Just another day

In Minneapolis. Spring has sprung, and therefore allergy season is upon us. I'm sicky, and I don't like it.

It was my surrogate brother's birthday - wait - is it the 25th? Not the 20th? Who knows... Regardless, I'm drawn to thinking about my friend and missing him being close - I think a breakfast meeting is called for here. Is Siobhan on track?

Last night at hypnosis, I had a revelation. And the most important part is that this "revelation" isn't that much of a revelation at all...

Horses. That's my bag, baby.

I'm lucky enough to have "one thing." Honestly, it always comes back to horses.

I'll make millions, or at least feel like millions. I will. And I won't forget the darling buds of May that got me there...

S.

H2O?

I know from my study of geology that the most predominant element in the known universe is carbon. That diamond engagement ring - carbon. In a tetra-hedron joining of electrons and neutrons, protons, and all the little bitty pieces I don't know about (except for their existence, I do know about that)...

If energy cannot be created or destroyed, and if an event horizon can bend matter in ways unheard of - where does that leave us? Us, as humans; conscious matter? When a person dies, and their body is laid to rest - let’s say in a raw wooden coffin, with no preservatives applied, it rots in the ground. Yes, no? And eventually, like compost, will feed the dirt that grows the grass that gives off the oxygen. Right? But, considering we are carbon based life forms, made up - what is it, 80% water - is that what makes the grass grow. Grass still needs the seed, and the sun, and the rain (H20 in an ideal world, granted our rain might have a couple other compunds in it...) -

If energy cannot be created or destroyed... If we and every piece of "matter" are made up of atoms, which are made up of neutrons, electrons and protons- swirling around each other in an orbit not unlike that of our solar system, than doesn't matter therefore not exist? Gas, liquid, solid - all are composed of atoms, granted involved in their love trysts with other atoms, bonding (in 3 different motifs - each more powerful than the first) - so then what is yogurt? Liquid? Not so much. Solid? Nah-uh. Gas - well, I don't know what your problems are, but not for me...

The point is how many pennies can you fit in a container roughly the size of a grapefruit?

How many thoughts can you fit in a brain?

The brain works through chemical synapses... So therefore is a thought matter? Of course not. Is matter matter, for that matter? No, matter is densely structured energy. Electricity, the same thing that makes light bulbs light, the same thing that cannot be created or destroyed. The same thing that exists on the same plane as our so called "matter" - "matter" = solids (from our bodies, to this keyboard, to my dog and your car...)

So what's it all about then? The fact is - even in the garden of life, I [death] exist. Even in the garden of death, death isn't possible. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed. From this keyboard, to this thought - there is no difference. Everything is perfect as it is. Perfectly as it should be. To remove me - like so much a blip from blipland - would cause the collapse of everything.

We (table, zebra and Siobhan) are interdependent on each other to exist.

This is the infinite finite - enjoy. For in that fact alone you can do no wrong.

S.

Ah yeah -

I don't know what to say, and therefore probably shouldn't say anything.

Okay, against my better judgment, I'm going to post something personal. I don't know what I'm afraid of; no one reads this anyway...

I feel great. After months and months of psychological and emotional and physical turmoil, I feel fucking fantastic. Sure, modern medicine must have helped to an extent - all the SSRI's, the benzos, the beta blockers and several trips to the emergency psych ward... A stint doing heroin and drinking a liter of vodka a day... Missing work, laying in bed, unable to take care of myself, let alone the house I managed to purchase on my own... Feeling like a loser - even though that is not nearly a powerful enough word to express my utter contempt and disgust for myself. Every movement - be it thought or actually motility - was painful. The western medicine of "they make a pill for that" got me to the breakthrough point. I had an incident with a man I was with for too long, and slept for 36 hours straight. Slept so long my bed smelled like the greasy unpretty girl it held in its grip... Woke up, and had the energy to wash the stank off, go to work, and enjoy not wallowing in misery.

And then I found eastern medicine. Acupuncture. Cupping. Combined with massage and Chinese herbs. I went from somolecence to insomnia - and now my sleep is efficient and constant and refreshing. I feel FUCKING FANTASTIC. Ready to re-introduce Siobhan to the world. I'm still terrified, still scared that I'm not good enough, or pretty enough, or too fat (and I am) to be loved. But s somewhere I know, someday, someone has to love me again, because goddammit - I'm a great person. I think - even though I may not have the elusive "charisma" I have even something better:

I listen, and I respond, and truly, I am a beautiful captivating person to behold.

Even if I'm too fat to be desirable and never have sex again. Its been 7 weeks. Welcome to my neurosis.

Seebo, and her love for her mom

I love my mom. I love her, I love her, I love her...

I love my mom.

Love my mom.

S.

What to do in this moment?

My mind is so teeming with ideas right now... Initially I was gonna use this space to try out an autobiography, but now I don't know. I've come out of a spiritual (and mental, and emotional, and physical) winter, asitwere, and I don't know what to conquer first.

