Friday, July 29, 2016


You know, it's actually a marvelous thing I don't obsess over writing "perfect" posts. I already obsess enough, I'm already a perfectionist about too many things -- so it's nice to give myself a break when it comes to writing. (Although writing might be the one area where I should be a bit obsessed. Should should should.)

On my mind today:

*I have to pack. Packing is the worst. Unpacking is fine because you just throw everything into the wash/trash. I worry too much about what I'm going to wear and what I'm going to read and in the end it never, ever matters. In the end I always feel overwhelmed with the amount of crap I pack that I do not need.

*Food. Food is always on my mind, not just today. But today I am specifically thinking (and perhaps worrying) about what I will eat on the trip. I am not worried about the lack of access to food. There will be plenty of food. I am simply worried about whether or not I will allow myself to have that food. Have it. Eat it, enjoy it, be grateful for it. I want to do all of those things and I will do all of those things. I am determined, determined, determined. Determined to get through the week eating whatever the f-bomb I want. Not just nourishing foods, but pleasurable foods. Eat what I crave, experiment, pay attention. Some meals might not be a success and that's fine. It's all fine. Packing and eating: two worries that do not need to be worries. In fact, most of my worries are little vicious fictions in my large vast head. Remember that, Meggie Pie. (Mmmm... pie. I'll try to have a slice or three this coming week.)

*Buddhist retreats. I keep forgetting and then remembering that I want to volunteer at one soon. I don't know yet if "soon" means this winter or in the spring or next summer or what. I just hope it happens. I hope I am brave enough to take a chance. I hope I learn that overthinking absolutely everything and self-doubt are two massive roadblocks and always have been and always will be.

*My hair being parted in the middle. Yes, I'm doing it again! I am parting it in the middle and know -- know -- that I will regret this hair decision so much upon viewing the first photo of me with the middle part. But for right now I feel cool. And I guess that's all that matters.

Okay, so. Pack, food, retreat, hair. Just recapping this less-than-perfect post, which is wildly perfect. Proud of you, Meggie Burger Donut Ice Cream Pie. You got this. You got all of this.

Thursday, July 28, 2016


I sure have a lot of things to do before my trip to Wyoming and writing a pointless post isn't one of them. Yet here I am, mostly out of habit. Quantity over quality? Lately, yes. Just an observation or an opinion or both. Can an observation be an opinion? Can I stop asking questions? Never stop asking questions, young one! Go out there into this wide world and question as much authority as possible! Anything's possible! If you are in your 20s! Once you get into your 30s, however, your muscles or joints or whatever will ache and you'll be eating over the sink at three in the morning where you took that wrong turn and if it's possible to turn back time but it's not possible and you know that and you know that not everything is possible, which is what you thought in your 20s without question despite the fact that you were told by your future self to question as much authority as possible. But who is the authority? Are you the authority now? Can you be the authoritarian and the libertarian simultaneously? Can you stop asking yourself questions? Never say never, but never say never to saying never. Sometimes never is ideal. Sometimes you just move on.

So I should probably pack. For Wyoming.

I think of what I want to do and where I want to go and what I want to eat while in Wyoming and then I remember that oh yeah, I'm going there to work. For at least eight hours a day. This won't be a vacation, yet in a way it kind of will be. It will be a vacation from my strict schedule and rigid routines. I've written about how inflexible I am with both, so no need to dive into that again. It all stems from the desire to be in control, which is HILARIOUS because the first rule of life is to give up control and the second rule of life is to give up control. We should be taught very, very early in school that we have never been, are currently not, and never will be in control. And that's not a handicap. In fact, it can set you free. Throw those hands up in the air, children, and run free. Keep running.

Yeah. I should pack.

Wednesday, July 27, 2016


I am attempting to do this new thing where I write right after running while I'm still running on endorphins and my legs really need a rest and my brain doesn't need a rest and it might just want to flex those, uh, writing muscles??? What are my writing muscles? My brain? Is the brain a muscle? The brain is cauliflower. We already established that.

Do you ever read "endorphins" as "endolphins"? No? Just me? Okay, fine. Endorphins are swimming around up there in my cauliflower muscle. Endorphins are very smart creatures. My brain? Sometimes a smart creature, but most of the time just a puzzling head of a not-quite-crisp cruciferous vegetable.

