Tag Archives: love

I need to go back to school.

A grey morning greets me at the window, whilst stones charged by the moon await sharing their properties with those who are open to them. i was reading evaluations i received while attending ucsc, the word “good” was a frequently used word, and “versatility” a compliment. writing isn’t my strong suit. copying seems to be. i copy people around me, their mannerisms, like a mirror. i’ve read about a thing called mirror neurons, that we all have them, but i mostly imitate, and unintentionally. it just happens. i wonder if it’s due to a lack in my own personality, or is it insecurity? i don’t know what it is. i sketched a tree on friday. drawings are mostly self portraits. i have not mastered realism nor the ability to detach from a drawing i’ve drawn. i’m so self critical. it’s no wonder a majority of my followers are self help oriented bloggers, which i don’t mind and will occasionally read an article. i’m stuck in this loop of self hatred, it’s getting old, but i feel like i am breaking free from it. priorities. values. all things i need to really meditate on and establish if i’m going to get anywhere in life. i wish i was back at work, focused on problems to solve i get paid in solving. it’s tiring but somewhat fun. maybe i should just work and move out of my parents house. i really don’t know what to do. i am caught in a capitalist system with little resources and income. yet, i have no problem with abundance. well i do, but it shows up in different ways. i have an abundance of problems, of books i want to read. i am attracting all of this. why? to feel needed? wanted? useful? who cares. i’ve put myself in this position for a reason and i need to put myself out of it. i’m in a constant state of want, as all people are, we are desiring beings. i feel gross and sad. i remember poverty, real poverty, when i was younger, and the strange sensations it made me feel. a dark emptiness. in retrospect i should be thankful and happy with what i have. that i am not poor as i have experienced before. or miserable and married. now i’m just miserable and single. ha. each has its pros and cons. this blog is mainly me complaining about the same thing. free writing therapy sessions and if that interests you, sweet, if it bothers you, well, do what you feel necessary to make it not bother you.

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a walking work of poetry

i dreamt of a book, each page contained words that fell across the page and onto the floor, their weight was light and lifted then went back to inked form. i checked out books on linguistics and chinese proverbs. i struggle in communication so i figured books on linguistics would help. the book of chinese proverbs was a matter of serendipity. it was a beautiful day today in the san gabriel valley. i went to a store in glendora called phenomenal love and bought stones to help strengthen/align my chakras and clear my aura from negative energy. i don’t remember the last time i felt light, non-depressed. i think i have been this way my entire life. always low. i don’t know why. perhaps i’m paying karmic debt. i’ve felt happy, but once i hit middle school the depression sank in and has never left. i also checked out a book of short stories by anton chekhov. the muscle, the voice, all get better with use over time. no linguistic book is going to help me, but something like that was said in there. i’m puzzled by puzzles and my job feels like a puzzle yet there’s no sense of accomplishment because everything is in process. i work all day on a computer i’ve become robotic. when i worked at macy’s in capitola there were weird individuals to draw inspiration from. here there are nothing but similar people, wearing similar clothes with similar dead dreams, working for a machine. why do i find myself here, yet again? i’ve gone from working at prestigous schools to a warehouse job to a bookstore. everything is illusory. beaches aren’t all what they seem neither are trees that don’t move yet see everything. boring mundane people try to make their life interesting but life interests me when love rears its ugly-beautiful head. love is so funny, and always appears when least expected. but it doesn’t, it’s right there when you look for it. it’s everywhere. couples walking in parks, climbing up barks, barking like dogs, but dressed nicely and smoking pot.

