Wednesday, September 29

The Lucys Are In

My counselor seems cool. He's older, kinda square-jawed. He gives off this vibe sorta like what television casting directors think dentists are like. So far I've been able to talk to him pretty freely, and he's been very accepting of the things he's heard.

He's also used the word "fuck" a lot more than I was expecting him too, but in a way it's created a sense of comfort between us.

       I feel like I can work with him.
       I feel like he can work with me.

At the same time, thus far there is a lot of shrugging off, a lot of "hey, these things happen." It seems like there's a lot of.. I don't know, minimizing of what has happened.

Well, maybe not minimizing, but more like there's a rational explanation for this thing you've done. More like moving on is more important than beating yourself up. And even though that makes sense, it's like I feel a need for the other side. I feel a need to catch some licensed hell for it. Maybe that part's still waiting in the wings, but for right now it's a little unsettling that it hasn't happened.

The other counselor is spunky, down to earth. She speaks in plain tones, leans on her hip when she sits, and ...also uses the word "fuck" quite a bit. There's an optimism to her voice that is in a way soothing, and it makes everything feel kind of hopeful. We've only met with her once so far, but it left a good impression.

Still, there's miles to go. Things that need to be uncovered, bled, sown, and re-planted.

      ...And it's hard.

Meeting these people once a week, or even once every two weeks leaves open ages of time to either put their advice to good use or build up material to talk about in the next session.

The waters are rough.
Sometimes it feels like the rain's never gonna end.

          But I really do believe we can get through

[Listening to: Nothingface, "All Cut Up"

Friday, September 17

Dr. Harley Quinn

I start counseling today. I'm actually pretty nervous about it. I think it's going to be something good, and I think it's probably something that I'm long overdue for... but I just never went there. Not 100%. Not for real, anyways.

Like so many other things in my life, I turned off the lights and hoped the monster would just go away.

       No more hiding.
       No more hiding from myself.

[Listening to: AFI, "Cereal Wars"

Sunday, September 12

Great Southern Land

The South. --- For better or for worse, I've lived in this part of the country for the majority of my life. I've never felt a particular connection to its heritage, and yet it seems I've always been here - make of that what you will.

They say things in the South. Things that don't make sense. Things that get into your head because you've heard them all your life and it's not so much what the words mean but this idea that certain phrases have a time and a place, and that if you don't say them when those times come, the moment is somehow incomplete.

Today there was a rainstorm in the midst of a perfect sunny day. Today amidst the warming brightness of the sunlit blue sky and the green reflections of grass and trees all around, it rained. Today, in a moment where the world seemed beautiful and placid, a storm still found a way to rage.

When it rains during the day around here, people always say it.

         "The Devil's beating his wife."

I don't know where the saying comes from. I don't really even understand what it means, for that matter. I mean, if the devil is doing something down in the underworld, how is that connected (even figuratively) with the idea of water falling from the sky?

but beyond all that...

                  Who would ever marry a Devil
                  if they knew thats what he was?

[Listening to: Robin Trower, "Bridge of Sighs"

Saturday, September 11

Sleep Mode

The television has a sleep timer on it. It's this little doodad you can use to set a timer to tell the thing to shut itself off after a certain time has passed -- the idea being that lots of people like to fall asleep to background noise or whatever, but it's sort of a waste to leave the thing on all night long especially if you're sleeping.

       I also believe that a lot of people are frightened of TV shows
       invading their dreams, but that's a whole different story...

I'm sleeping on the couch now, for reasons which by now should probably be clear (although sometimes even I still wonder how all it's come to this). The television, the flickering, the noise, the horrible informercials and faded videotapes right now are my only defense against the silence of this room that's become my home, my shelter, my prison, my reminder.

Things are tense.
I am tense.

It's not that I'm not grateful to be here, not thankful for the understanding and goodness that it took to allow me to be even this close by, but in a way it's harder than I could have ever expected. It's like looking through a store window at something you want more than anything, but knowing you might never get the chance to have.

Last night the TV flickered in front of me. A close football game, a flurry of warnings about yet another storm that might color the skies, and an informercial selling acoustic guitars designed by none other than the infamous Esteban himself.

Strange how knowing the reasons why that made me smile are so much the same types of reasons why I'm sleeping where I am right now.

       Is this what I've become?
       Is this all I can look forward to anymore?

So many thoughts and worries. So much shame, anger, and confusion running through my mind. The music was playing, but all I could see was my shadow on the wall, reflected in the light from the screen.

           Then the timer ran out, and all that was
           left was me, sitting alone in the darkness.

[Listening to: Miles, "Round Midnight"

Friday, September 10

I, Lysander

    Let me not to the marriage of true minds
    Admit impediments, love is not love
    Which alters when it alteration finds,
    Or bends with the remover to remove.

    O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
    That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
    It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
    Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

    Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
    Within his bending sickle's compass come,
    Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
    But bears it out even to the edge of doom:

    If this be error and upon me proved,
    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

                                       -Sonnet 116

[Listening to: Bjork, "Vokuro"

Related Posts with Thumbnails