Ageism

 I started a conversation about agism on TikTok. I'm on old lady TikTok. Which is to say that most of the people who hang out with me are older women. I have a few men and surprisingly a few of them are quite young. Very sincere. But mostly older women. Response to the conversation was moving. Women tend to equate aging with erasure. I understand but I've been on my own and living (more or less) in isolation so I both feel erased from the world and don't notice a difference. 

I am aware of the ways in which I weaponize my own internalized ageism. I say "I'm old" a lot. Usually as a way of explaining some failure of ability. But also, when I'm feeling irreparably damaged. 

The conversation is still going on but I'm tired. Constantly explaining, clarifying. It's been mostly good. I'm also at a loss for a way to continue it. Of the isms it doesn't feel like it gets attention. Last month was disability pride month. I learned a lot. There is an intersection of disability and ageism, obviously. 

This is what I do for fun. 

Sigh

 So that whole I'm going to write every day even if it's bad thing didn't work out. I'm not sure why I stopped. I know I was tired of having nothing to say. I don't remember the first day that I skipped it. And then another day and another day and another day...

My - I'm better - post was premature. I am better. But there are days when things are just bad. And I don't have energy for much of anything. But there are also days when I can get a few things done. 

Mandy helped me rearrange the furniture in my library. I wanted to be able to get to the books. Moving furniture has always been a happy thing for me. I just can't do it myself. There was a lot of dust. We still need to move the books themselves. I've been able to do a little bit of that. I spend so much time just looking at the shelves and feeling happy. 

I recently finished reading Elena Ferrante's - In the Margins. She writes about those red lines on the paper we wrote on in school. I got terrible grades on my handwriting, which will surprise no one who has seen my handwriting. It gets worse every day.  

She says she has two kinds of writing. Compliant and impetuous. Compliant being more like the writing required by the academy. Impetuous being writing that comes from a place she cannot summon or control. She aspires to writing that is strong and her own. I aspire to writing that ... happens. 

Heh. 

 

Better

 This weekend I did some (very small) projects. I cleaned up my files and the bag with all the bags. Really. Small things. 

But I haven't been able to do things since last year. The bare minimum to get through a day is almost too much. There's been a T-shirt on the counter across from the washer and dryer for weeks. Not folded. I just can't. Well. Actually, I folded it today.  

There's been this achy tiredness that keeps me down. It feels like it's in my bones. It's not as bad as it has been. 

My knees still hurt. Standing at the sink trying to clean things up I can feel the pain building. There's almost always something in the sink that I gave up on. 

But. I am better. The shoulder is better. The wrist is better. the stomach is better. And. I was able to put away the shirts that were on the bed today. I'd be happier about it if I trusted it. I'm still cautious. 

Decolonizng

 I've been trying to understand the mechanics of decolonizing in a psychological way.  

There are obvious things like decentralizing whiteness. In my current world that doesn't mean a lot. I'm alone most of the time. Hood River is very white. So, I live in white space on a micro and a macro way. But I've lived and worked in less white space for years. Restaurant kitchens are multi-cultural, generally.

I'm thinking more about the smaller and more subtle things, which are really hard to explain. Mostly because I don't understand them yet. 

Also. Cleaning out my file cabinet. Which is way easier. 

Full

 Just ate a bunch of cherries. Fresh from a tree. Thank you, Jane. 

My stomach is less likely to expel everything I eat but still easily annoyed. Usually in the early part of the evening I think about what ate during the day and it's never much. But my stomach is done for the day. I just never really know how much is enough. But I know to err on the side of less. 

Or else. 

Two of my favorite things are coming in season. Peaches and tomatoes. Last year they were too acidic. This year, I guess we'll see. 

Headache

 Every time I've received a Covid jab I've had headaches. Small. Spikey. And then gone. This last one was the same. Went to bed with a headache and woke up fine. 

Last year I had a concussion. I had concussion related headaches for months. I'd started to think I'd never get rid of them. When I had this last vaccine related headache, I realized that I hadn't had concussion headache for a while. I just didn't notice when they stopped. 

So, my concussion is gone. I guess. 

I think I'm fully vaxed but someone I read is getting them every six months. 

Really? 

It's sort of stunning how little we seem to be sure about after almost three years. 

   

Page

 Facebook has made some changes to the page I created for this page. There's no more connection between that page and Blogger. I'm sure I could figure it out but I'm tired of the changes social media makes without notification or input. The page was never as clean as I wanted it to be. Facebook was always adding crap. I'm going to leave it alone for a while and then (maybe) delete it. I'll just post directly to my page. 

Hard to care. 

I'm trying to write more but I'm still struggling. I can spit out a sixty second TikTok most days, but writing comes from an inner place that is broken. I'm trying to fix it. Or at least prop it up. 

And I'm going to keep trying. 

zzzzzzz

 It's unrealistic to believe I'm going to get to sleep on the Fourth of July. I live too close to where they set off the fireworks. Even when they're over there are more cars on the street and more people. Individual bangs and booms go off for hours. 

I stopped trying and watched TV. 

The whole day felt weird. And today didn't feel much better. 

I hate how the news gets focused on one thing and can't seem to see anything else. 

Oh, but wait. There are endless hearings to dissect.

I need some sleep.    

Fireworks

 I lived in an apartment in SF for a longer than I'd lived anywhere else in my life. On the Forth, the neighbors all met up on the roof. We could see the fireworks from both bridges and on a clear evening (not many of those in SF) we could see the fireworks across the Bay. Sometimes we drank beer or wine. Sometimes someone would bring a snack. It was nice. 

I remember the year I stopped enjoying it. It might have been the fourth after 9/11. The fireworks weren't just pretty abstract colors. They looked and felt like bombs. They weren't different. I was. I stopped going up to watch them. 

I've been alienated from my country since 1968. A bunch of people went to the Democratic convention in Chicago to make sure ending the war was on the platform. They got the shit kicked out of them by the Chicago police and a line was drawn.  

It's hard to feel good about the country. 

I like people getting together for hamburgers and hot dogs. I like small town parades. But I don't go to either. 

I do what I do.  

I read. 

Every Day

There was a ten year old girl sitting in a doctor's office. She was pregnant as a result of child abuse. Ohio's trigger laws had gone into effect. 

Ten year old girl. 

Child abuse. 

Indiana helped her.

Every. Damn. Day. 