Do you ever read "cruciferous" as "crucifix"? No? Just me? Okay, fine. Speaking of crucifixes, do you ever humor the idea of becoming Catholic solely for the pageantry? Yes? ME TOO!!!

Guess what? I ended up abandoning this post for a few hours after that Catholic comment. I just wasn't feeling the need for speed. And by "speed" I meant "creating a provocative piece of writing." Writing is my form of speed! NOT. Psych. It's really not at all. My speed was always actual speed. NOT. Psych. My speed was acting. Yep, I was in plays throughout my childhood and into my very early 20s until I valued being social and stupid over performing. I wish I hadn't given up acting. I don't even care if I was very good at it or not. I just loved it with my whole heart, simple as that. And I think that's all you need. I was also determined as hell as an actress. Does this mean I'll pick it back up? It meaning the memorization of monologues, the countless auditions and rejections, the occasional, obscure role, the long rehearsals and usually flawed performances? Do I want that life again? Funny, Meg. You know you've never really known the answer to that question.

Okay, sunscreen on. Restless legs activated. Need for speed/nature intense. I guess it's that time where I walk and think and stare at clouds and bump into strangers also trying their damnedest to answer their own private, aching questions. We're all in this together, but when will I actually believe that?

Tuesday, July 26, 2016


Yesterday I was a walking zombie (zombies are always walking, yeah?) and today I am a walking werewolf. Well, maybe not a werewolf. I'm not hairy enough and I'm too timid to howl at any moon, let alone a full one. What I'm trying to say is that I have far more energy today than I did yesterday. And motivation. Maybe a little too much. That's me! Never satisfied!

I am parting my hair in the middle. This happened by accident. I will just roll with it and see how it goes. I have a feeling I'll end up horrified that I ever allowed myself to temporarily part my hair in the middle.

Next week I will be back in the saddle/at the dude ranch in Wyoming. I am, not surprisingly, anxious about it only because everything makes me anxious. But for the most part I am looking forward to it. I look at it as almost a second chance. The first time around I kinda made myself miserable in a lot of little (and not so little) ways. This time I mostly know what to expect, so I can go in there with more confidence. I will be more open and, yes, social. I will be a more honest worker by not sneaking off to the cabin during the middle of the day to read for an hour. I will take more hikes and notice more things. I will eat more -- and, you know, just eat in general. I kinda didn't do the whole eating thing last time. I know I know I know. This time around I will eat a burger and a donut, among many other things, but I specifically want a burger and a donut.

Did everyone have a good Pioneer Day? I don't really care. I guess I just felt like I had to ask. Being polite, trying to not always talk about me despite this being a personal blog and not necessarily a dialogue.

Dialogue. That's what I love maybe the most in books. And characters. Plot? Doesn't matter. In fact, to hell with plot! Just give me good characters who say good (and nasty and shocking and soothing) things and I'll be happy.

Well, time to start my mid-afternoon meltdown. A physical meltdown, not an emotional meltdown. For once. In other words, I am venturing outside. It's me vs. the sun.

Monday, July 25, 2016


Does the moon really affect our mood? My gut says nope, but the part of me that likes to place the blame for my strange behavior on anyone/anything other than myself says YOU BET.

I have no energy today. Well, what do I mean by energy? I guess I have enough energy to run and walk and wash my hair. I have enough energy to lift heavy boxes of poetry books I'll never get around to reading. And I might even have enough energy later to make my bed. We'll see. So I suppose I can physically perform plenty of tasks, but motivation? Motivation is on the low end.

So let me scratch that last paragraph and start over. Okay. I have no motivation today. There we go. Motivation for what exactly? (Why do I keep asking myself questions? What do I question myself about questioning myself? What is time? Why is color? Who is heaven? Where is youth? How is god? When is dinner?)

Let me catch my own fish from some body of water controlled by the moon and season it with salt from the Dead Sea.

After my Dead Sea moon fish dinner, maybe I'll find the motivation to find the answer of the motivation question I asked earlier. "Earlier" being a few sentences ago. That seemed like so long ago. Now I don't really care about answering any questions, before or after dinner. Now I just care about checking Twitter and putting on some red lipstick. I'll leave it up to life or whatever to answer the questions.

This is a throwaway post. I apologize for not being ON TOP OF MY GAME lately. I just put words on a screen and call it good, never really going back to read or edit them. I dunno why. Maybe it's lack of motivation. Maybe it's the moon. Maybe it's too much sodium from a sea I've never seen.

