July 25th, 2019

[rs] at the wedding

scylla and charybdis

insomnia spike (do i, will i ever not have) workroom cannot host work (will anything short of moving) maybe we are moving maybe one of us at least

it's been
it's been
it's been

the assessment of the hole in our crumbling HVAC exhaust pipe the night we were evacuated: there is no way that was not leaking CO, the fireman told me, to an extent that you were feeling it, the fireman said. like you maybe had the flu, but for weeks and weeks.

months and months. almost a year, it's been, since my body broke, since my spirit crumbled in solidarity: a year of escalating depression. a year of drowning in my own home. inexplicable symptoms, endless prescriptions. one fireman did what eleven months of a half dozen doctors could not: give me a potential cause.

and now: i am lazarus, come back the dead.


i told ben tonight: i don't know. i don't remember what it feels like to feel good. it's been so long. i've become so focused on trying to iterate exactly what feels bad (to the doctors, to dubious relatives, to friendships i can't seem to maintain) i've been struggling to pony up the resources around understanding this idea of feeling better.

i guess i do? i don't always feel like i'm about to puke. breathing works again. i'm increasingly optimistic that i can, maybe, get on top of this recent bout of insomnia, which feels more like a bout and less like well that sleeping thing, it sure was a sweet deal while it lasted! i've solved several problems in the last few days that i couldn't even sound the extent of, this time two weeks ago. i wrote a thousand-word hybrid fiction piece and submitted it to zoetic tonight: i have. not. been able to write. oh, god, it burns. shards of emails, journal entries that fall apart in my hands. i page through the novel i haven't touched in months and find the text increasingly stiff, most of it unseen by any eyes but my own. i loop in anguish over those passages from tillie olsen's silences, a book i periodically plunge into and fall out of, despondent, because, turns out, it is a book that talks about people like me. i am losing my best years to write. i am losing the most promising project i've developed yet because i can't trust my circumstances enough to sink into it. i'm losing my writing and i'm losing my novel, and i'm losing them to fucking poverty. which isn't really helping me, like, surmount the depression in a meaningful way.

but i guess i feel better. a little. in ways. validated, at least. and they fixed the pipe, at least, at last.

i finished transcribing journal 7 tuesday morning, during insomnia. i finished transcribing journal 7 and my transcription project, it's really coming along? because i only have three journals left to transcribe: 1, 4 & 14, and what i mean by that is: i'm down to two real options at this moment, because 4 (june 2002 to july 2003) is still being compiled from multiple sources (yellowstone mead, notebook scattershot, emails, livejournal entries and comments, that floppy wide ruled affair waldenbooks seduced me into though i knew better - i need hardback! i need casebound! i need narrow rule or no rule at all. lawless lands of speckled pages in pilot archival ink, that's the home i'm making for journal 4, now, and the text sings back to me in gratitude. it is good to make offerings to one's own work).

i thought about posting journal 7's last entry, then i thought about it some more. then i wondered if i ought to transcribe 1 or 14, instead.
journal 14: initiated a few months before a close friend's suicide, the fourth anniversary of which is rapidly approaching and i'm really not sure how i'm going to do with it, this year, given what a year of falling off the face of the earth has done to my social support system. so maybe i should, instead, try

journal 1: the initiation of the thread. my beloved lazarus, abandoned in the moment, returned and resurrected with exactly the era notebook scattershot i wished i'd been writing in there in the first place. only problem: i was eighteen. to an exhausting extent, i was eighteen. so very eighteen. goddamn.

in the end, i think i'm transcribing a dream journal for a break from thread content. seven got a little exasperating with unhelpful rehashing in a few places, especially in the second half, where i didn't quite know what to do with my grief about my grandmother's passing. one is the queen mother of unhelpful rehashing (i was very angry about quite a lot of things that summer and not working that anger as much as i was marinating in it) and i'm not quite ready to revisit 14.

now: if only i could actually start regularly writing in a journal again, instead of only ever