Another Day

 A woman on TikTok has been having endometrial problems. Lots of bleeding. Her doctors were planning on an ablation, but they wanted to change the name of the procedure ... so there would be no ... problems. 

Another woman has a form of birth control that she has inserted into her arm. It's the only form of birth control she can use without getting blood clots in her head. Her doctor isn't prescribing it anymore.

Neither of these women were trying to have an abortion. 

Madness. 

The only side effect I've had from any of the (Moderna) vaccines I've had has been mild headaches. 

Shrug.  

Pin Cushion

 I got my second booster today. I'm fully vaxed. I never leave my nest. Only two people come here with any kind of regularity. They are both fully vaxed and wear masks when they are in the world. It seems like I'm safe. 

But I don't really believe in safe. 

I haven't had any rection to the vax before. Knock wood. 

I also got Cortisone in both knees, a brace for what might be carpal tunnel and blood work to see if my liver and pancreas are ok.  

Older. 

What is Going On

 I remember when the capitol was being overrun by a group of mostly white men. I had the TV on, but I wasn't watching. It was background noise. I'd look over every once in a while, and wonder where the DC police were. Or the national guard. 

Yesterday, in Arizonia, law enforcement used tear gas to disperse a group of peaceful abortion rights protesters because they banged on the door of the capitol building and may have vandalized a statue.   

In LA a group of officers in their Darth Vader outfits knocked down the actor who played a part on Full House as a kid during a largely peaceful abortion rights protest. 

It feels very ... disproportionate. 

Or something. 

First Day

 This morning a nurse on TikTok posted about her night in the ER. A woman came in with an ectopic pregnancy. They were in a state where a trigger law had already gone into effect. The doctor was on the phone with his lawyer. The woman's ectopic ruptured. She didn't get treatment for nine hours, while the doctor was on the phone with his lawyer. Her abdomen was filled with blood. 

First day. 

I had an argument with someone about whether they would try to make ectopics illegal. Her position was that it was a lifesaving medical procedure and doctors wouldn't allow it to be blocked. Mine was that this isn't happening in an environment of wisdom. I had already listened to legislators argue that the "babies" in ectopic pregnancies had a right to life. 

 Here we go. 

Flailing

 Rage. 

Grief. 

Concern. 

Somehow, I managed to read a chapter of my book. It was hard to break away from the news. I'm not sure why. It had already happened. 

There were so many people in the streets.

I chose to stay with my feelings today. I could feel my brain filling up with expletive laced bombast. Nothing wrong with that but it felt like flailing. 

Rage.

We had a right taken away by the court. They did a lot of that right after Jim Crow. 

Grief.

I feel violent. 

We have an Abortion Access fund in the Pacific Northwest Fund. I had no idea. It's a problem. If it's not an issue that matters to you it lives in the shadows. I know now.  

Ramble

 This little chunk missing from my knee is annoying. Knees bend so the bandage keeps pulling away. I just redid the whole thing and it looked great. For a few minutes. It hurts a little bit every once in a while, but it's not a big deal. Just annoying. 

The last piece of cake is on the counter. Probably a little dry. I'll eat it later. 

I am 69 years old. But 69 is one of those numbers that makes middle school kids giggle. I'm just going to say I'm 70. I'll be 70 for two years. I feel like I might need that long to accept being 70. 

The hearing is on. It is scathing. 

I got HBO +. Reluctantly. I don't want to pay for more streaming services. But I wanted to see the documentary about the Jane collective. Which was really good. And then I saw the series based on the Elena Ferranti books referred to the Neapolitan Quartet. The HBO series is called: My Brilliant Friend. Movies and TV series made from books (particularly favorite books) are a worry. But this series is amazing. 

I am reading The Love Songs of W.E. Du Bois. There is a young woman in the book and young women in the TV series. I keep getting confused because I'm always worried about someone, but I don't always remember who, or why. 

Heh. 

Blood, Books and Cake

 I had a nice birthday, but it started off a little weird. I was using a reacher (you know those things old people use to pick things up) to pull up my pant leg and somehow (I really don't know how) it snagged my knee and tore out a big piece. There was blood pouring down my leg. I grabbed my Kleenex, which was the only thing close by and tried to compress the area but there was too much blood. I finally got it to slow down and got to the bathroom. I got a paper towel and managed to use it to apply compression and put two bandaids (I only have Hello Kitty bandaids) in a way to stop the bleeding. There was blood everywhere. All over me. All over the floor. 

Sheesh. 

I think I was in a little bit of shock. Mandy was on her way. 

The rest of the day was mellow. Mandy brought lunch. She'd been able to get me the cake I wanted (all I want is a simple chocolate cake but (as I mentioned in an earlier post) Trader Joes thinks chocolate cake is seasonal. I'm not a fan of butter creme and finding cake with fudge icing is (oddly) difficult. But she got me one and brought lunch and a stack of books. Cleaned up the blood. 

Another friend had given me flowers from the farmer's market and a cool wall hanging. Another sent me books. Kristina (of course) Sent five books from a series called object lessons. I'm a big fan of sets. 

So, I'm book rich and cake sated. Recovered from my blood loss. 

Older.   

Celebrate

 It's a weekend full of celebration. 

I saw a video on TikTok suggesting that Sylvia Rivera had been booed off the stage at the first Pride Parade. I did some research, and it seems that she was booed off a stage, but it was at a Christopher Street Liberation rally a few years later. She interrupted a speech that was critical of drag queens. There's actually a lot of confusion about her. She is sometimes given credit for being at Stonewall and some say she wasn't there. But she was an important part of those times and the beginnings of Gay Liberation. I need to read more. 

There is video of her being booed. It's frustrating. Contention always seems to rise up.

I love Pride. I'm always going to support the celebration of liberation. And. There are a lot of problematic parts. Lots of commercialization. Corporate sponsorship. 

Similarly, this year Walmart lost their mind and made Juneteenth ice cream. Also, paper plates and cups, which might be useful but...uh...no.  

There is a conversation about whether white people should celebrate Juneteenth. Again. I'm always going to celebrate liberation. But I'm not going show up at the BBQ. I'm going to celebrate quietly. 

Father

 I didn't meet my father until I was eleven or twelve. After that I called him every Faher's day. One year I called him, and the number had been disconnected. I called my aunt and got his new number. He wasn't trying to hide from me he just forgot to let me know. 