Maybe it's just me.

Sunday, July 24, 2016


I have been binge reading books for the past couple of days (weeks? months? years? lifetimes?) and it has been 69% awesome, but 31% disappointing. It meaning the books. The experience of reading is always pretty rad, especially if that experience includes blanket forts and snacks. I think I need to start picking better books? But I DO pick "good" books, probably even pretentious books at times, yet sometimes they just don't hit the spot. I guess that's the chance you take when you read.

Zzzzzzzzzzz. That was a boring paragraph. My apologies. All apologies. Nirvana. Most of you know what I'm talking about. (And if you don't, it's okay, you just didn't grow up in the '90s. The 1990s. If you grew up in the 1890s then holy shit! A ghost is reading my blog!!!)

My knuckles just popped very successfully and I couldn't be more pleased. Other things I find satisfying: bagging my own groceries, chewing on slightly melted ice, rubbing the space right above my butt (uh, I think that's called a lower back???), addition and sometimes subtraction (occasionally it gets TTTBS) (Too Tricky To Be Satisfying), putting away dishes and silverware, unclogging things unless they are disgusting.

More like Pokemon NO.

I am in a weird spot. I think my whole life has been a weird spot. I am a dot in a weird spot THANKS A LOT OBAMA. Weird doesn't necessarily mean bad. I am just in this well-gee-fuckin-whiz-what-should-I-do-with-my-life space. Spaces and spots. And decisions. I should probably decide fairly soon what it is I want to pursue. It's the same old same old -- do I go organic farming for a few months and somehow break into the farming business? Should I work seasonally at some national park and somehow break into the national park business (by dressing up as Smoky the Bear and telling inappropriate ghost stories to campers)? Get a TESOL certificate and teach English abroad and somehow break into another country and become their president within a matter of months? Or maybe I'll just go back to school and become, I dunno, a crime scene investigator.

Or a blogger. I can always become a blogger and get paid for writing run-on sentences and fragmented thoughts and posting one too many cat photos stolen off of other sites. Borrowed. Borrowed off of other sites.

I'm going to slather on some SPF 30 and take a walk outside where the Pokemon Go zombies lurk and try to figure out what it is that I, the littlest dot, wants to do on this weird spot that is planet earth.

Saturday, July 23, 2016


Blogger? But I hardly know her. I've made that joke before, haven't I? Not that you would remember. It's not that great of a joke. Although bad jokes are sometimes the most memorable ones, so...? Who knows why you can't remember my blogger joke. Who knows why I even joke. OH I KNOW WHY. It's because it is an effective way to simultaneously avoid and confront pain.

You know what rhymes with pain? Tim Kaine. And cocaine. Now I'm not implying that Kaine is a pain -- I, as a progressive Millennial in 21st-century America, quite like Mr. Kaine. And cocaine. KIDDING, MOM! But not kidding, everyone else. BUT am I kidding about not kidding? Who knows why I even kid. OH I KNOW WHY. It's because it is an effective way to simultaneously avoid and confront pain not caused by Tim Kaine (but maybe by cocaine).

Let me talk more about kids. Kids as in baby goats, not humans. Okay, let me talk about the baby humans as well. First, goats. Aren't they great? I know they are kind of trendy for people like me, a progressive Millennial in 21st-century America, but whatever. Some trends are trends because they are wonderful. Goats are natural lawnmowers, goats produce milk that can be turned into excellent cheese, and goats make for fun dinner conversation/Instagram photos. I see nothing wrong with adopting a herd of goats.

But I DO see everything wrong with adopting a herd of children. I joke yet again!!! Rule: Always assume everything I say/write is a haha lol knee slapper. Back to kids and adoption and the possible wanting of kids for myself. YOU HEARD ME. I think it may just be a very, very brief phase I'm going through, but sometimes I think, "Hmmm. Kids. I kind of want them?" Then again, no way. I would much rather have, yes, dogs and goats and a few cats and possibly a turtle. Would I be "missing out" by not having children? Sure, in some ways. But I'd also be missing out on other things by having children. It's the truth, people. I'm not even joking.

And I'm not going to get into what exactly I'd be missing out on by having/not having children only because boooooring and also because I'm at the end of a really cool ass mystery. I'll stop typing up words right now to go read the words of another. What a relief to not constantly be trapped in a fairly deserted land of my words. I'm free to wander the streets of other cities and towns, bumping into strangers who oddly enough become fast friends.

