The Whirling Fan

Don’t waste my magical writing time with nonsense.  Go to work.

It was a terrible day.  I screwed everything up. I forgot everything.  All my training evaded me.  All my plans fell to shit.  I got yelled at (or the disappointed, I told you, don’t do it again conversation with sternness enough that I am still quite quivery about the whole ordeal) and I am, ultimately, alone.

I mean, I have someone, but I can’t figure out how if this is the sort of having you have with someone who just happens to be taking the same bus you are.  A conversation that intimates nothing.  I want to know, to ask some authority, is this working or not working – what is real and what is just linguistic jiu-jitsu?  And are we all that safe either way?

Instead, I do what I do when I don’t know what to do.  I go and see my mother.  We don’t really talk about the events of the day because as soon as I come in the door after letting her know I needed to come for dinner because it had been a hard day and I had nothing really low-carb to eat, she says You Need to Be More Prepared!  And I won’t argue with the sentiment, because it’s true even if I find myself quite unable to knuckle down and open a laptop after a 10 hour day and face even one email with a questionably aggressive tone.  And they all feel a little bit aggressive these days.  Oh, gosh, it is just the wrong thing to say to a person after a day like this.

My mother.  I will not complain about her, but report this happening with more of a wry attitude rather than one of the usual frustration.   So of course, after feeding me the chicken and green chile and some jello with a heap of whipped cream and giving me her last two shakes in the whole of the world, she begins the quiz.

How long has it been for the diet?  How much weight so far? My answers: a week, and four pounds, six if you go back a bit, are satisfactory.  She gives me the rundown of how to do low-carb for the ninety-thousandth time.   This is not so much wry, is it?  I watch the news with her as we contemplate political eventualities.  I say I have to go.

She has no interest in J.  I have to bring him up if there’s to be any discussion and the discussion is more me venting about the surreal and frustrating nature of the thing.  She is both suspicious and entirely nonplussed.  Who he is and what he wants with me are of no import.  She’ll wait for me to sigh and offer something up, otherwise, it is entirely illegitimate and hell, she may be right.

Still, I leave, and the last thing I hear as I cross the threshold is “You’re getting your waist back again!”

Sigh.  I don’t know.


It’s day 3 of low-carb. If one believes scales, and I have yet to be convinced, four pounds are gone.  That doesn’t seem right, but sure.  Maybe?  Why not.

Roll on, Day 4.

It is hard.  In the darkness, to sit with these sparklers burning down in the back of my brain.  Adorable.  There’s that word again.  That off the cuff assertion after I say something or am earnest or am in some way undetectable to my, whatever’s going on in your mind, it boils hard enough for that to spill out of your lips.  I hear it and something just runs over the cilia in my mind, this waveform that moves from end to end, right through me and says…you, he means you. Even if I doubt that if he knew me properly he would say such a thing, he said it knowing something more than nothing.  It is a compelling force – the sense of someone else’s attraction.  It is very hard to ignore and set aside.

Not that I am advocating setting it aside – I just don’t know how long this lasts, or what this stage means.  It’s like, briefly, sort of, it was at the start.  This…I don’t want to hang up from you feeling at the end of a call.  A feeling you commented on tonight.  I don’t know how to do this with you being so fully vested in…youness.  A singular person.  Not a field of possibilities.  A choice I can make that will change my life because it involves someone else’s life.  It’s stronger than just another thought floating by in my head.

A woman at work who has become something of an office sort of friend asks about you.  About this saga of online relationships and I’ve given up trying to explain or justify because I will make some assertion as to the tangibility of what we are and the slow, even breathing will become just silence and the compliments just stray interjections that any person of female persuasion would collect from you were they to chat on the phone.

I don’t believe that either, but what can I do that doesn’t feel like a demand that would destroy all of this with words.

I want to say, if there’s a thing I could be doing…a way I could be being…something that would make all of this come together for the both of us…just tell me what it is.  I would do it.  I would go there.  I would make it happen.

But the problem is neither of us know.   There’s movies and stories and magazine articles that make suggestions – but we’re none of us precisely cut from a mold.

Watching Princess Shaw on POV.  Feeling so impressed by her and her drive.  Her willingness to just struggle forward. Curious and hopeful to see how it winds up.  A life touched by someone else after so many years of carrying on and wanting just to be seen.  There’s a lot to get out of it. Persistence.  Persisting.

Pink in Eureka

Certain forms of hysteria have taken hold.  Perhaps because I made the step to get the blog running in some sort of functional form, I have begun to think I am smart about certain things.  This is not the case.

This is day two of going low-carb.  Low-carb = traditional Atkins, 20 carbs or so for the first two weeks, then, we evaluate how shit is going.  I feel better in a lot of ways already.  The scale, as ever, is fucking with me, but it says I lost 3 pounds (yes, we can hear the yelling of WATER WEIGHT from here) overnight.  I don’t know…I do know that it mattered to me to just start this.  To just do it so here I am.  Having had more vegetables today than I’ve had in eons.  More water.    And less food overall.

