If You Could


See me now.

You would see how committed I am.

Fuck me.

The internet in my in-law sucks.

But.

Haha.

I found out there’s nothing wrong with it in the fucking hallway.

So.

Yes.

That is correct.

I am writing my blog in the hallway, the entryway to my house, basically I’m not in my fucking house, but the door is open.

It’s cold out here.

Fuck.

Not really how I want to be doing this, but at least I am online and I figure, well, I am a fast writer, I’ll have this done quick like and then go back in my house and not have internet some more.

I kind of am not cool with it.

But.

After the conversation with my housemate, this morning, I asked as I was trying to get online to look at my syllabus and start doing some homework for the class–she emphatically noted, “it’s must be your computer, because I’m getting online upstairs.”

It’s not my computer.

It’s apparently where my computer is.

Like in my house.

Or in the hallway.

Haha.

But I still needed to see what was on the syllabus.

Probably should have waited a little while though.

I wanted to throw up when I saw the reading.

Fuck me.

I really hope the reader is done tomorrow.

I want to be able to get them and not be reading this stuff online.

I need to underline and highlight, the stuff is not going to stick for me.

And if I have to jog out to the god damn hallway to get online I’m not going to be a very happy lady.

Ugh.

Maybe what I will do is go back inside and write this in word then come back out and get online and post.

It’s a pain, but at least I’ll be warm.

And the seating is more comfortable.

And I won’t have to listen to the noise coming from upstairs either, it’s distracting as all hell.

Ah.

It’s not the big things.

The big things.

They hurt, they’re hard, but I know how to deal with them, write it down, put it in the God box.

(pink bunny)

Let it go.

Surrender.

Maybe cry some.

Ok.

Shut up.

Cry a lot.

But hey, the feelings they pass faster that way, they do.

Call someone.

Make an inventory.

Call another someone.

Go do some service.

And the big stuff, I can navigate it.

The small shit, the little bump under the carpet, the daily grievances of life, sometimes that is the stuff that I cannot negotiate.

Like what is that sound?

It’s like a remote control car being driven around in a relentless circle.

It’s not the soundtrack to the movie, but it’s…

See.

I digress.

The little stuff can wallop the hell out of me.

I can’t fucking take it.

I’m freezing.

Back inside my little lair.

I like my little lair.

Even if the internet is not reciprocating with me, at least I am cozy.

And the sound track is so much better.

A little Al Green, “Let’s Stay Together.”

That’s more like it.

God damn I love some Reverend Green.

I remember dancing to it at the Angelic, once in a while getting spun around the front of the bar by this person or that, Charles, the bartender, who was not the best bartender but my God, he could lead a good partner dance.

For a moment, being twirled around in front of the band and throwing my head back and laughing.

I must have been a sight.

I still am a sight.

I am also having a heavy duty hair geographic itch.

Serious itch.

I have been reaching out about it to a few folks, looking for a new spot, I’ve been with my person for a long time but I have been encouraged to expand out towards other horizons.

I mean, it’s been heavily suggested and since I take suggestions, I need a new hairdresser.

Because.

I am thinking, yes, go all blonde.

Do it.

Blaze the shit out of my hair just once.

“Girl, it is getting big,” he said to me tonight after I checked in and let him know what was going on with me.

You know, some more crying, but good crying, relief crying.

Sometimes a girl has to get it out.

I’ve cried an awful lot lately, but I know how cathartic it is and how I have needed to let go and surrender.

And.

Oh.

I think I have!

I’ve done it!

I’ve let go!

Yippee!

Then.

Nope.

Ah fuck.

Feelings.

They just keep happening.

Ok.

So have them, make friends with them, the less I struggle, the more I surrender and I feel like I have finally laid it all down, put it all on the ground, said, hey you, feelings, you go on about your bad selves and I’ll just be laying here mushed out on the ground.

Contemplating Spring.

I’ll be watching the dogwood blossom and the blue sky ahead and maybe I’ll be breathing free and steady and full of love.

Nah.

Not maybe.

I will be.

I am now.

I feel lighter and looser and gladder, even though sad, in my person.

A loosening and letting go.

Love is a story that can’t be told.

Sing it Al.

The time is right.

It’s almost that time.

Though not quite, I still have a few days to go, but the revelations I have had this year around this anniversary, well, they are something.

(Oh, look at that, saving of my draft failed, yeah, I know, motherfucker, I can’t get internet in my hobbit hole today, or for the last five in a row, which yeah, fuck you, is not as relaxing as you think it would be.  If I wanted to be off the grid I would unplug on my own, thank you very much)

Am I going to have to write an inventory about my WiFi?

Bahahaha.

Oh.

I am a sick person.

Fuck.

At least I know it.

Back out to the hallway with you.

Where I am metaphorically, so often, in the hallway, in the dark, looking for the next door to open.

Free.

Though.

Free to move about.

Free to love.

Free to let go.

Free to move forward.

Because.

The best thing I can do is give you your love

 

PS.

The acoustic’s in the hallway are fantastic for singing.

 

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