Friday, July 22, 2016


Sometimes I write beautiful things, but you have to go searching for them. They tend to be buried under the sand that is all of my other jumbled thoughts, thoughts that do not necessarily need to be shared with the world wide web, yet they are. And that's fine, no problem, we are all just grains of sand along a long, abandoned coast anyway. Some of us are used to make castles, others are used to put out fires. I think I'm the kind of sand you unknowingly take with you and find weeks later in the creases of your sheet and the corners of your pocket. I'm far away from home, but now I'm in yours. I promise to be a quiet roommate.

I am currently reading a Japanese book about sand. So I have sand on the brain. Not literally on the brain, which would put me in a curious position. If the sand stuck to my brain isn't causing any ill side effects, then...??? Then I guess just deal with it? The brain looks like cauliflower. No part of me wants to eat sand encrusted cauliflower, but I will gladly eat a brain dipped in hummus.

I never envisioned my post-college life to be full of composing mostly incoherent blog posts. This isn't a disappointment per se, but perhaps I should start aiming a little higher.

Higher. Did you know marijuana was leaked into the water in Colorado? I am not entirely sure what I just said is true. I may have heard the story incorrectly. Look, it's not up to me to get the facts straight. It's only up to me to immediately move to Colorado and begin consuming large quantities of tap water.

You know who I'll miss deeply? Obama. There. I said it. All of the Obamas. Barack and Michelle and the girls and Bo. Maybe I'll see them somewhere down the road in Hawaii when they are building a sand White House out of me. A girl/grain of sand can dream.

Thursday, July 21, 2016


I finished another book today and it was also pretty good. I can't even remember the name of it. Troubling Love? Something like that. I can't even remember what it was about. Just joking. It was about a girl and her mother who drowned and Italy and expensive underwear. I guess it wasn't a girl. The character was a woman. I forget that girl implies youth. Then again, what is youth? What is time? What is color? What is the temperature because DAMN IT IS HOT. Not as hot as expensive underwear, though! Not that I would know. I haven't worn underwear since, like, the 1950s. Everyone wore underwear back then. Everyone had new fridges and pastel houses in the suburbs and hula hoops and fear of nuclear fallout and underwear.

Sorry, where was I? Right. Books. I am now on a frantic mission to find the next book to devour. Maybe I should read one about the Cold War because I got sidetracked after typing "nuclear fallout" by the Wikipedia page "Timeline of events in the Cold War." Did you realize history is fascinating? All of history, even the false parts of history. There is a history to the false history. Why was it falsified? Well, I'll tell you... Ready for a little history lesson? And there's a history behind history lessons. There's a history behind all history. Everything is automatically history. And yeah, I meant to type HERstory this whole time. Obviously.

Obviously I've had too much caffeine. HahahahahahaLOLOLOLOL blame everything on stimulants!!!!!! Talk about the weather! Complain about politics! Talk about the weather again! Make a joke, make a sandwich, rest your bones, restless mind, stay up late, stay in space. It's safer in space. The moon doesn't bother anyone and black holes just want to be left alone. Give black holes their space. Go get lost in a nebula.

Nebula is a good name for a child.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016


I fully intended on writing something yesterday, but when I sat down I just continued to read this book about a woman who does this eat, pray, love thing in Spain and ends up falling in love with a woman and then something insane happens and she ends up with a blanket full of human hair. It's hard to explain without giving everything away. Not that you are going to rush out and read this book. In fact, I'm not even going to give you the title of the book unless you ask for it because I have already said too much. No, that's false. I have said nothing, which is a remarkable thing to do when there is so much out there to say.

So I will say I have had cravings for coconut cookies, sardine sandwiches paired with champagne, olives eaten straight off the tree and then deeply regretted because they should not be eaten straight off the tree (too bitter), an unusual banana (there are over 1600 varieties of bananas!!!), and probably a pizza because doesn't everyone crave pizza? Except I'm not everyone. I do not crave pizza, but I do not not crave pizza. I am entirely neutral when it comes to pizza.

I have longings as well. Longings differ slightly from cravings. Cravings seem to quickly pop up and disappear, whereas longings are, well, long. They stretch out their arms and legs and make themselves comfortable within the spaces of your life. They are quieter and more secret. Longings lead to scraped knees and calloused hands from all the crawling you do to get to where it is you might not even know you want to go. Longings last. Most of the time they never leave.

