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.

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.

Man of Action

Where have I been?  I have been somewhere they don’t feed the words very well. They are pale and withered and desiccated.  The computer does feel rusted over and slow to serve the vitamins.  I need to sleep.  I need to write.  I need to give way to what is and stop fighting.  I need to stand firm and block all of these compulsions to fritter my day away.


Things I need to do:

Actually get this check from the insurance company even if that means calling the credit union to encourage that to happen so that I can get some sort of new car and stop getting rides/spending money on rides/living this loose and disconnected version of reality.

Finish reading Unfuck Your Habitat.

Drink another few glasses of water.

Put drops in your eyes.

Treat yourself kindly and get some sleep.
Check your email one last time.

Set your alarm.

Do not stress about the rest.
Feel every last little bit of it.

The Book of the City of Ladies

We can at least get you loaded, we can at least get you started.  We know that much.  The grand and collected we.

I am so confused about what I experience with you, so I need some sort of break.  I don’t know if you’re pulling away.  I don’t know if you’re mad at me for the support and ties and the graces my life does have.  I don’t know if you see this as some great kindness that protects me from a theft of my fate – I would have seen it that way once, but I am the only one who can It is not a punishment.  It is the clearest path I can discern.  Not to avoid breaking my heart, but to live a better life now and not once you come to whatever decision you are going to come to.

I hate that my kind, good heart represents some kind of too much or not enough or something I’ve yet to have clarified. So this is a time for the chaff to separate from the wheat.  I refuse to chase someone who isn’t clear on what he wants from me and doesn’t want, right now, things I am finding really important like being undeniably important to someone.

This sense of peace that washes over me when I come to terms with the fact that I have no control over his heart, over his fears, over his pain and what he clings to or releases.   A painful peace, a thought that has to be born new every time.  It is only my journey I can possibly concern myself with.

I am thinking about the Decameron.  About pilgrims, each with their own tale, walking together.  About mistranslations and palimpsests and stories retold over and over again, each time with a focus on something slightly different so you don’t see the source at first.  For Boccaccio, though, the women still had things to say. I am thinking about the Group and words used like single.  He said he was single.  He is single.  We’ve never said that we feel he is not.  I have never said I feel I am not.  I am reading into shorter sentences and thumbs up and days without calls.  I am inventing a frame story for all of this and ascribing low-esteem where I do not know that it exists.  I am busy building big structures to blot out the sunrays of all of my fears.  I am thinking about how I do feel and what this means.

I think it means I’m ready to give a damn about me.  About the truths I know.  About the universe I have built and the bed I choose to lay in. This also means I can be grateful and read The Decameron and Tom a Lincoln and watch a movie and make some toast and contemplate what more I can do to improve my outcomes.  How asking for what I want never occurs to me.  How appreciative I feel to be even at this point of pain.  To think at all.

One more day of freedom.  Very grateful, too, to have this page to write upon.

Chiaroscuro with the Cynosure

It’s Sunday night, nearly Monday morning so we can afford some big ten dollar words if it suits us.

Here’s the state of affairs.

The man, for I could hardly call him a boy, is a lot.  It’s a lot to deal with.  His pains and anxieties and my own aside (and that’s no small burden to stop attending to), even his affection is this full cup every time.  And I, with thoughts and fears that have nothing to do with him, find myself hunting for moments where I can work on those jitters and big plans and not be the perpetual sounding board.

That we can talk for two hours as though it’s a few minutes is promising, but it’s also, at times…oppressive, is not the word.  Demanding? I just find myself unable to say, hey, hello, I have things that I need to do.   But I do say that, eventually, just not mid-stream.  And those streams and threads of thought are long, indeed.   Long and covering worlds in spastic leaps of loose, ungathered thought matter.  Listening and empathizing and enjoying and participating where I may means I am quite tired in advance of a new week.

I think I sound ungrateful which I never mean to be.  Not having waited for such a long time for someone willing and happy to be so intimate with me.  But I don’t know protocol.  I know I can do whatever I want, I can ask for whatever I want.  That it’s not a hostage negotiation.  That he doesn’t want me to feel bound or constricted at all.  I just am learning for myself what the boundaries are and what my tools are when I feel sort of emotionally spent, how to get him to follow-through and hear that in me without feeling like awkward about expressing that I am just not…in cheerleader mode or Florence Nightingale mode or bro mode.  But exhausted, anxious girl who just wants to silently be in her own head.  Mode.

We’ll get there.  It’s just a lot.

Meanwhile, I reckon with the first year that taxes are not easy.  This is because of all the fucking around that happened moneywise last year so that I made choices about health insurance – choices mostly by failing to choose – and that means that the refund I always receive is likely to be a relatively small charge.  But nevertheless, still a lot cheaper than actually paying for that insurance which I could have used but could only afford technically.  So that’s frustrating.  Compounded by the fact that as soon as I walk in the door to do the taxes, the sister pulls my arm and says, you’re going to take over your student loans, aren’t you.  It’s like $22,000, but that’s only like $115 a month.

I mean, yes.  It will not be a big hardship in a couple of months to do that.  But her adjudicating what is financially right for my parents (of course they’re fine with me paying it, but they’re not making any demands for it this hot second), is really frustrating.  This idea of being forthright and upstanding is great – but I, right now, am on loose change while I wait for my owed money to magically appear.  That’s frustrating that I am made to feel like a derelict jerk. I know what my mother’s chemo pills cost.  I know that they’ve helped me out and it’s time to repay these lengthy favors.  I just can’t until I can

While over there, and huffing over these bits of reality, my mother decided to rub my shoulders and it was terribly painful.  That, and the fact that I am grinding my teeth and suffering mightily for it (I have a mouth guard situation, but I don’t like it, and don’t feel comfortable sleeping with it in so it’s hardly helping.   I wish I could relax.  I had a bit of a caffeine-induced panic at the office the other day.  I am thinking salt, sugar, fat and caffeine have their role to play in all of this so I’m striving to find a way out of using them as life preservers.  They’re utterly the opposite.

I want to enjoy these new things in my life.  I want to not sit for hours worrying about how to do what I did yesterday.  I want to feel trust and comfort in my mind and body.  I want to not be damaging myself and pretending that I am not aware I’m doing it.

Okay.  Enough.  I shall carry on.  I am missing this.  It feels like an odd shadow to me to not be here.  I think maybe it was the wrong choice.  Ah, well.  2017!


Pincturare miraculum invidendum facilius quam imitandum

Bipedal robots, heroines gone dark, Lyft drivers who close the windows on their car on your fingertip (the middle finger, of course), Italian artists, and magical pizza.

It was the last day of an era that seems difficult to remember despite it only being over a few hours ago…it feels like I’ve actively tried to blot it out.  There is an email to answer, other pieces yet to be received – and beyond that, I want to be as done as I can be.  I’ve made a list of what I need to do to get ready to even quasi-handle this.

I am excited for the morning to rise.  To dye my roots.  To figure out how to clean my tub.  To go to places I’ve let myself forget the path to.  To make room for this new life.