I still feel weird and tired (again, the shouting of transitioning and detoxing groggery can be heard for miles) and I have done bare minimums in terms of exercise.  But I did do it.  I did do it with nary a complaint.  I will do it again tomorrow.

I keep thinking about what I want.  That is one thing that my new job has really helped with.  The courses I’ve taken have impressed upon me that I need a plan and I need to work the plan. Goal setting and moving in slow, steady steps towards the future.  That you can actually say I want this big, overblown, challenging result and if you mete it out into little, manageable daily contributions, it would happen.   That’s the issue and that’s why I’ve spent so much time avoiding finishing any of these little, manageable steps.  So that I don’t end up somewhere I don’t want to be.

I’ve done this instead of deciding where I want to be and working really hard to make that happen.

I don’t know if I’ll write this way all the time, but I like that this all has just started and it isn’t January 1 and it isn’t a Monday (not yet).  It’s not a perfect takeoff (I don’t imagine I could even recognize it if it was), but it’s like how with every paycheck, I’m adding to savings, already it feels significant.  If I continue on, the possibility continues on.  If I keep clapping, Tink still glows.

So.  What I want is to be with him.  Not…necessarily in terms of trying to have a partnership on a level that demands that one of us move to where the other one lives, though that doesn’t faze me as it once did, but I want a weekend. I want a day of shared space.  Of mutual presence.  Of figuring out if the shit in my head is anything more than shit in my head.   Not putting carts before horses.  But this, all of this, tells me, I gotta keep on this diet on track if this is really what I want.  And I keep testing it and realizing that it is.






The Lust Ratio

I have had a good start thus far.  I have nearly drunk a glass of water.  I have had my shake.  I have charged my Fitbit even if it doesn’t seem to be noticing every step I take.  I have been able to have a moment of consideration about things I have otherwise felt too harried to contemplate.  These include this blog.

Obviously, for those rare few of you who have visited this page before, you will be noticing a difference.  I made, not an abrupt decision, but an abrupt pulling of the trigger on something I’ve been considering for a while and upgraded this blog.  The upgrade on WordPress doesn’t really move me into some new echelon of blogging elite, it just takes care of a few things I found irritating.  The ads, for starters, which definitely screams quality and kind of upset the layout, more space so if I wanted to add another three or four years worth of pictures I could. (I don’t – but I would like to have some pictures sometime, so you’ll see those.)  It also comes with a domain name and because someone out there owns, I’ve had to improvise to make use of this spectacular offer.

So now, if you wanted to get to my website…you could go to  Which is, I feel the need to clarify, not The Lust Ratio.   That sounds like some sort of shitty dating principles, self-help, possibly terrible and upsetting nonsense book that would get famous for a hot minute and then become a joke for the next fifty years. No. It’s the lustratio, the Roman purification ritual upon which this blog was founded.

Conceptually.  I haven’t slaughted a pig of late.  Nor a ram.  Nor a bull.  It is just the idea of getting yourself back in good graces.  Of suffering in order to make that happen.  Of ritual being the bridge between what was and what is desired to be.   That’s what we’ve drove around the dunes of in this blog for the past eightish years?  We.  I.  Just me.  Just me just struggling with myself.  My weight.  My relationships.  My organizational skills.  My ability to hack it at my job.  My life.  Not that we have to take it wholly as a good thing.  Sometimes an obsession with lustratio is tantamount to a refusal to live the time you have, a desire to just lay yourself on the reset button and flutter every few seconds back to square one.  Not so healthy.

We have to review ourselves in these five hundred words of daily reflection, not just the things that have happened.

I will update the about me so that if new people come here, they will understand what has been happening – and not happening – but it is nice to feel like everything isn’t so partitioned anymore.  There’s a lot of content.  Not much of it useful or readable or whatever, but ca existe!

Also, he was present and kind today.  That helps.

It just feels like a bit of a breath of life.  A moment of positivity.

The Softness that Crept In at the End of the Day

I don’t feel especially well.  My neck is a misery.  I am eating poorly.  I am a case for a headache.

But, somehow, just being here at the page is a bit of a tonic.  I can’t have J. around as he’s sleeping on the far side of the country so I have, instead, what I’ve always had.  A door to open to the words I know.

I need a bit more self-care, but I also need to take a moment to look around.

I need to get the words in so I don’t devolve into selfishness and fear.  There’s another writer at work – well, multiple writers – but also one who purports as THE writer.  She’s also very nice.  And sort of what it is like to be told by everyone that their friend, the great and wonderful actress Grace Kelly is an incredible writer. I don’t know what her stories are like, but apparently, she does well enough to get them published in some form or another and I know that if I don’t get myself together…I will start really making up some bullshit to assuage my heart.  This one that wants to write and knock socks off with the work that I can do.

So, I have to get back to the daily writing and push myself harder to get things to stages of completion.  Not to wander off when it gets difficult or when there’s a moment of disconnect between the ideas and the language flowing out of my fingertips.  Because if we sit still at all, the well will fill.  There’s always a bucket’s worth springing out of the ground if we just give it a moment.