But now I will leave. I will leave right now to go search for myself in yet another novel, yet another odd tale (for all tales are odd) about someone finding themselves in 100 or 200 or sometimes even 850 and occasionally in 333 pages. They are all ghosts, they are all friends, and they are all paths on which I gladly crawl.

Monday, July 18, 2016


My dreams are beginning to mix with my reality, as dreams tend to do -- at least the less absurd ones, the ones starring past lovers and set in your quiet, abandoned homes. These are the dreams that stick around, dyeing the wool of the day a deep brown, like recently unearthed soil.

I have these dreams of you. And you, too. There are a few of you who haunt me without apology while my eyes are closed and my heart is open. It seems like a rather cruel joke, wouldn't you agree? But if you agreed, you'd leave me alone.

And you do leave me alone. You leave me alone once my eyes open and I close that door I carelessly forgot to shut last night. I am not crestfallen, not really. I understand the basics of the unconscious mind, how we make connections with the successions of emotions and sensations. You (and you and you) are faceless images, ideas, symbols. Nothing more.

At least not anymore. Not now, not after we have both told ourselves that we are our own creations, that the other is nothing more than an illusion. We fill our days with smoke and mirrors. We pull the unexpected out of a hat and saw the trusting in half. We promised to put each other back together, but we must have gotten sidetracked. Somewhere. Somewhere along the overgrown paths to the houses we left lifetimes ago.

I leave my sheets how they are, startled and tangled. I'll make my bed later.

Sunday, July 17, 2016


I have only been 32 for one month and four days, but already I am feeling it. What do I mean by "feeling it"? I am not sure exactly, I just know that I don't particularly like it. I still swam around in the delusion of endless possibilities when I was 31, but now I am sinking into the realization that a lot of things are too late and a few things never were. I am at the age where people gasp and say, "You seem so much younger!" I am at the age where I don't mind looking younger, but I don't want to be necessarily treated younger. I want to have the respect that comes with adulthood, the respect that I suspect may be fictitious. I at least want the LinkedIn profile that lists all of my awards and accomplishments and impressive abilities. I at least want that.

But I don't have those things. Not yet. And for most of the hours of the day I don't let it get to me too much. Then nighttime happens and the world slows down along with my ability to come up with quick distractions. I can't distract and so I dive into the past and approach regret; I turn the other way in an attempt to leave only to run headfirst into the future, which fills my lungs with a quiet despair. And then I fall asleep, the underwater existential experience continuing, albeit now a little stranger and full of unknown shadows.

Light will break through at some point. It always does. Oxygen will return and I'll walk on land again. I know we go at our own pace, our own private pains slowing progress occasionally. But we go on. The desire for a map won't ever leave, but we've got to realize we already know the directions, the landscape, the hidden corners by heart. If only we'd quiet down enough to hear the contraction of the muscles, the eternal cycle, the hum of what lies beneath.

Saturday, July 16, 2016


The more I enjoy what I write, the less people enjoy reading it. Or so I assume. I have been writing posts that don't make much sense, yes, but Jesus H. Buddha they are fun to write. The less sense I make, the better. Lucky for me! I haven't been making much sense since 1984!


Kids really really super absolutely 100% need to be taught manners. Do yer job, you darn parents! It's great your child is involved in 475 extracurricular activities and knows how to catch pokemons, but could you take a sec to teach them how to not be deplorable creatures? AND WHILE YOU'RE AT IT, STAY OFF MY LAWN/TURN DOWN THAT DARN ROCK 'N ROLL/PULL UP YOUR PANTS!!!

I have no idea what I'm doing or where I'm going and it terrifies me.

Okay, I lied. I do know of one place where I'm going: Spinsterville. It's a town of spinsters, or rather a spinster. The population of Spinsterville is 1 and that 1 is yours truly.

I gotta worry less about online bullies and people I've never met disliking me for goofy reasons based off of fabricated tales. I shouldn't have to feel like I'm in high school at the age of 32. I should be way way waaay beyond that. I should be putting my child's macaroni art on the fridge while teaching them the importance of please and thank you and excuse me, can I have more porridge? If I was a mother, we'd eat a lot of porridge in my house and my angelic children would always politely ask for more more more -- not for themselves, but for the starving kids of the world. Bless my perfect children named Fallopian and Dog. (Fallopian and Dog are arguably wonderful names for humans to have. Have these names. Let's not argue about it. You'll thank me later, Fallopian.)