I have a lot of those kind of stories, which is odd considering how little time I sent with him. 

Once we were having dinner in a club and he asked me to dance. I was so uncomfortable. I hadn't done that much dancing, and I hadn't been that physically close to him. Ever. 

I learned a lot about him from my stepsister. I know I was better off not being around him. 

And sometimes, a commercial in which a father is loving to a child sets me off. 

I know some great fathers. Watching them with their children has been healing for me. And I hope they have a great Father's Day. 

Nine Years In

 Nine years ago. I walked into the nest for the first time. 

When you're a kid they tell you time will go by faster as you age, and you shrug. Honestly. These nine years feel like nine hundred and also feel like a blink. 

My feelings about the nest haven't changed much from year to year. I love it. I appreciate it. I still spend time just looking around and feeling those things. 

I think by many American standards it's small. Most of the people who live in the other condos have them for vacation homes. For me, it's perfect. I might occasionally wish for a tiny bit more room but not often. I'd be lost in anything bigger. 

 I mentioned the other day that the shelves in the library are almost full. After I move things around there will be space. It's a very cozy room. The mommy had a fake fireplace that lives here now. It's one of those things that I would not have purchased but I do love. 

I've lived a somewhat peripatetic life. The habit to look for another place is strong. But I'm not unhappy in the nest. 

Oregon is a beautiful state. I love having four seasons. I love looking out my window and watching the colors change. But I don't love it here. I feel lonely and not quite at home. 

But. In the nest I am home. I am surrounded by things from my childhood and from my friends over the years. I am surrounded by books. What more could I want? 

Seasonal

 Today it took me three trips to the kitchen to remember a cookie. You would think the motivation for a cookie would be a focusing kind of thing. 

But. 

No. 

Trader Joe's thinks chocolate cake is seasonal. At least the ones in Portland do. I do not understand that.

Seasonal is a word that gets tossed around a lot. I was told lamb ragu was seasonal because it had been abruptly taken off a menu. It was just before Easter. Lots of people eat lamb on Easter. I guess it was the pasta. 

Sometimes I hate it here. 

 

Sigh

 I just went to get a glass of water. Came back with the glass. No water. 

Sigh.

This brain fog is no fun. 

Is it the depression? ADHD? Dementia? A generalized lack of focus. 

Sigh. 

It's hard to accept how little have to say. I'm just drifting. 

I am watching a fair amount of the hearing. That is distracting. I'm selective about the analysis I listen to because so much of it is repetitive and hyperbolic. But the hearing was riveting.  I was surprised but it was. 

I'm reading a good book. When I can concentrate. 

Sigh. 

The Beauty Shop

 My aunt was a hairdresser. She had a shop in the front of the house and then in an addition built onto the back of the house. I think my grandmother wanted that addition to be her kitchen and wasn't happy. But the shop was cash. 

I had a teacher in my MFA program who wanted me to write about it. He thought a salon was an interesting space. Where mysterious things happened between groups of women. It is. 

I was a kid. My memories are more visceral than other memories from that time. 

I remember sitting in one of the chairs in a sun dress. My legs were sweaty and sticking to the plastic. My aunt was putting perm rods in my hair. The smell of various products, sprays and dyes and the perm solution filled the room with noxious fumes. And sweat. And perfume. 

I remember begging my aunt for a quarter so I could get a Pepsi from the small machine in her storage closet. 

There was a women named Tinny. She was wealthy. She and my aunt had been friends since high school. She came to get her hair done once a week. 

My aunt had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She was scheduled for a double mastectomy. I understood it was serious, but I didn't really understand what was going to happen. I heard my aunt tell Tinny that it didn't matter because no one was using them. They laughed but Tinny looked uncomfortable and sad. 

It's only now, looking back into the fog of memory that the scene emerges. I know the dialogue was real.

Rabbit

 I remembered a man I worked with in New York this morning. He was huge. Taller than me. Wider than me. He had multiple piercings, short spiky air. I only remember one tat. He had a bar code on his arm, which apparently worked. The first time I saw him I wondered if needed to worry. 

He was the sweetest man. 

His uncle had been a butcher and taught him how to break down different animals. 

We had rabbit on the menu one month. I was on one side of a table, chopping. I realized he wasn't moving. And then I realized there were tears running down his cheeks. I looked at his cutting board. There was a rabbit. The company had skinned the bunny and removed the head but not the feet. The fuzzy little feet. Something about those feet broke him. He was a wreck. It was ironic in so many ways. 

He pulled it together. 

We got our prep done.

Dinner was served.  

Books

 If you look at the picture on my FB page, you see the big bunch of books I got for Christmas.  I've read about a third of them with a few others folded in. Every year (about this time) I talk about how full the bookshelves are. I usually talk about the chairs that are in front of them, which block the view. The shelves are closer to full than they've ever been. I'd like to do some reorganizing. but I need help. The reorganizing will probably empty a shelf or two. It's an obsession. 

I finished a book over the weekend and now I have a stack of three ready to go. Which one first? (Rubs hands together.) 

The weekend book was Ancestor Trouble by Maud Newton. Interesting. She tracks her family history and a wild bunch they were! She also talks about DNA and generational trauma. There were times when I was really caught up in the story and she'd go off on a long stretch about DNA research. It was interesting but also frustrating. We have some similarities in our life experience. It was interesting to think about the differences in who we became. The book was thought provoking. 

I feel like some amount of character is innate and some is developed. And some amount of who we are is inherited. And some amount we pick up on the streets.

Heh. 

Rolly Chair

 I saw a video. One of those (cough) funny videos. A baby, somewhere between one and two, was in their little rolly seat. There probably is a proper name for those. He had on tiny running shoes, and he was running. I mean RUNNING down the street.  

I need one of those. 

The problem with a walker is that it's in front of you, with wheels, that keep moving. It's really hard going downhill. On a scooter, or in a chair your feet aren't on the ground. But one of those rolly chairs would be perfect. The seat would be right under you. The wheels would be all around you. You'd have a little tray. Perfect. 

Downhill might still be rough. 

Shrug

 I saw a political ad, which ended up being for Liz Cheney. It was typical. I was only half listening and then it was for Liz Cheney. And I was cool with it. 

Never in my life would I have thought I would be cool with an ad for Liz Cheney. I wouldn't vote for her. I wouldn't vote for her for dog catcher. But my feeling about her has changed. She's not even a centrist. She is a full-on Republican. But she's on the January Sixth Commision. And she's been saying some strong and righteous things. 