The Gospel of Judas? The Gospel of Thomas? False prophets, and a Jesus that I can love (and respect, and follow)? The re-introduction of mysticism to Christianity? Religion and "spirituality" should not be separated. Take the mystical out of religion, and you've got a circus with no big top. Or animals. Or clowns. Even cotten candy...

The false prophet in this case being the current propensity for endorsing the "Kill a queer for Christ" mentality that currently grips our country and its fundamental christianity (which, if I may, and I will - thank you very much - is more dangerous than Islamic extremists. Face it, this celebrity intoxicated society is the Babylon that all great nations from Greece and Rome to Great Britian will tell you is the begining of the great downfall.)

The idea that if you don't live your life, what you hold inside will eventually be your distruction.

In arcadia ego, in that, even in the garden of life, I [death] exist.

The fact that our president (well, not mine, but elections don't count, unless your Diebold counting profits) belives in "the end of days" and that no one seems to REALLY FUCKING BE ALL THAT CONCERNED...

Well, I don't know what to say about that.

Except that I don't know where to begin. I have all these ideas, from religion to spirtuality to politics - I don't know where to start; but start I must. For what I think is important. I am important, you are important. And apparently if we don't recognize this and act accordingly what is it that makes us important, and that we don't share, will distroy us. Its already begun for me. I vow - here and now - to retard it from growing to a point where I self destruct. I have to stop it now, in its infancy (I could say something here politically, but I will refrain, fer now.)

Everything is an illusion. At this time in my spiritual spring, again - asitwere - I need to create the illusion that is the truth that I have something to say, and perhaps - just maybe - s omeone will even be interested in hearing it.

Post scriptum -

Spelling was never one of my strong points, or passions for that matter.

Prologue - the one where she chooses life

Bah. Good first sentence for an autobiography – find me someone else who’s used it – I dare ya! Who doesn’t want to be a writer, of the people who like to write that is? The fact is I’m 30. I’m a woman. An “alone” woman in that I don’t have a man, Don’t get me wrong, I have a “man” – but as good as a fuck as he is, we don’t kiss. I miss kissing the most. Okay, so what’s the point, there is no point, except that I know I’m not the only one out there who feels like this, and I know I’d like to read a memoir such as this (cause it ain’t a book yet, baby, and probably won’t be – and to that end I blame the publishing companies who underestimate the drug users and whomever who would read this shit).

Clearly, on this journey we ride the stream of consciousness train – welcome aboard…

I had dinner tonight with a great friend (who just happens to be a cousin of another great friend, though this particular great friend introduced me to “sluggin’ from the jug” that is Cuervo - ), I’ll call her Dolly. After my grandmother, and because she’s as beautiful as a porcelain doll… Anyhoo – we went to a restaurant where my mother’s best friend's son is the head chef of (and, consequently, whom I grew up with - as babies). Tonight I found out that my darling Dolly is crazy too. YAY – someone who will understand me. And just to keep with the stream of consciousness – currently writing to Nothing’s Shocking by Jane’s Addiction –

Regardless, my darling friend Dolly is crazy too. What’s crazy? Well, it a devil induced cocktail of deep, dark depression with ever the most slighest twist of anxiety. So you wanna sleep all day and night and the next day, but once you’re forced to get up – you freak out in public. Not to worry, they make pills for that. As you can imagine, having an anxiety attack on public transport, and then pulling out a bottle of pills – which you dry mouth down – well, that’s a good time.

I don’t know what to make of the situation. I know god is dead. Christ isn’t coming back, and if he did, a pox on him. We’re good people, we’re just “crazy”, and we can’t help it.

But this memoir isn’t going to be all like this, there will be funny stories, mostly involving drugs, but there you go. So far, Siobhan has done a bang up job of living.

It hurts, feeling like a loser. I believe I mentioned my man or men earlier – I just miss being kissed. Kissed all good like. Now, if I’m lucky, a man I’ll call "Gaylord" fucks me all good. But we don’t kiss. As a woman, it’s hard not to judge you worth with regards to if you’re wanted. And as a fat girl (but we defend that with an “I’m curvy and proportionate” – but I really am) it’s even worse.

Love, being wanted, that’s what girls are trained, and yes, TRAINED, to be… And when you can’t fit the mold, or there is something you perceive wrong with you, you get depressed. And sure, it’s a brain chemistry thing; but what’s to say that if I take this high does of Zoloft (and Seraquel, and Inderol, and Propanolol, and Clonezapam…) for the three years they told me to that once the meds are gone, my serotonin will drop again. Drug companies don’t want you well, they want you consumers. And doctors don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.

By the way – this book will be much more entertaining, the Prologue – who reads that anyway…

So, here’s the story of me. The very witty intelligent girl who could never find love or acceptance (even though she did) because she’s just too fat to be loveable (even though somewhere she knows she’s not).

Post Scriptum –

If I die, somehow, in this process – I want my tombstone to say “In Arcadia Ego” – which is a credit to the Priory of Sion, and means – Even in the garden of life; I (death) exist…

And if I go prematurely, I’m sorry; I can hardly take this world as it is.