For the love of... It's only 2:45 in the afternoon? Why can't it be midnight? It feels like midnight, except it doesn't feel like midnight because at midnight I feel a lot more awake and happy and chill-as-fuuuuh. The mid-afternoon slump (right now) is rough. Everything feels like molasses. My mind, my words, my body, my thoughts. Slow slow slow. But high in iron! Here's your spoonful of blackstrap molasses, you pale, pale child. Drink up and feel your red blood cells multiply.

I got nothin'. Guess it's time to put on an eclectic coat and wacky hat and wander the streets of Spinsterville, stopping by the junkyard to find treasures. I can search for a purpose in life inside the tin cans someone forgot to recycle.

Friday, July 15, 2016


Okay, let's try this again. I sat down two hours ago to write, but I don't think I actually wanted to write. I wanted to sit. So I sat, for approximately 18 seconds, and then I got back up, slapped on some red lipstick (slapped?), and took a walk in 102 degree weather. My skin began matching my Revlon Fire & Ice lips. I couldn't think clearly due to the heat and the zombies in the park, so I walked back home and put on sunglasses for aesthetic purposes and took a selfie and tweeted it with a clever caption and felt like I had accomplished something of worth and hey welcome to America today. Welcome to the dead end of my generation. Welcome to a land where lipsticks are given clever names and the nameless remain without adequate food and access to clean water. Welcome.

Oh yeah, so the zombies in the park. The zombies are the Pokemon Go players AND BEFORE I GET ANY HATEFUL COMMENTS THROWN MY WAY, let me explain. Actually, no. I don't care to explain because I don't care to take anymore time to discuss and/or complain about my distress over this app that is probably legit fun, but also a real headache for the curmudgeons like moi who want to wander around uninterrupted outside. I get that the zombies also want to wander around outside, but... but... but I was here first! And I'm enjoying the clouds and the birds and the trees and please please pleeeease stop asking me if I've caught this mon or that mon. I don't even know what a mon is, man. The only thing I've caught is a stronger desire to turn on tune in drop out, specifically somewhere in the woods with no wifi and plenty of real life pokemons (sometimes referred to as "woodland creatures").

Enough. Back to what I wasn't saying. What wasn't I saying? A lot. I have been typing a lot lately, but saying very little. This isn't necessarily a criticism, although I do have a talent for finding any and every way possible to criticize myself. My sweet self. My sweet self who tries so damn hard every single day but doesn't acknowledge it ever except for many sometimes in blog posts.

I do try hard. I guess that's what I'm trying to say. But do I succeed? That's where I fall silent.

So let's keep trying. We can wander around and catch whatever we choose to catch. Maybe we can occasionally catch ourselves before we fall silent? Catch ourselves a break? Break our losing streak of disregarding our wants and needs? Something needs to change and it's up to each of us to decide personally, privately what that thing is. I'm still looking for it, whatever it is. It is not to be found in an app on my phone. It is in plain sight out there, up there, in here. Let me access it. Let me pay attention.

Thursday, July 14, 2016


The beginnings and the endings are what I struggle with the most in writing. And in life? And in relationships. But the meat of the story/existence/love, I excel. (Would the middle be considered the meat? The middle is where you meet people and yourself and fate, but then again that meat and those meetings can happen at the beginning and hopefully at the end as well. So scratch that part about the meat of the story/existence/love and forgive me for not choosing more appropriate words and for littering the rest of this with unnecessary words and tiring parenthetical statements and questions.) Okay, back to whatever I was beginning to say about everything that comes after the beginning. The middle. I can handle the middle and I can run with it and enjoy the scenery, but when it's time to win (or at least finish) the race, I freeze up. My words grow cold despite the heat I can feel through the door. The trick is to open the door and let the warmth envelop the frozen, eventually leaving puddles of doubt to dry. So go open the damn door, Meg.

Okay, but here's the middle. I claimed mere minutes ago to be a near expert on the maybe-meat of the story, yet I'm stumped. I guess I have to be telling an actual story in order to continue, correct? All I am doing right now is slinging words on a screen and pretending to know what I'm doing. I am not sure I'm fooling anyone, but if I am -- thank you! Thank you for falling into my trap and boosting my ego a little teeny tiny bit.