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a repressed artist

I always dream interesting dreams but then forget them immediately upon waking and it is back to this boring reality/existence called life. it’s 8:50 am and there is so much potential in a day. i could shower, get dressed, take the train to the beach and enjoy the waves. or i could shower, get dressed, do laundry, meal prep for the week, make a painting, organize my living space, etc. i instead have chosen to write. i woke up thinking of the missed opportunity with an artsy architect. i actually miss craigslist. as much as there were weirdos and freaks to be found on there there were some decent, interesting people also. why am i waking up complaining? i have a job i complained about wanting and now that i have it it is something i don’t want and will complain about. it’s too much work and the supervisor is mean. she’s bitter and just plain mean. probably from working there so long and ready to retire. but despite all of that, i will not give up or quit. i look at my job like constant waves that i need to surf/navigate and i am still learning. making art is the only outlet for a mundane existence. or maybe actual surfing is. before i went crazy i was doing a lot of meditation while listening to music intended to open your third eye/chakras. seek and you will find, ask and you shall receive. the world opened to me made sense at the time, i wish there was some way i could make sense of it now and make a comic book out of it or novel. or maybe i will let it remain a memory and just move on with my life. i struggle with anxiety and here i am with a giant latte from starbucks, and wonder where the anxiety comes from. i don’t want this to become a self-deprecating post but that’s where my mind often goes. self-hatred. the idea of loving oneself eludes me. i’m a repressed artist. i think anyone is capable of being an artist. but actual artists need to do art in order to live, like breathing. i have to write or paint or draw, otherwise i am just down and depressed. maybe i should take an art class. after years of isolation i have plagued myself with anxiety. i can’t even drive on the damn freeway without feeling the onset of a panic attack. even taking my nephews to the movie theatre gave me anxiety. maybe it is the use of too much computer all my life. i’ve always been glued to this thing. even at 13, i used the computer to chat with friends or read blogs. maybe i need to break away from the computer and re-aquaint myself to the “real world.” that’s nearly 20 years of constant computer use. that can’t be good for a person. and i don’t exaggerate. maybe i will devote the rest of this year to work, which is on a computer, constantly, and to writing, drawing, painting for the remaining hours i have in the day during the week. that means i would break away from this blog and all social media, which i have already, to some degree.

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sunday stream

i once spent a day in a castle made with garbage called rubelia here in glendora, twice i visited and twice i was entertained by talented musicians far from mundane. young people are attracted to artsy things, they’re the innovators or muses to those who innovate and create. two pink roses peek their colors outside beneath the shadows caused by bright light from the sun beaming on southern california. things often left out in the sun either grow or spoil, we’re probably doing both simultaneously while getting older. i saw a movie yesterday so terrible about a “brilliant” writer that i cannot even write a half-assed review about it. my sentences are so fragmented you would think i was hung over but i’m mostly medicated. my brain is susceptible to nonsense and gets distracted quite often. i’m a recluse and romanticized this person quite often throughout my life, the weird and the abandoned, the odd the unusual. i’ve loved them all greatly but little did i know i was one of them, or maybe i’m not, i’m torn between two worlds and wondering where i fit. so many inspirational quotes and self help guides plague my mind, too much reading of fiction has left me wanting works on algorithms. but even then my brain has slight and superficial interest, i’m only interested in the midas touch but i seemed to have been cursed with the reverse. i’m still figuring it out. what is art? what is poetry? what is constantly thinking? am i just lazy and avoiding doing things i need to do around the house? why haven’t i drawn or lifted a pen to sketch something. there are gaps, but who am i lecturing? i am playing with different narratives, just as there are different styles in drawing. i have yet to find my own but this is working, maybe my style is eclectic since i don’t associate with one thing. some i have control over and some of it is my subconscious speaking. an easter spent in santa cruz was worth remembering i was dressed in a peach colored blouse making other girls green with envy, but it’s all really silly. everyone has their own unique beauty. these are all just drafts of something better, right now you’re reading my stream of consciousness, should this even be published? most won’t read it or will find it boring but that’s okay since there’s no harm in trying. but i’m not really trying i’m just going with the flow of it.