So. I just nodded at the end of the commercial. In the past I would have said something nasty. 

Shrug. 

Pride

 First day of Pride. 

I'm hoping this year will be loud. 

The idea that a governor of a state can write a bill that controls speech is ... well ... I don't really have a word for what it is. 

I am particularly concerned about trans youth. 

Maybe this can be a month of push back. 

My depression combined with some chaos on TikTok combined with the news has me treading. Unable to completely function. 

There's a guy on TikTok who is a writer. He mentioned that he's averaging a thousand words a day. I'm averaging five or six sentences. 

Sigh. 

June

 It's (almost) June. I always get depressed in June. It's nothing to worry about. It happens every year. I used to fight it. It just made it worse. Now I just go for the fall. Because I know it will end. It started a little early because of all the ... things. 

It's actually a bad habit. I understand the mechanics. Understanding only means I have a sort of lifeline when the wave hits.  

I'm almost always a little depressed. I feel like if you aren't you aren't paying attention. But this is less background noise and more like hitting a wall a few times a day. Really hard. If I can stay calm, I shake it off. 

Tuning Out

 The mommie loved the pomp and circumstance on days like this. She believed in the country. I turned away from all of it at a pretty young age.

We're a country built on top of an already existing civilization. 

For so long I thought about colonization as something done by kings and queens. And families like mine were just looking for a better life. There is some truth to all that but there is a larger truth. And I don't know how to ignore it. 

It's a good day to ignore news channels, which are in a repetitive drone. As always.   

But I have a book. As always. 

Churning

 I was awake early (for me). I did not want to be. I did my-lay-with-my-eyes-closed thing. Finally gave up and ate a cardamon roll. 

Did my TikTok.

Tried to do the Wordl. I'm not having fun anymore. There are days that I don't even try. The thing that bugs me is how often the word is the same as five or six others but for one letter.

I'm feeling better most of the time. It's just bleepin weird how the badness swarms me. 

All through these drifting days my brain is churning. Not in a productive way. Just churning.

I continue to believe that the act of writing is worth the effort even when not much comes from it. 

  

Finished a Book

 I wanted to finish a book. Eleanor Oliphant is completely fine, to be exact. So, I sat in a chair and read the dang book. There wasn't much left. It's just hard to read when your eyes are closed because you feel bad. I didn't feel great when started but I was OK by the time I finished. It's a good read. I didn't think I was going to like it at first. Eleanor isn't likable. The more you learn about her the more you want to know. I've been reading slowly because I'm either sick or distracted. 

Being at a loss for anything useful to say about current events is a problem for someone who is trying to write ... every day. 

I had a memory of my Poppop coming to school to pick me up on the day JFK was shot. I can't imagine him picking me up at the school in Texas. He would have tried.

I remember how increasingly violent things felt at that time. Assassinations. Riots. A war on the nightly news. It did not feel like things feel today. Which may just be another sign of my age. 

Sigh

 This is one of those days. It seems wrong to not talk about the ... news. 

All words feel hollow. 

It's Wednesday. Which means Mandy and Ramona were here for breakfast. Good to have company. 

Sigh.

Better-ish

 I keep thinking I'm better and then ... I'm not. I guess maybe I am a little better, but I get taken down by waves of badness. I spend an inordinate amount of time lying about with my eyes closed. Not sleeping, although I do a fair amount of that too. I just need to be quiet. 

Last year, around Memorial Day, I realized that I didn't remember where my Grandparents were buried. I remember going to gravesites with my grandmother on Memorial Day. I think that used to be more of a thing. 

I went on Google and found them. I discovered that Poppop has a stone, but Grandmom does not. I can't imagine why. I reached out to the manager of the graveyard in email to see if he knew a florist in the area who would take flowers to the graves. I received a terse reply offering really pricy maintenance but no way to just place flowers. I struggled with this for a while. 

It's ironic because I don't intend to be buried. There's a thing you can do now. They make compost out of your body. It's one of the best things to do with your body after you die in terms of the ecology. That's what I want to do. 

But I'm still upset about my grandmother not having a stone. 

Unwell

 I didn't post yesterday. I didn't feel well all morning and into the afternoon. By the time I started feeling better, I was emotionally drained. Today is better. Sort of. My back was trying to spasm all morning. And my digestive system was cranky. I usually feel better in the afternoon although sometimes I relapse around three. Why? I have no idea. 

I would like to sleep through it all, but my brain will not stop the chatter. 

I spent about a minute trying to push myself to post yesterday. All of this posting is me trying to spark my writing muscle. I don't feel like pushing myself or shaming myself is useful. Feeling this bad is draining. 

Wednesday

 Wednesday morning. Mandy and Ramona and breakfast. 

I like things like this. 

Rituals. 

Ramona begs for bacon with her eyes. She is my Wednesday dog. 

There's a new food truck in town. A young woman who is making food from different parts of Italy. It's extremely good! I am eating stewed vegetables and catching up on news. 

Probably need a nap.  

Two Shows

 The other night I watched the Ava DuVernay Netflix series about Colin Kaepernick. I watched it accidently. I thought it was a story about a Black teen being raised by White parents. It was. I just didn't know it was Kaepernick. It's really good. 

It showed his struggle to be recognized as a quarter back and the influence of race. He gets braids and his coach makes him cut them off. His mother had been supportive enough to find him a professional to do the braids, but when the coach said to cut them off, she said he looked like a thug. The show steps back from those moments to talk about things like using the word thug and what his hair meant to him. It's clear that his parents love him but have no idea how to raise a Black child. 

Last night I watched American Son with Kerry Washington. It's about the mother of a biracial son who hasn't come home, and she is worried. She's in a police station trying to get information. The racism and sexism with which she is treated creates so much tension. And then her White husband (also an FBI agent) arrives and the information flows. Even he gets caught up in the maelstrom created by race. The ending is shattering. 

I'm not sure how Black people tolerate White people.  

Slowness

 I am slow. Brain and body. That is a general truth that's a little bit truer today. There's no obvious reason. 

When I was in New York, I worked with a restaurant manager. I didn't think much of her, but I didn't need to. She wasn't really overseeing the kitchen. One day we had a conversation at the bar. I don't remember what started it or exactly what it was about. It might have been that she was newly pregnant. She told me that she realized that white people weren't having babies and she felt like it was her duty to make white babies. 

