Dragging the past into it again, what is wrong with me.
Therapists need dialogue partners too!
In dreams lately somebody wants me to hurt for not following through with music and I won’t do it, I wake and won’t do it, I accept what I did and did not do with music, but that is not the point of this sentence, the point of this sentence is to notice that what appears in dreams does not always serve us, what does it serve.
For Christ’s sake argue with me.
I am so tired of the way we glorify – the way I glorify – suicidal alcoholics, can we not – can I not – at last reach the shore of the truly healed, the truly sober, the truly helpful.
Beasts we raise that outgrow their leashes and cages, whose hunger becomes the thing we must both feed and flee.
Apparently being a better storyteller was not the answer.
Fire is a good servant but a shitty master I say while chucking flint.
Want to get high with her still, listen to Dylan, laugh and get naked by degrees, and sometimes I don’t want anything else: that darkness.
The fantasy wasn’t sex it was a second chance, why did it take so long to see this, and why do I only see it now she’s gone down the river.
There’s more to the world than you know, I know, tell me something I don’t know.
We are ruled by a small number of men whose interests do not align with ours, it’s a function of the system to which we’ve consented.
He sings “I was never lost/you were always there,” there is only one woman about whom I can say that.
Left to drift in the shallows, or am I the boy who was told to get lost and so did.
And now it is time to harvest, the counters fill with broccoli and squash and greens, steam rising from the canning pot.
She gave me a sprig of lilac, she told me there was something sad in me, I loved her so much and had no idea what to do with that love, to this day I think of her.
Pausing to pray, to draw a breath.
Chrisoula says as we leave the house “we need to make our shared footprint smaller” and I say “if it gets much smaller it will disappear” and Chrisoula bumps my shoulder with hers and says “I know a guy,” what did I do to earn this, can it be I am forgiven, can it be I am saved.
Sometimes you want a mix of long and short sentences.
Perhaps I don’t write enough about my mother, her addictions and diagnoses, what it was like to learn from her – be taught by her – what good boys do and never do and who they do it with.