Should I be writing stories? Isn't that a worthwhile thing to do with this vast landscape of time I have been gifted/cursed with? But I was never a fiction writer, at least not on the page. I was and continue to be a fiction writer of my day-to-day life, sure, but not one who comes up with plot and setting and characters and slaves away to magically bring them to life through the power of ink and sheets in my Moleskin. No. I was never a fiction writer. But a poet. A poet, perhaps. Perhaps a hesitant poet maybe probably kinda sorta. The unanswerable questions and all that's left out (in hopes that one fills it in with the senses) is what draws me to the poem. So if I cling on to the title of poet, it's best if I actually, you know, produce a verse or two every full moon at least.

At least. I have the sinking suspicion that I am doing the least these last few years. I have my moments where I am doing a little more than the least, but those moments are fleeting and unpredictable. I need assignments, I need directions, I need deadlines. I need a push a nudge a punch to the gut and the only way for me to get rid of the pain is to put it in poem form, formal or not. Just get it out. Get it out and get it together and get that door open and get outside where the fireball in the sky is fitfully waiting for something to ignite.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016


I wonder if constantly worrying about something is just my way of passing the time. Well if so, that's a pretty stupid way to pass the time. Pass time, kill time, buy time, waste time. Time out. Let's have a discussion right now about the now that is right now. There is no other now than the one that is right now. Now let's have a discussion about language and how we assign meaning to lines and shapes and call some of these lines and shapes naughty and other lines and shapes annoying, such as the lines and shapes that make up ointment and moist. It's the oi oi oi thing, huh? I don't find the oi obnoxious, but I do find Pokemon Go obnoxious for a few reasons I shall not discuss. Don't be pissed off at me for having negative feelings towards this particular app. Don't be pissed at me for using the word pissed -- do we have to discuss language again, hmmm?

What should I do this fall? (I sometimes hesitate calling it "fall" because I think I like the word "autumn" better, but then "autumn" can sound too formal and then I recall, once again, our language conversation we had in my mind about two minutes ago and then I no longer bother with preferences over lines and shapes.) Where should I place my physical body this autumn? I have a million ideas (well, three) and these ideas fill in the days and clutter up the nights and then before I know it months have passed and so has fall and now it's winter and I'm settled in for the long haul. Settled in to where I've always been. I forget that going places in my mind does not equal going places in the real world, this real world now populated with pokemons and shapes and lines and...

...and my three ideas are: Work at a Buddhist retreat in Northern California, work for a national park in a warm climate, and... Oh, I guess I only have two ideas. For now. I'll walk around the block in a minute and inevitably come up with five more ideas, some more fanciful than others, all forgotten the next day. Would I benefit from a self-help book on prioritizing and goal setting and goal achieving? You bet your beautiful ass I would. Will I read one? Sure, put it on my to do list, right under "write a poem about moist ointment." What rhymes with Preparation H? I will even accept a slant rhymes.

Now to take that walk. ("Where are you taking it? Bring it back when you're done!") Now to figure out my next step as I step around the grown men and women catching their pokemons in the park. They are not only catching creatures, they are effectively passing killing buying wasting time. Good for them. Good for me. Good for us, all of us, who have found successful ways to stave off the virus that is existence. Is it cold in here or is it just me? But out there -- out there we could die from the heat of the sun that gives us life.

Monday, July 11, 2016


I am a foggy brained mess today. Is this what we call a Case of the Mondays? And can one suffer from such an affliction if they are unemployed? All days are Saturdays to The Girl Without a Job (me). Saturdays are my least favorite day. So I guess unemployment really isn't funemployment. I guess truth is stranger than fiction. I guess I'm getting a little sick of fiction. I take a break by reading supposedly true tales of loneliness. I find myself saying, "Yeah! Someone else understands loneliness! Maybe I'm not so alone in my loneliness!" And then I continue to read, exacerbating my loneliness. A curious creature I happen to be. Let it be. To be or not to be. Save the bees. They do far more for the world than just provide sweetness to our single slice of burnt morning toast. Let's offer a toast for the bees. Let's get down on our sore knees and praise what we don't quite yet understand. Let's then stand up and stand for something noble. But don't just stand there, walk somewhere. Maybe walk to the store and buy a toaster that doesn't turn bread black. Not that there's anything wrong with being black. Look, what I'm trying to say is that I don't see color. I joke. I see color everywhere, normally, but lately my eyes have been too focused on the page and haven't spent enough time wandering around, stretching their legs, taking in new sights. My eyesight is failing me because I fail to branch out and see the trees. The only tree I see is the corpse of one in my hands. My hands will never be free of the blood of a thousand and three trees, but my conscience is clean, as clean as the streets in the city in my head. It's all bright lights up there, folks. I may seem dull, but the city never sleeps.