I remember I sort of walked away, dazed. As it sank in, I got angry. She was leaving so I didn't see her again and wrote it off as her stupidity. That was around three decades ago. The replacement theory has been around for at least that long. Longer. 

White people talking about being native in this country is infuriating. 

I listen with my slow brain and feel rage. 

Chatter

 When I first started blogging, I said something about everything. I had the news on all the time. I read other blogs. I felt like there was a big conversation happening and I wanted to be in on it. These days I worry about being part of the noise. I'm not a newscaster. I'm not a pundant. I don't always need to say something, 

And I'm having a stupid day. I'm not actually stupid I just feel stupid. Everything in my head feels slow and badly framed. But not silent. The chatter volume is high. 

I've had the experience that talking, or writing can help me to pull my thoughts together. 

Not today. 

To Much and Nothing

 There are so many things in my head - you would think I'd be writing all day. The last two TikToks I did were about me not having anything to say. Probably never going to get a blue check. (Inside TikTok joke. Ignore it.) But sometimes silly TikToks create a playful back and forth. Harder to do that in a blog. Not impossible just harder. 

I remember the early days of blogging. Manically checking for comments. 

Something similar happens on TikTok. I guess that's why they call it social media. 

Heh.

I think the mass of things in my head is the problem. Too much to sort. 

And I continue to write these little posts. Hoping my writer muscle will build. 

Sigh. 

 

Stomach Ache

 I'm sure I mentioned that last year I had an endoscopy because I was sick all the time. It turned out my stomach lining was raw. The doctors said it was too much Advil. Probably true because I was taking a lot for joint pain. I was also taking handfuls of vitamins and maybe they didn't go together. In any case I stopped drinking coffee and eating acidic foods. I stopped eating much of anything. 

I did feel better. Lately I've been having one cup of coffee a week. Sometimes two. I had an incredibly delicious passion fruit cupcake the other day. Left over pulled pork. And I feel pretty bad today.

It seems like I can eat things sometimes and not others. Which is how things started last year. Time to narrow things down, I suppose. It just always feels like a struggle to know what to do. 

My appetite comes and goes so the struggle isn't about denying myself things that I want. It's more about not being sure what's going to work. Things like eggs can be fine and then one day hurt. 

Getting old.

Such a drag. 

Music

 I don't listen to music. 

It's the saddest thing. 

For most of my childhood, teenage years and early adulthood music was my solace. I had my own band for a few years. I turned on music the minute I walked in the door. I'm not sure when I stopped. 

TikTok has introduced me to some new music. Recently I learned about First Aid Kit and was reminded about Antony. But I still don't naturally turn it on. 

I was remembering a song Bonnie Raitt recorded. I think the title was Blowin Away. I sang that song over and over. There is one line ... love is blind - it cannot find me. It's the kind of song that you can really wail. And I did. 

I feel like I might have put too much energy into that line. 

I have a lot of love in my life. But no ... partner.

The concussion might be part of why I don't listen. I seem to have trouble listening to anything. Two doctors told me this was part of the concussion and would go away. It's taking too long. 

Coaxing

 I just did a really small amount of yoga. I used to do a full half an hour practice every single morning. The frozen shoulder makes it hard. Stretching is good for the shoulder. It's just painful and gets more painful as I move. I feel like I'm always trying to decide what is a good thing and what might cause damage. I discovered that warrior pose is not too painful and it's one of my favorite poses. I do certain things, like neck rolls, all day and try to stretch the shoulder. 

All of this was sitting in a chair because of my knees. 

A simple move, like a forward bend, causes pain. 

I miss the ritual. 

Pushing through a generalized lethargy to do things that will cause pain is just a drag. It doesn't feel like ritual anymore. It feels like struggle. I am going to keep trying to do it.

Coaxing back all the things.   

DIstracted

 Open Blogger. 

Stare at the TV screen. 

Check TikTok.

I'm hungry. Maybe I should eat. 

Still waiting for that urge to write. It used to hit me like a wave. 

I just finished reading Maus. I'd read it years ago. Or maybe I just read parts. I didn't have my own copy so I would have either borrowed it or read it serialized somewhere. It is wonderful and devastating. I had to take breaks. Reading it with images of a destroyed Ukraine on the news and Victory Day marchers in Russia was challenging. 

It was also rough thinking about the Supreme Court taking away a right that has been in place for most of my life. Imaging the horror of trans-kids wondering if they will be taken away from their parents. Totalitarianism is sneaky until it gets enough power. 

Watch a commercial about lactose free milk. 

Check TikTok. 

I'm hungry.   

Life Goes On

 There's something going on in my life that I'm not comfortable talking about on social media. It involves someone who is very private. I don't think I can tell their story. 

I do think I can talk about how I feel.

I am broken. 

Really. I am shaken to my core and shattered. 

And life goes on. 

It's such a difficult truth. Life goes on. People die. People leave. Ways of life are destroyed. But life itself goes on. Dragging you along with it. And the hurts become part of the fabric of who you are. They make you stronger and they make you vulnerable in new ways. 

Because I'm older, things seem to hit harder and deeper. As I try to imagine my future with new liabilities. Fewer people to count on. 

In some ways, because of the blog, I've lived out loud. I think being open is valuable. But in the places where my life intersects with other people, I feel a need to keep the details to myself. When I was working at EA I stopped blogging. I had signed an NDA. I was meeting a lot of new people. I was a fish out of water in so many ways. I lost my voice. 

Right now, I just want to scream - THIS HURTS! 

And. 

There really isn't anything that can be done. 

Life will go on.   

Excuses

 I didn't post yesterday. It was a combination of timing and bad communication and me not really grasping what was happening. There was a point when I remembered the blog, but I was completely drained. Ironically, I had just written about the importance of a schedule in my life and then suddenly there was no schedule, and I didn't know why. 

No need to explain the details. 

Today's schedule was off as well. But for good reason. 

Maybe it's the weekend. 

Schedule

 Having a schedule is really important for me. During the first year of Covid I established one, even though most of it was reading time. My schedule now organizes around stomach aches, medication and sleep. And reading, of course. 

I don't take that many meds but I got in the habit of taking one really early and then going back to sleep. The next one gives me a stomach ache (if I don't have one already) so I often either go back to sleep or just close my eyes until it settles down. It all takes a lot of time. 