Five words is not the same as no words, but it’s not all that much of an improvement.  Caring, giving a shit about myself is a stupid hard thing, but that’s the only way.  So self-care even in the face of knowing the pain and suffering of those around me has got to be prioritized.  So as soon as I mark these words done, I am toddling off to some other site to purchase a warm wrap for my neck to help soften and relax it.  I am booking a massage so that I can be remotely comfortable.  I can find a soft breeze and let it flutter around me.

I know that I can lose the plot as the days get longer.  I am thinking about what it would mean to take my sister up on her offer and have a reason to go to J’s neck of the woods.  This brings up every flavor of freaked-out that I have.  Body fears, intimacy fears, travel to really busy places fears, fears of heights, fears of being pushed when you don’t want to be afraid for a minute.  But worse than that, I think, are the fears that he’s not ready – that he’ll never be ready – for me to share space with him.  Or that I won’t or can’t handle it.  It’s…a Pandora’s box.  But I don’t have to resolve it tonight.  Just think on it.

All the smallness and fear set aside, it would really just be lovely.



The Nubivagrant

Do I still have access to my words?

Is there language behind the locked doors?  Can we do a long post tonight and keep, ahem, our word?

Highs and lows.  Zeniths and nadirs.

I should have been reporting on his every breath in my ear.  I should have been mentioning how I thrill when the phone rings.  How casually and simply he’s folded himself into my life.

Not that it’s over.  Not that it’s stopping.  It’s just that if it were last year, I’d have that documentation.  But I suppose that perhaps there was no room for the time to noodle anymore and make the achievement of this connection, limited as it is, as unbound as it is, or so it seems, simultaneously.  Too much.  So I have opted, instead, to try and learn the new job and learn the new job of caring for someone who…to encourage roots and life and photosynthesis, needs a lot of light.  Needs a song and nitrogen and compost and effort.

I am aware of how much he needs versus, perhaps, what the old wives’ tales would insist a man requires.  And what his case changes for us.  Right now the mantra is, just to get in a room with him, just to make the chemicals collide before I try and dance off into the realities that being together is so…challenging.   Because there’s so much baggage and intrigue and flotsam and jetsam and barriers to moving forward that it might not be possible.  I’m allowing that thought to exist just so that I don’t plummet through the floorboards if it comes to pass that we stop this tomfoolery.  But it is…as far as I am given to know…not without potential.

Neither of us is in exactly cohesive shape and the pain and suffering that has been the only real backbone he’s known in life have stiffened up again and held him in one spot.  I don’t know that all my soft and kind words are getting in at all, though he makes a good play at returning these benevolent volleys as he may.  I’m concerned that for all my empathy, the gaps can’t be bridged, but when I mention something in the public square of the internet, he hears it.  He hears and does what he can to respond.  I appreciate that so much as we skulk with trepidation nearer and further and nearer yet again, that I am…not a figurehead for some other, better romance.  It is the only shape that we can make it and it is ours between us.

Just knowing that it is a romance is quite something.  There are characters, interlopers, more Heathcliff and Cathy than Jane and Rochester, but I don’t have to wonder if a touch of a hand, if a kind gesture and a shared joke add up to a higher regard.  Instead, he says I’m flirting with you.  To which it is very easy to reply, well, that’s good, because I am flirting with you.  Suddenly, you can find yourself leaps and bounds away from old places just because a thing has a name.  Still, it doesn’t correct everything, it doesn’t fix all the picture frames that have turned askew, but it makes me feel present and human and somewhere.

I don’t want to represent that this is a thing I have the power to preserve.  It has a  life of its own independent of both of us. Or a thing that is destiny-based.  I stumble into things and can’t have an allusion that all of them are the single intended path. But some mornings I’m hopeful that we can keep.. finding some joy in one another. Others I wonder if his internal wounds and my absence of self-worth are just too hard a fucking combination to elevate into something of permanence.  :::shrug:::

So that is the completely confusing status of that.

What I do want to record for posterity is the baseball game we went to today that delighted my father.  My sister drank and told me how she saw the world (in a very saccharine, but legitimate sort of way) and attempted to convince me to go with them to New York.  My other sister was afforded a moment to be quiet and still.  My sister’s boyfriend was here and then briefly in some other place the rest of us will never know.  My mother ate an enormous hot dog after a big lunch and I have to be reminded about the cancer only later.  I had panic, but it didn’t destroy me.  I broadcast my car ride home accidentally to a couple of strange men via the power of Facebook.

And tomorrow – we work.

Splatter on the Pavement

We didn’t speak at all today.  I know the reason. It’s valid.  It’s real.  It’s nothing to do with me, maybe everything to do with the idea of us, with how he feels inside himself so I care, I care so much I don’t…even…but, he needs time away from me to process.  And I…I don’t know what this means, really means. Just that the only fair option is a few more days of waiting.