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going back to santa cruz

LAST night i dreamt i was on a bus to santa cruz. i was admitted to university of california, santa cruz in 2009 and enrolled in the winter of 2010 as a transfer student. what i didn’t know was my life would be forever changed by this decision and the pandora’s box it opened and continues to open to this day. every time i moved back to this town shit would hit the fan, and several problems erupted. the harsh beauty of the place ignited one problem after the next. not enough money to live there, not smart enough to study there, all against the backdrop of the bay or wintry winds and rain of the season. my divorce was ignited there, my sister went crazy while i was there, i attempted to finish school there twice and failed greatly yet i still want to go back. maybe i love drama and conflict. maybe i am spoiled and want to be among the beauty and scenery and crazy characters that is santa cruz. i just heard that the film “us” takes place in my achille’s heel, although most of it was filmed in los angeles, and the house was filmed in pasadena. in any event, i love that the city to date has only approved of filming horror movies, the last and only one being “the lost boys” back in the 80s. i met a descendant of george washington there, i met my crazy ex roommate who has peter pan syndrome there, i lived there with artists and musicians and drug dealers. i want to create a new story with this backdrop. i want to live there and thrive. i don’t want to merely speculate and watch what goes on around me, i want to be immersed in the culture and people. i can’t do that here in the suburbs of la. i’ve said before that i believe the internal reflects the external. no matter where i go, problems will follow, maybe in different forms, but they will still be there. since i do live with family, and the backdrop here is plain and boring, i could build a better foundation, try to become the person i want to be and allow the details of going back to santa cruz, if that is what fate allows, to unfold and fall into place on their own. i don’t want to be distracted by memories and the should or could haves. there are many things i should and could have done. i should have stayed in school, said fuck you to my ex husband and let him leave. i had no support up there, my only support is here and only because i am here. i need to be my own support system. lost in an identity crisis or not, my niche is definitely the different that resides in the northern beach town by the bay.

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you become what you behold

MAYBE i am supposed to be an actor. i have no unique way to identify myself at all. if people ask about me i talk about my family, and what interests them. my family is filled with singers, actors, artists, alcoholics, mathematical geniuses, a prodigy, a laywer, a doctor, a priest, two lottery winners, etc. sure i dabbled in painting and drawing but i suck at both. i haven’t mastered any medium to be able to deviate from it and just have fun with it. everything is a chore. and where ever i go i just copy those around me. what the hell is wrong with me? i’ve blamed being married so young on this problem. i never developed my own personality or interests. instead i did what interested my then husband and took on a lot of his personality. instead i developed mental illness like bipolar, depression, anxiety. life feels so clouded, i feel like my point of view just rots everything it comes in contact with. that’s not true entirely, but it feels that way sometimes. on the other hand, i get blessed with incredibly good luck at times. i come in contact with great, interesting people and artists. i can easily get a job. i live in a comfortable home in a quaint town near the foothills of san gabriel valley. it’s mostly always sunny here. i have many things to be grateful for. if life really is what we make it i am too damn lazy to do anything with it. i already want to give up going to the gym. i feel like this weight just doesn’t want to go anywhere. it’s when i am actually living, on my own that i lose any weight. maybe i am not pushing myself hard enough. when i lived in missouri i often heard the phrase, “you become what you behold.” the international house of prayer had it’s own language that linguists or anthropologists would have a field day studying or researching. anyway, this idea was said in the context of prayer, facing G-d daily and becoming like him. this was my identity when i was 15-16. i was a hardcore christian, interceding and praying for my family, friends, students, cities. i was more spiritual than religious. anyway, that spiritual side in me still resides in me somewhere. my mom is spiritual and an actress. i do not want to become my mother. i am a painter, an artist. even if i am a shitty one. it’s the process that i enjoy the most. and seeing what paint can do, you really can create smaller worlds or stories in just one brush stroke. when my mind cracked a year ago today (i’m still not over the experience), one major thing i experienced during and after the episode was everything i said or came out of my mouth rhymed. it was as though i was possessed by the god of poetry, or a muse. i’m beholding myself too much so it’s become chaos. too much isolation…

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this post sucks, don’t read it.