Then it's important to eat (stomach ache and blood sugar). I usually do the TikTok, which means I'm also on TikTok watching videos. Check in on other social media. Watch a little news. And ... the morning is over. 

I used to get a shower in the morning but it's getting later and later. Some mornings get caught up in other things and the whole day shifts. 

I think it has an impact on my writing. Like yesterday when all I did was make a list of things. I'm just determined write something every day. 

I resent how much I sleep. Two doctors said it might be because of the concussion and would get better. The headaches are (mostly) gone but the sleeping is ridiculous. I'm trying to figure out what I need to accept. Maybe this is just age and recovery. It makes no sense to try and force myself to wake up. It makes less sense to struggle to keep to an arbitrary schedule and feel bad about it when I fail. 

Buzz

 It's late enough in the day that I thought I might not post. 

Today is a day to honor and remember the MMIW (missing and murdered indigenous women). I'm wearing red. 

I found an organization Aid Access (aidaccess.org). They help women with all kinds of abortion issues, and they will mail the abortion pill. 

Mandy found The Northwest Abortion Access Fund. They help women in Oregon, Washington, Alaska and Idaho connect with clinics and have the finds they need. 

Just a mind a buzz.   

Kent State

 May forth is the anniversary of the Kent State massacre. Four students were murdered on campus by the National Guard. One of them, Allison Krause, had just graduated from the high school I was attending. I hadn't known her but many of the kids had, and it was a very emotional day. 

I came of age in that environment. I believed in the revolution. I believed that some systems needed to be destroyed, 

My throat is still tight. And I have tears in my eyes that won't come out. 

I'm looking for signs of hope. 

Currently, there are maps showing how far a woman will have to travel to get an abortion if Roe falls. There is a group of pilots who are offering their planes and their time to take women who need an abortion and people who need gender conforming services to places where they can get those services.

So. 

There ya go. 

 

My Throat is Tight

 My TikTok today was a song about revolution and me staring into the camera. I'm done in. I listened to pundits talking half the night and most of the morning. I thought I had a lot to say but when the time came it all sounded hollow. I'm going to try and find some here. 

Row v Wade was written with the right to privacy in the center. If it's overturned that right is made fragile. There's a list of things that may come next. 

A woman's right to bodily autonomy is fundamental. 

My eyes are filled with tears that will not fall.

Rhythm

 This is funny. For years blogging was a habit. I grabbed breakfast, headed to the desk, read some blogs and wrote mine. TikTok is my first focus now. Watching and doing my own. It takes time. 

This morning after doing the TikTok thing I was thinking about taking a shower and suddenly I remembered the blog. 

I still spend more time thinking about the TikTok than I do the blog. Writing is such a different feel. I want to do more of it. I'm just having trouble making it a habit. I open the laptop and feel blank. I will keep writing boring aimless posts until something kicks in. 

Reading usually helps. Especially if I'm reading something with a strong rhythm. I'm reading House Made of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday. The writing is lush, descriptive but not exactly rhythmic. So, it's not kicking anything into gear for me. 

I suppose there is a possibility that I'll never get my rhythm back. I'm just not willing to accept that. 

Yet.  

Zoned.

 I sept badly and don't feel well. Not sick. Just the usual. 

It's May Day. 

International Worker's Day. 

We don't really learn labor history in this country, which is why people don't trust unions or socialism. When the right talks about socialism I grimace. We aren't even close to that. 

I don't think the education system is going to get much better, but I do have hope in the youth. There are groups of young people organizing book groups to read banned books. And there are local libraries working with them. 

I'm zoned out. 

Poem

 I almost forgot to blog.

In my defense Mandy stopped by with tacos. I've been digesting. The stomach did have a minute of reaction but settled down. They weren't spicy. 

Today is the last day of national poetry month. I posted my last fragment and put the Elizabeth Bishop book back on the shelf. There's a lot more to read in that book but I'm going to work on some other reading. 

Facebook popped a memory. Four years ago, when I did the fragment thing, I wrote a poem. Ignore the weird line break. 

 I have compressed these

already tiny moments into

beads

strung on a thread of longing.

I already know

they don’t mean anything.

Still.

I run them though my fingers

trying to conjure

a different outcome.

Stomach ache

 I talk about falling last year because it was an event that changed my life. Not in a good way. The fall happened in front of the hospital. I was there to get two procedures. One of which was an endoscopy. 

In the early part of last year, I was having a lot of stomach aches particularly in the morning. I vomited a lot. It didn't seem to matter what I ate or drank. The endoscopy showed that the lining of my stomach was raw. The surgeon and my GP thought it might be because I took so much Advil for joint pain. Probably true but I think there were other reasons. Reasons from my past and maybe the handfuls of vitamins I took twice a day. I had stopped taking them because they made me feel sick. 

I did a regiment of a stomach coating medicine and some antacids. I could barely eat. I stopped drinking coffee, which was horrible. No tea. Nothing acidic. No chocolate.

I am better. My appetite is erratic. I drink one cup of coffee a week. I can eat a very small amount of chocolate but if I eat a tiny bit too much it hurts right away. Most of what I eat is bland but sometimes I push it. I eat Posole or Caponata. And it hurts. Tums don't really help. I am having more stomach aches again so I'm avoiding all the things. Sigh. 

It's also (no doubt) about age. 

Everything is now. 

Fat

 There was a video on TikTok in which a guy makes a pretty dopey fat joke. And I saw it a few times. I did a post about it. The reaction to so much of what I say about my rection to those things is interpreted as my feelings being hurt. It's hard to hurt my feelings in terms of my size. It's been years since I gave a shit about how anybody feels about my body. But I do give a shit about how being fat is understood. Because it has an impact on so many things. Nonbiased health care. Access to public facilities, particularly transportation. Something like being able to walk into a store and buy off the rack, which has an impact on how people feel about themselves and how much they pay for things. 

I feel like I say the same things over and over. 

When people read or hear the word fat, they have a reflexive, mostly unconscious reaction. Fat is something to be avoided. It's an impolite word. They're confused at first. They layer all kinds of stuff onto what I'm saying.  

I am kind of tired of working through it all. 

A wonderful man on TikTok said he was sending positive energy my way and he loves me for me. That's very nice. Now do you want to help me change the world?    