Saturday, July 9, 2016


I hesitate starting my post with the word "I" because it just seems so self-centered. But isn't that what blogs are for? To satiate one's ego? And besides, who gives a rat's ass which word I use to begin a post or a tweet or a novel or a poem or a hahahaha, like I'll ever start a novel or a poem. Okay, I might start them, but that in no way guarantees that I will finish them. If there is one thing I can do (aside from toasting an English muffin perfectly), it is not finishing projects.

I (I! I! I!) should ease up on myself a little. I do finish projects -- it just depends on the project. I have to be almost obsessively in love with something in order to see it to fruition. And that kind of obsession tends to drive me bonkers (as obsessions naturally do), leaving me frazzled and anxious and euphoric and distraught and joyous and overwhelmed by the extreme ups and downs. Who wants to feel like this all of the time? I definitely don't, which might explain why I don't actively work on fulfilling long-term goals.

But that's crummy. Why assume my desires are not worth the struggle? The struggle is a large part of what makes the fulfillment of the goal so satisfying. Am I just becoming a motivational speaker now? Like, NO PAIN NO GAIN! LEAN IN! NO FEAR! Climb that mountain, reach that peak, brush your teeth, turn off the lights when you exit a room, mind your manners, respect other cultures, open doors for others, do not forget to floss. Not in that order, but also not not in that order. The order doesn't matter. What am I saying? I have gotten off course.

Maybe that's exactly what I need to do more often -- go of course. I stick to my protective, safe routines and schedules and habits and they do nothing but, well, just what I said: keep me safe. Safety is fine. In fact, nine times out of ten I would say err on the side of safety. But that one time I tell myself to take a risk, I want it to be for something I want. That something that may drive me mad along the way, possibly causing waves of nausea and a series of expletives at times, but man oh man is the view at the top worth it.

Friday, July 8, 2016


It is such a relief to sit down. I have recently said this, haven't I? Maybe I should get a clue and realize hey, you seem to like sitting down occasionally. So sit down occasionally. Because I don't. I don't even consider resting unless I have "earned" it. What I really need to realize first and foremost is that one should not feel like they have to earn basic human needs. I want food, water, rest, and genuine connection for all -- including myself.

I do not include myself in many things. I am, whether or not by choice, removed. Blame this on me being an observer, blame this on the trappings of social media, blame this on the weather (because I guess the weather is always to blame for all things). I believe, however, that my current hermit status has to do with me just figurin' life out, you know? Our lives are filled with different stages and phases and we're just going to make ourselves feel anxious and inferior if we fight against this natural flow of life.

So far this post has sounded like a diary entry of an 18-year-old college kid who has just stumbled upon a copy of The Tao Te Ching. I don't know if I am saying anything I haven't said 47,000 times before, but cut me some slack. How about I cut myself some slack? Okay okay, I will. I will cut myself some slack and then I will cut my hair into a conservative bob and shop for some slacks and put them on and put on a nonthreatening smile and step out into the world and step into my new life as a bank teller or gift shop owner.

Wouldn't it be a dream to be a gift shop owner? And by "gift shop owner" I mean Beyonce. It would be a dream to be Beyonce because she is a dream. Beyonce does not run a gift shop, though. She runs the world.

Speaking of the world, isn't the world a sincerely terrifying place? It is, and it's all thanks to humans. Sure, we've created astonishing things, but we've also created the atomic bomb. It's a bit of a blow to the ego to admit this, but I believe the earth would be a better place if all 7.4 billion of us were shipped off to Mars.

But we aren't going to Mars anytime soon. At least not all of us. So while we're still here, how about we try a little harder and try a little longer to make life easier and much, much safer for all sentient beings? I think that might be our one job. And no, that job isn't to be a bank teller or gift shop owner or Queen Bey. Our one important, critical job is to be as radically compassionate as possible. And it's possible. It always has been, it always will be.