The smell of bulk bought waffle batter, the turquoise of a halter top and mandarin orange of a headscarf. We’re quietly killing this hotel carpet. The clamor of stretching and stumbling into the linoleum-topped tables, murmuring with rubbing eye roommates in ways others can/not understand. I can hear the crisp syllables of every lovely (,we’re late.) that I didn’t think to interpret. I’m comfort(er) bound, grounded in my love, going to jump the fence between the first relative/relatedness that ever commanded the blessing “Family” into the large world of “Friend?
I am away from where I usually sleep with most of the walkers between my daydreams. I am running away from the word ‘home’ and settling into a house in dreams the land of the keepers of my kneeshaking love. I am afraid of being a vagabond verifying the milemarkers between my limits. I fear hiking without the cartographers of my rocky ranges. I fear being snowed into my soul.
My family knows the safe paths between the flooding of my spirit, the bending of my soles, the eruption that my pupils and my pencils will inflict on before I bushwhack into a poem. How will I get lost without them? Escape, exile, examining writer’s exchange out of wonderland. I chose this path to tour another sort of real. The market for guidebooks there is understated, overwritten, wide.
I know what I’m packing.
a bundle of college rule,
a bribe of stamps,
a pair of magical jeans that remind me safety is a sentence I write,
that keep me revising away from splinters.
I’m going to forage so much faith I leap any states that separate us.
And then I’m going to come back to the place that is never and always home, where we understand what the other families could be saying, but don’t care to learn what they do. I will wonder again on the difference between breakfast and bulkbought waffle batter, running away from home and running away to home, whether Dorothy Gale knew the difference between comfort and crashing.
I will call both love.
I love the world, the whim, the way that I’m living. I love the two bags of gear I brought, and their usefulness. I love the baggage I’m letting go (and the usefulness it once had, too.) I love being unashamed to wander,wonder, write alone. I love being unafraid to sit with loneliness when it comes and learn what it has to say. I love how rarely it visits anymore. I love knowing where I’m loved. I love the chill of the wind before the rain, and the way my eyes don’t really work in the sun. I love that I find stained glass, situps, soil composition…so many things riveting. I love that this world has more to love to learn than an edupunk,anybody,could ever forget. I love how my whole face hurts from beaming at huge, small things. I love that I’m seeing this glimmer in myself again. Most of all, I love the friends who never stopped seeing it in me (and never stopped loving me for/despite? it.) I feel very lucky to be surrounded by such loveliness, and I can only hope to pass these good feelings on.
Sometimes I pretend not to remember details about people because having a good memory apparently equates to creepiness
Or sexual interest.
Just because I’m autistic and remember ‘weird’ details about your legitimately fascinating interests doesn’t mean I’m DTF. I mean, sometimes I am, but correlation is not causation.
(Source: unpublishedwriting, via teethandambitions)
I don’t know how. I don’t have the spoons to figure it out right now.
I don’t usually talk about my illness on this journal. After the 9 years that I’ve battled with the constant fevers,migraines,joints swelling, muscle spasms, heart problems, lung problems,kidney problems,ER visits, weeks needing visiting in bed, miscarriages, bouts of blindness and numbness…not to mention the number it has done on my sexual and romantic relationships, my schoolwork and my sanity (or at least my patience)… it is often easier to imagine this tumblr away from it all. It sometimes feels simpler to pretend that this hasn’t changed me, and my world. But it has. <[I take double those per meal, now. But, I can walk weekly again.]
It’s easy, sometimes, to let myself fall into a pattern of overcompensating and hiding the symptoms, only to end up here, at a flareup. Then somebody says something like “But you were fine a few days ago?!” or worse “Don’t you think you’re being melodramatic?”
I’m posting today because it is International ME/CFS Awareness Day. I’m also posting for every concerned family member that doesn’t know what’s going on, for every person that doesn’t understand the meaning of invisible disability and makes everyone feel awkward, and for every CFIDS warrior that has had to field that question so many times. Sometimes many times from the same people. This illness, and society’s response to it, turns me into a giant squid of anger. Fellow patients, lovers, live-rs….we are not alone.
Myalgic Encephalomyelitis or Chronic Fatigue and Immune Dysfunction Syndrome is more than just needing a nap. Learn more.
There are 5 guys who don’t aren’t speaking English walking and hollering about on our once and future roof and it sounds like they’re fraking playing DDR in bowling shoes, or some of them are fraking-doing some kink with power tools, and the rest are playing DDR in bowling shoes.
I know it is important home improvement stuff, and I am certainly thankful that this roof is now even less likely to cave in during an ice storm/tornado/[insert things that happen in Oz here.] That said, this has been happening for 10+ hours. I got a little bit of a break when I went to a meeting, but it’s still simultaneously cracking me up and banging cracks into my temples, and with them, my concentration.
I have about 50 emails to return. I am trying to resist the urge to set my “get rid of” box on fire just so that it’s not here in my room taking up space, especially since I could use the money from selling things to go to a proper burn. I still haven’t finalised the material for the herblore class I’m leading tomorrow, or the herbal first aid class I’m leading later this month. So, I’m on tumblr waiting for my head to stop throbbing so that I can try to avoid tumblr later. Alas, complaining won’t help, but talking about people playing DDR in bowling shoes did for some reason.
Alright, Massive Attack. Make it go away.
I do not want to do laundry. Or dishes, for that matter. I want to hop on a train. I want to set my broken suitcase on fire, filled full of remnants from a me that I don’t recognise anymore. I want to set my foot on dandelion-frosted soil I know too well, or open my eyes to a green and purple treeline I’ve never seen before. This wanderlust is more like wanderprowling.
I just got home from Interfuse. I shouldn’t be so surprised.
That said, this antsyness has lead to another variety of productivity. I’m in my room with a todo list the size of my forearm. My desk would fit in equally well in a carpenter’s vs. a travel agent’s office. I’m ripping through modeling queries faster than you can say “geek chic”, I have three new songs I’d like to learn on the fiddle, and I have 7 applications done and 16 to go for tonight. The soul music is loud, my tea has been steeped for so long it could overthrow an interim government, and I’m trying to convince myself I can’t afford to go to another burn so soon. Especially the same weekend as a wedding and a community fundraiser. That said, I do tend to thrive on erratic displays of flexible responsibility…Which sounds like a band…I may be failing at convincing myself this is a poor idea. And with that, I’ll stop my ramblings and ask:
If you redefined “work” to mean what you purpose you feel drawn to instead of what you do to earn money, what would your work be?
What is the work that is birthed when your productivity and procrastination lay together?
What fear is holding you back from creating your best work?
I’ve been putting off admitting it because it was new and I was afraid it meant I was going to be alone forever and I was scared into denying it by a person who felt threatened and engaged in emotional blackmail after I admitted to him that I was questioning….
but I think I’m WTFromantic.
I already told the knightling who responded more or less with “I’M SHOCKED” :), and then the Adler, who told me, “Really, you’re just you, love. And that’s all that matters to me.” I’m petrified a bit still and “What now?” but also melted into a pile of happy hippy sweater and hot tea by my polyfamily not freaking out.
I will be on the second leg of my airtrip to Portland to see my knightling and my Adler and Emberheart and asdfasdkjfhasdf
SO.
EXCITED.
Does anyone know whether I need to post a trigger warning for
tornadoes/severe weather photos?