ON march 24, 2018 i went crazy. i hung out with this guy, we walked around china town in dtla, had tea, and i was falling in love. the way he looked, the way he talked, what he talked about, i loved it all. he just wanted to get laid. and in retrospect, there was some things i didn’t like about him and in retrospect, why didn’t i just sleep with him. anyway, when he dropped me off at home i didn’t sleep all night and it was down the rabbit hole. i went to a nearby liquor store waiting for him to pick me up, and instead cops came and took me away as a 51-50. most of it is a blur now but i was decapitated at one point, moved things with my mind, kept shouting out for some man i’m obsessed with, thought the world was ending, was part of an underground movement at the hospital, zombies existed and so on. what a crazy experience and one i hope to never experience again. i recently found a packet they gave me, the er gives you an information sheet on the diagnosis for your visit, and mine was “brief psychotic episode.” a part of me wants to believe i could really move things with my mind, that there are ways to defy the laws of gravity and that we merely restrict ourselves with limited thinking and repetition of belief passed down from our ancestral genetics. my brain de-compartmentalized, fell apart, and everything i’ve experienced, collapsed into this ambiguous, strange trip. i feel burned out, sad. my job feels overwhelming and i feel like it shouldn’t, or doesn’t need to be. all these feelings and thoughts i’m imposing upon myself, and for no reason. it’s so easy to observe and psychoanalyze, but when you’re in the thick of it, the present moment, it feels like suffering. i feel like i’m depressed, heavy. my job is odd. one day robots will replace us all. i heard they want to tax water in the state of california. it will be air next. i miss my crazy roommate. i know there are people who have things worse. who have children to worry about and harder jobs to work. stressed out state of mind. all for money and because of capitalism. i’m so tired i can’t even think of things to write about. i checked out random criterion films, my ex husband and i used to watch films together with commentary and special features and shit so i am trying to do that again. our hobbies can become my hobbies. in the employee handbook at my new job they talk about their policies on employees having blogs and not talking about their company, etc. freedom of speech dudes. i doubt they will find this blog but if they do, oh well, so be it. i would like to publish a book one day and just live off of the residuals and not even have to work.

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sunday + half assed review of “#femalepleasure”

YOGA was rough. it’s supposed to be relaxing (or maybe not?) but the girl who leads us really likes to turn into a pretzel and put the body in a number of different positions every second, nonstop. i’m still glad i went and will continue going every sunday. it is my new church. it is a lazy sunday. i ran a few errands after yoga but once i got home, those shackles weighed down were put right back on. i don’t feel like i can do anything. i didn’t feel like going to yoga, but i went anyway so i know it is just a state of mind. the brain can be controlled, overcome. 12 years ago, i was 20 and got married, married on saint patrick’s day. so random. i miss being married, having a companion. i also miss living in santa cruz, california. that place is crazy but i love it and will always consider it home. during yoga i thought of going back to ucsc to finish my degree, maybe i will some time in the future. i owe the school money so there’s no way i can go back soon, unless money somehow falls into my lap and i can pay off the debt. not sure my brain is ready to go back, but is anyone ever really ready for anything? i know i never feel ready. there’s always absence, room for improvement, knowing more. yesterday i saw a film called #femalepleasure, why it’s hashtagged is beyond me and should have been named “long live the vagina!” (actual quote from the film). i felt uneasy during the beginning shots of women naked, tied up, bent over, being stepped on, etc. also when an artist made a mold of her vagina and created art pieces out of it. hilarious when she made a 3D print of it, enlarged it, made a boat out of it and sailed away in her vagina. maybe because it was so beautiful outside there weren’t many people in the theatre as there were only two men and one other woman watching the film or people don’t give a shit about female pleasure. perhaps it sounded too pornographic of a title. in the film the four women focused on escaped societies where their bodies are literally mutilated (FGM) or they have been raped, harrassed or taught that their bodies are a sin to be covered up, and that they are basically just a baby making machine or objects for men. i have yet to come to terms with my own body. even when i was “thin” i was still insecure with myself. being fat just isn’t the ideal shape i want to be in. some women actually look good with more weight on them, but i shouldn’t compare myself. i just know that it’s been because i’ve lived at home, vegging out, doing nothing that i’ve gained unflattering weight. i have always felt i had a strangely shaped body, and do. but i would like to get to the point where i don’t give a shit and just love myself anyway.

