout. I let myself drift, hoping that the ocean might not send me back to the shore. Maybe it hasn’t. It’s hard to make a judgement call at the moment.
Maybe it’s because fall is waning into winter, or maybe it’s that I just spent a whole week in bed, but I can’t seem to get clean. Not in a trauma sense (or at least I don’t think so), but in a I-washed-my-hair-twice-and-it-still-feels-gross sorta way. Is this a seasonal thing I need to learn about, like the perils of frozen sidewalks or that spring is the enemy of sinuses? Or do I just need better shampoo? Questions like this invade my mind, and I don’t know how the world gets any sleep.
Yesterday I saw Interstellar and I’m still thinking about it. I wish I could’ve seen it sitting beside Neil DeGrasse Tyson, just to see when he would’ve laughed or leaned in. The universe we inhabit is heavy in my mind. I remember staying up at night at age eleven wondering where we come from, how/if God works anywhere into anything, and always why, why, why. If I’d had better schools or different father figures, would I have gone into fields of science? I study it now, but at such a rudimentary level. I can recite the Biblical answers to almost anything, although with less accuracy than I had fifteen years ago. When it comes to reality, I’m still lacking.
I crave reality. I want to long for truth, but the more truth I learn, the less freedom is set. Reality, cold and uncaring reality, the only standard of measurement I want, always lurks just beyond the horizon. My truth is my reality, which makes me wonder what objective would look like, if such a concept existed. It doesn’t. We all have filters, experiences, ideas that screen and taint an otherwise objective reality. It translates into truth, each truth owned by an individual, each individual making decisions and changes upon a discolored perception. We can’t ever revert to the original. We only have what we have now, and what we can try to prep clean for tomorrow.
And here I am, unable to wash it away.
Matt asks questions now and again that reminds me how much I’ve changed in the last year. People like Max and Margaret, amazing friends that I love and have known a very short amount of time, know more about my system because they knew me in New Orleans. Steve asks things too at times, and I find myself giving vague responses, because explaining the journey from there to here would involve more trust than I can give. I don’t talk about those things much, to anyone. Without therapy especially. Kimberley and I were right, though. I’m okay. I have that department basically handled. There are side effects, certain “perks” that come with being me, but the pervasive issues and drama that seemed irrevocably packaged alongside have dissipated. I’m whole more often than not.
What really brought this to my attention was the latest South Park. (SPOILERS) It’s the scene with Satan and Stan. Stan says, “The addict people said something about me filling a hole.” Satan says, “Well, who’s not filling a fucking hole, right?” I laughed, because I saw the expression I think Karen and Pastor Stan might’ve had if they were watching the animated exchange. My filters are washed in the blood of Christ, then the mud of the Mississippi, smelling slightly of mildew, primer paint splattered around the edges.
The pieces of my past meld together, forming a more whole and dynamic me. I can’t always split it up into who and why and where. It simply is. I am.
Snow is supposed to arrive this week. I’m gonna get to build a snowman this year after all.