ADHD

 One of things I've learned a lot about on TikTok is ADHD. I have a friend who has it. We talk. I think I may have it. Older people, especially older women have a hard time getting a diagnosis. I don't really feel like I'm suffering. I can see a lot of ways I navigated through life with it. 

I'm a pretty hyper everything in its place person. Probably a way to stave off scattered thinking. Aging is a factor in my ability to function. I am more forgetful. And trauma factors in. 

ADHD is a brain issue. One of the things people who get meds almost always report is a quieter brain. I'd like a quieter brain sometimes. But my chatty brain is also where I get a lot of insight. I would add creativity, but I don't feel that creative at the moment. 

But I know I lose the ability to concentrate. Always have. Or I go into a zone and can't pull myself out. In ADHD terms I have executive dysfunction. 

I'm finding these ideas clarifying. I feel like I'm sinking deeper into myself. 

Social Media

 I love TikTok. I have a really lovely group of people who come to my page. We have fun. It reminds me of the early days of blogging. 

But. 

There are issues.  

Of course, there are. 

The BIPOC community has content suppressed. LQBTQIA too. If you aren't in those communities but share their content, it may be blocked on your page. Or it may stay on your page and be taken off their page. I've come close to leaving more than once. 

I stay for the support. The community. 

And now Twitter. I'm not on Twitter very much. But. Elon? Ew. And yet, Mark? The white men with too much money are everywhere. 

I'm kind of a shut in these days. Social media is a real place for me. But I'm always wondering about the ethics of my participation in systems where social control isn't even behind a curtain. 

Letter Between Poets (edited)

 My friend Mandy made me an Advent calendar last year. It was a stack of books. 

She knows me. 

My profile picture on Facebook has all of them and a few others from other friends. I was looking at it this morning to see how many I'd already read and saw The Dolphin Letters. It's a book of letters between Elisabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell. And a few others in their circle. 

I've been doing my poetry fragment project on Twitter this year with Elizabeth Bishop poetry because I wanted to read more of her. I have a really nice Library of America book of her poems, prose (which I didn't even know she wrote) and letters. And I read Love Unknown (a biography). But I'm planning on spending the day reading letters between poets. 

Exciting. 

Bishop's poetry feels solid. Her mastery of form is solid and she's not trying to mystify. I feel like I need to keep reading to really know but it's been a good month. 

Edit!!! I goofed. The Dolphin Letters is Elizabth Hardwick. I make that mistake all the time!!! 

Muscle Tone

 I'm starting to think like a writer. There's a narrator always writing sentences about everything I'm doing. 

Someone on TikTok said something about people talking to themselves because they grew up being afraid to say things. Talking to themselves is safer. There is some truth to that but a strong inner dialogue is a good thing. Often the way we process all that trauma. And often the beginning of creative expression. 

TikTok does get a lot of my inner musing. Sometimes I think it makes writing harder. I come up with things to say there and have nothing left. 

I redo TikTok videos sometimes. It's like editing. You have sixty seconds to get it all in. You have to let go of some details. 

Writing is different and I keep trying to listen to the narrator. Remember all those sentences. 

When I was in school, I was writing all the time. Different kinds of writing for different classes. I was faster. I still had to edit. I actually love rewriting. I had to write so I got stronger. 

Blog writing has always been first thought best thought. I've always tried to work fast and not worry about the rules. 

Which does not mean I don't care if it's interesting. I just want to keep things simple for the moment. I want to let myself be weak and let the doing of it build the strength. 

Nail Polish

 I suck at nail polish. Seriously. 

I have no nails. I always cut them back. That's leftover habit from restaurant work. It's just easier to keep them clean when they barely exist. But I thought it might be fun to put polish on them. Just fun. 

No.

I'm particularly bad doing my right hand. It's smudgy and uneven. 

It doesn't matter. I rarely leave my nest and the only thing you can see on TikTok is that they are painted. Unless I stick them into the camera, which I have done. I wanted to talk about how much I love chipped nails because they remind me of the neighborhood girls when I was a kid. 

There was a time when I got acrylics. I enjoyed having long nails. It changes the way you move your hands. However, the acrylics tear up your real nails. 

I'm not that good at the beauty routines in general. No face masks. No product in my hair. Just me. Raw. 

Shrug. 

Communal

 It's Earth Day. I'm thinking about the Whole Earth Catalogue. I used to go through it again and again imagining the commune I would live in with my friends. I sort of did eventually. Briefly. I feel like I might not be designed for communal living. 

In my job history I tried to be the hardest worker. In some ways there's nothing wrong with that but I was so invested in proving my worth. I was in the bathroom once with the baker and another cook. We were all washing our hands. When we were finished, I used my paper towel to wipe off the counter. The baker asked me why I was doing it. She said it wasn't my job and it was someone else's. She was right. And the person whose job it was would not be there till much later. It took me less than a minute to do it. So why not? I've never really known how to think about that moment. Because two things were true. The reflex to do something that wasn't my job was strong. Why? Why did I feel like I had to give more just to part of ... anything?

Why do I feel like I have to recover from time with other people? Why do I exert so much emotional energy in my relationships? I have friends who help me all the time. Why do I worry that they will resent the help they give me and leave me? Why am I frustrated when I can't get the help I need?

I actually have the answers to these questions after years of shadow work. 

And I'm too broken to do much anymore. 

I have answers and I still have questions. 

 

Sliding

 Did I mention the frozen shoulder?

Awhile back I woke up with pain in my left shoulder. I thought I'd slept on it funny but it didn't go away. My doctor thought it might be frozen shoulder. I've been managing it with heat and ice. Some cannabis balm and stretching. I have days with almost no pain and fairly good range of motion. I have days where any random move causes excruciating pain. 

Honestly, this last year was filled with health problems. One thing seemed to lead to another. And, of course, I'm old. This writing is part of me trying to slow the fall. I know that physical limits are part of aging but I also know my feeling about life is part of it. Writing, even slow, spaced out writing, gives me ... life.

I am given to collapsing inward.  I aways have been. I spent a lot of time alone as a kid. It became a habit. It's also a trauma response. I tend to mask when I'm with other people. Even people I know. Even people who love me. I've always known this but it's only been recently that I understood it as a trauma response. Previously I understood it as my personally. 

I spend most of my time alone with a book in my hands. And I like that. I can also feel myself dropping a mask or two when I am with people. 

