So…update for today.

Couple of sharing things…

1. Bipolar news

Anyone heard from lowhumcrush lately?

1. Sitting in my briefcase is a check for 10,000 dollars that I don’t want; an unauthorized distribution of a student loan balance I keep trying to give back. No one will take it. I smell CUSTOM GUITAR!!!!! (Ok, not really. But it is tempting…)

2. The slam last night was terrific. Everyone was great; can’t say enough about how much I like the look of this team. Shira Erlichmann was a revelation. How did I miss this woman?

3. On the other hand, I feel like CRAP. Bad stomach distress. Not sure where it’s coming from, but I really feel awful.

4. Nick Cave’s “Abattoir Blues/Lyre of Orpheus” double disc rocks my socks. Other than the Springsteen, best thing I’ve bought in a while.

5. I had a Hedwig-at-maximum-volume day while cleaning yesterday. “Put on some makeup…put on the 8-track…”

6. When does the new Sleater-Kinney come out? Cause I’m like jonesin’ for a taste o’ Carrie/Corin/Janet. (Note the prominent placement of Carrie first; this is because she is my perpetual rockstar crush. IJS.)

7. Ugh. I really feel crappy. I might go home.

8. Next post: new findings on bipolar disorder offer new hope to people who are intermittently hopeless and filled with hope.

9. Did I mention the Nick Cave album? How about Carrie Brownstein?

10. Time to call the financial aid office. All dreams come to an end, I guess.

I’m getting ready to kick back a bit then head to Worcester for the slam finals.

Wonder if I can sacrifice? Hmmmm….

Ah well. New guard in place. No reason — just go and have fun.

Luck and love to all. Go read javabill‘s post and do as it says.

spring semester’s done.

summer starts in two weeks.

first class: introduction to american civilization. includes books like “the queer sixties” and “women, race, and class” by angela davis.

can’t wait to see some of my classmates digging on this. can’t wait to do it myself.

outta here. i need sleep.

love,
t

I have never worked harder on any piece of writing for less satisfaction.

Yes, I’m sure.

I better have a monster poem come out of all this pent up stuff. I hate that level of frustration.

ETA: Been doing the layout game. Whatdya think?

Actually, I’m just in “finishing touches mode.”

Then, it’s onto my presentation preparation! Which will consist of printing another copy of the paper and highlighting key phrases.

After it’s done, I’m going to a kegger and puking on the dean’s lawn.

Really tired.

Can’t figure out why I can’t finish this damn paper, which is three to five pages on my opinion as to whether the feminist revolution is over. Backed up by research, of course.

I just figured out why I can’t finish it — it’s a BULLSHIT TOPIC, that’s why.

It’s just a writing lab. I’m so NOT into trying to justify my opinion, which is, “Well, duh.”

Oh, boy. This bodes well for class tomorrow, doesn’t it? Another long night ahead.

********************************************************

My rough night at therapy last week seems to have been some sort of a breakthrough. I feel far less nervous about fucking up my life.

That might not be such a good thing, but then again, I don’t care as much.

I do want to be happy, though. I am owed that — at least, I feel deserving at the moment. I feel like it’s ok to be happy.

Still not pure unadulterated happiness, you’ll note — more the feeling that when I am eventually happy it will be ok to feel that way. I am prepared to be happy. I am open to the possibility of happiness. I am pre-happy.

I could fuck this up, I know. But I am ok about moving somewhat forward.

Hooray, I suppose.

was the day I started working for TJX.

Twenty years ago tomorrow.

Who has jobs for twenty years anymore?

Of course, I’ve done a thousand different things in twenty years — managed a processing crew of thirty women from Latin America and Southeast Asia, a shipping crew of twenty, a huge temporary assignment of managing a group of 150 recently arrived Laotian immigrants who spoke NO English at all, a small quality control group, created procedures for the processing of fine jewelry, gotten my instructional design certificate, designed a million training courses, traveled and traveled and traveled to teach thousands of hours of stand up training on everything from forklift safety and hazmat regulations to criminal interrogation techniques (for our store loss prevention folks) and management and team leadership and project management and…

fuck.

And now I deliver feedback on psychological assessments and 360 degree rater instruments to executives and do executive coaching and organizational development and I still travel all over the map from time to time and…

fuck.

And I’ve had two complete breakdowns, a number of suicide attempts, a range of medications from mild antidepressants to full-on antipsychotics; I’ve given up drinking several times, cocaine once, dope once; I’ve gained 70 pounds and lost 42 (as of yesterday)…and I’ve gone back to school again…

fuck.

And I haven’t talked about poetry. And I haven’t talked about friendship, or love, or anything else of importance.

Twenty years. I’ve been married longer than that; so why does this anniversary feel so much more significant?

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Brother Boot Knife of Love and Mercy.

Get yours.

I was also the Broadsword of Mild Reason.

Strangely, today I would have sworn I was The Bludgeon of Righteous Displeasure.

Martina doesn’t get it, I know.
It’s not the dancing that matters to you, I know.
The dance is a given.
It’s the choice of dance that counts for you.

There’s capoeira, for instance,
or voodoo trance,
or thrash with eyes
clipped open by X
after midnight in a sleek Hollywood hole.
I once watched a dervish turn his palms
up and down while wheeling himself around
the axis of the earh’s shadow,
and hope and despair fled together.
You could do that.
You could do any of that. I could see you
doing any of that.

Or: you could stay with me
and we could dance
the way we always do.
The way we used to.

Don’t go.
Stay.
It’s just a stupid song.

Admit it: you are a terrorist.

The reason I am sure you are a terrorist
is because we’re finished with the Communists.
You were a Communist once, I am sure.
The way I know you were a Communist
was because we whipped the Nazis
and you were a Nazi
so it was time for you
to become a Communist again.

Let’s go over this again: you speak only when spoken to.
I’m asking you to admit you’re a terrorist
but don’t mistake that for speech. I’m
a hired conscience. I’m in your head.

Let’s go over this again: stand up.
Kneel and hold these Korans out at arm’s length.
No, those are too light. Here’s
the Manhattan phone book. Here’s two of them.
Don’t drop them again; you made that mistake once.
See where it got you?

Admit that you know a terrorist
and I’ll let you back into the party.

Face down, then let’s go over it again:
there is no God but One?
Who are you kidding?
Smells pinko to me.

Admit that you have seen terrorists
and I’ll let you on the plane, just kidding,
I’ll let you in the country, just kidding,
I’ll let you watch TV.

Let’s go over this again,
face up this time and listen carefully,
hear every word I say: tell us where we can find them,
find him, find our way to him, find the bombs,
the suitcases, the bloody gloves, the temples, the
gold. If you’re not with us,
you’re without us.

Let’s go over this again:
you will not admit to seeing terrorists,
knowing terrorists, being a terrorist.
Is there some other reason
you are not with us?
I know a lot of what’s going on and I’m hoping
you can clear up the rest.

Let’s go over this again: do you now understand,
have you ever understood, terrorism?

Let’s go over this again…

don’t fear drowning

tread water
and float

there’s so much in
the tide
that you won’t find
by struggling

feel the moon
moving you

don’t fear drowning

tread water a bit
then lie back

what surges beneath you
what stirs down deep

will carry you a long way
for a long time