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mid march madness

TODAY i feel tired and unmotivated. i went to the gym and had a good work out but i live with a bunch of energy draining vampires. as much as i love them, and need them in my life, i absolutely need independence from them. i hate that my very frame of mind is based off of escaping family ties. it has been this way since i can remember. i have always wanted to run away from home. i feel shackled and i’ve constantly tugged away, but i know i put myself back in this position, i freely locked my wrists and am struggling to set myself free again. i still don’t understand how life works. i struggle with codependent issues. i was strong in living in that room and just going to the gym each day, even using the showers at the gym to get ready for the day. life is how we design it. to whatever capacity we’re capable of doing. how funny and easy it is to spew theories and self help shit, but actually putting this shit into practice it ultimately comes down to just doing it. i went to a NAMI meeting yesterday and one girl there was my complete alter ego, the first thing she says when introducing/checking in to the group was “hello i’m here because i’m a loser and don’t have any friends” i seriously wanted to burst into laughter when she said this, the delivery of how it was said, her entire outfit, telling it like it is just amused me, i had to hold back laughter. i didn’t want to offend her or anyone by laughing out loud at a person in a place of authenticity so i kept it in. regardless of my stupid sense of humor, i’m very grateful for going to the group, and hearing everyone’s stories and how they cope with having various mental illnesses. some people are in better places than others, one underlying theme is it is a constant struggle, some days are just worse than others. i’ve experienced this all week, i had an incredibly productive day on thursday, then i just crashed friday, i was very reluctant to go to the meeting but i always hear something i could relate to or that is encouraging, and it gives me hope. there’s a particular person there who just personifies positivity and taking action. he inspires me to go to the gym everyday and someone i would like to emulate. broken people are authentic people. comfort kills. i’ve murdered myself again by moving back home.

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I FAILED

FIGHT or flight, and i fled. i couldn’t handle the room. the loud housemate and other things i am too embarrassed to mention. i freaked out. i feel like a failure because i am living back home with my parents. i did get a job and i start monday, so that’s good. hopefully i will stick with it and not find myself in the same “i don’t know where i am going and what i am doing” state. i still go to the gym everyday. i even went to a yoga class on sunday, it was intermediate which i am no where near, and i did i don’t know how many poses, where every problem existed turned into droplets of sweat and me remembering to just breathe. inhale. exhale. the instructor told us to to set an intention before we began and mine was just to relax. i worked to relax. the last pose laying on the floor was well deserved after all the bending and stretching and holding. i’m just glad i didn’t injure myself in the process. one step forward, two steps back. my therapist is new agey. and so am i to some degree, i do believe that we attract what is in our lives so i am embracing this person i have drawn in. she had oracle cards at our last session and had me shuffle and lay out four. the christian in me felt weird about the whole thing but i went with it anyway. the cards reflected my situation exactly. gimmick? coincidence? demons? satan? energy? i don’t know. if i was a materialist i would say they are just cards laying on the ground and it was merely coincidence, but the content did reflect my circumstance and was encouraging in what i need to do but it is something i already knew. how limiting “energy” reading is! give me prophetic dreams and visions. i’d rather work for GOD than satan or demons or whatever the hell tarot/oracle cards are. like a rubix cube. stuck, primary colors going nowhere, sure you can bring it order but it is just a cube. nothing grows nor changes. no progress. the only thing i found beneficial was the encouragement but i can get that from a bible verse. what you’re reading, dear reader, is my christian self struggling. i’m not a christian. i used to be. but i still believe. i think.

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