The link between physical issues and the process of understanding why we are who we are parallel tracks. We have all been through a time of stress that isn't really letting up.  Ailments (inner or outer) seem obvious. 

But. 

Jeez.

I'm just trying to plant my feet.

Hey. Look. It's still morning. 

Spoons

 I made the intention to post in the morning not remembering that I spend Wednesday mornings with Mandy and Ramona (her dog). I either need to be flexible or post in the afternoon. Or at midnight! 

Two commenters on my last post. George who I met in the blogger years and Lisa who I met on TikTok It was like my Internet past and present meeting up. I'm really emo about these things. George reminded me to conserve my spoons. Wise, as always. Especially judging by how often I stare into space as I try to put together a post. Part of the hope in all of this social media exertion is that I'll find more spoons. 

I'm doing poetry fragments on Twitter as I have for a few years. I'm using Elizabeth Bishop poems this year and really enjoying it. When April is over my Twitter activity will wane. Facebook. I'll always check in but I'm not active.

TikTok gives me spoons. Usually. There are days on social media that suck the will to live out of me. Usually because of communication that doesn't click. Which is also true in life. Oh lord, please don't let me be misunderstood. 

There are days on TikTok that fill me up. I have carved out a corner in the app filled with really lovely, interesting people. Like Lisa. The beginning of our relationship was her recommending a book that I bought immediately and loved. An auspicious beginning. 

I did put my entire book on YouTube but I don't think I'll do anything else there. The book took all the spoons I had. I'm taking a break from it. 

I'm going to be happy if I get this out before five. 

Heh. 

Slow

 Slept really well last night. And still I'm kind of tired. I don't think you ever really catch up. 

I'm trying to get form back into my day. 

Yesterday I saw Martha Stewart on Facebook pitching a sunflower door wreath in blue and yellow. There is a donation to an organization but I didn't read much about it. It feels like exploitation. There were more ads for more things. This is what we do in capitalism. We throw money at things and wear our support. I'm not totally against these things I just think they can be shallow.

A month or so ago the bakeries and restaurants in the area donated a percentage of sales for a day to the World Central Kitchen. That felt like a community rallying with a specific intent. I bought cookies, coffee, lunch, everything I could. I felt confident that the money would go to feeding people. 

I can't articulate my feelings about what's happening. Everything in my head feels like bombast and rhetoric. Watching the new is relentlessly horrific. 

And writing is slow. 

Heh.  

Bad Night

 I slept badly. My stomach felt the need to remind me how limited my food choices are. Last year I was having a lot of stomach issues. I had an endoscopy and found out that the lining was raw. The doctors thought it was Advil use. Which is likely. I've taken lots of it for joint paint. I've also taken handfuls of supplements. Some of the bad behavior of my youth probably factors in. I could barely eat for months. I am better but I think I'll always be limited. It's not really amount of food that is a problem. I am limited in that way but it's immediate. I get full really quickly. It's about spice and acid and things like that. I stopped drinking coffee daily. I have a cup, sometimes two a week. Sigh. I can have a small amount of chocolate every day but there is a limit. If I go over that limit, I'm in pain. I ate more acidic food than I should have for a few days. More (Easter) chocolate. So. Bad night. 

Everything is starting later. I wanted to write in the morning. It's the middle of the afternoon. Does this matter? Not really. It only matters that I write something.

I'm woozy from lack of sleep. 

   

Untethered

 I just finished reading Real Estate by Deborah Levy. I am quite enamored with her writing. There are two main themes in the book. Sort of. She is never limited by a theme. She is about to turn sixty. Her two daughters are adults One is about to leave for college. She has made a living writing for some time but not enough to buy a house. She has begun to long for a house. She sees an egg-shaped fireplace and it becomes a central descriptor for what she wants. The fireplace and a pomegranate tree in the yard. 

She is also preoccupied with writing a female character in a different way. She is (sort of) pondering sexism. When people are talking to her about things she doesn't really want to talk about she is thinking about her writing. 

I remember when I would be thinking about something I was writing. Sitting on a bus. Trying to watch television. Making dinner. And the writing would be rattling in my brain. I'm sort of there now. Now that I can type with both hands. 

I'm also nervous about having lost the ability to focus. My thinking has been untethered for so long.  

Family Soup

Today would have been the mommie's 96th birthday. Tomorrow was her husband's birthday. I don't remember how old he was. They had a joke about her being a day older than him. In fact, he was a year older than she was. As if any of that mattered. My psychological soup is stirred up. 

I've been remembering a time when I danced with my dad. My bio dad. I was so uncomfortable in his arms. He wasn't the molester in my life. He was absence. I may as well have been dancing with a total stranger. I might have been more comfortable in the arms of a stranger. I've aways known his absence and K's invasion created a physical tension that may never go away. Although it doesn't bother me as much. 

I get tired of the same old soup. But I have been getting deeper insights lately. Which is as calming as I imagined it would be. 

I no longer need to find a card with a frog on it for her and a card with no emotion for him. Maybe I never did. 

Typing

It feels really good to type with both hands. I've been pecking at my phone for too long. I couldn't wait to open the laptop this morning. Right now I have the TV on and a TikTok playing on my phone. Probably need to settle down. I used to think about what I was going to post. Now I think about my TikTok of the day. 

Doing a TikTok is similar to writing in the sense that you have an amount of time and if what you're saying doesn't fit you need to edit. I redo posts multiple times. But writing is more sentient for me.

I do feel like it will take awhile before doing my blog has any rythm or depth. Writing always happens in my head before I get to a screen. Even in email. The blog will become part of my inner chatter. 

For today I was just happy to be doing it. I opened the laptop and realized I didn't know what to write. HA! 

Chag Sameach.

Happy Good Friday,

Ramadan Mubarak. 

I'm back.

 A year ago, I wrote a post about my knees not being comfortable at my desk. I do most things on my phone, or iPad. Not conducive for writing. So....I bought a laptop! I can sit in a more comfortable chair and tap away. We'll see if it makes the difference I think it will. Since I fell last year my life has lost form. I can't get to the pool. I do very limited yoga. I sleep too much but not well. For awhile my doctor thought it was just left over concussion issues and things would clear up but I'm starting to think I need to push. And I feel like I can make writing be a way to focus. We'll see.

TicTok has become the thing that gives me a daily outlet I really enjoy it there. I've been on it for a year. 

Writing is a muscle and all my muscles are weak. But I'm going to keep trying.