The problem is that I don’t want a job. I’m not qualified for anything that excites me.
I want to sit around & talk to people about what they make & why they make it– about what is personal to them– the stories they tell about themselves.
I can spend hours on Facebook fascinated by the profiles of strangers.
I don’t know if there’s a job like that.
Everything seems so soulless. Writing text for marketing. I can pretend it falls in line with my postmodern views on language,
but I’m always looking for permission to turn away from that truth. I feel that truth in my abysmal gut but it’s like I want words to signify / have meaning–
“trust roots, allow the days to shrink–“
“we must bless without wanting to manipulate”
In grad school when we put poems in our bodies we were memorizing the way the meaning made us feel, not examining it for its inevitable failure, for the sure sign of its artifice–
Inside & outside, always. My tarot reading said “find balance or there will be heartbreak.”
Maybe it is all about what stories we believe, what we are able to remember & forget & navigate–
1st difficult moment with P, true difficulty & it haunts me like a mantra–
He says “February? We’ll be looking for a house by then–“
But one moment of “no future” & I believe I am utterly leaveable. The riff sticks. Leaveable, unhireable–
Why are these typos much easier for me to believe than the story of finally working for what I want?
Maybe I do want a job, but I don’t know what I want yet.
Or farming for 3 hours a day would be perfect. &/or breastfeeding & some grantwriting & cooking vegetables. Picking grapes from the backyard. Engaging with art in a real way. Reading poems again. Watching films. Thinking about why we make things, why often I don’t–
So cynical about this world & its currency. So what if I contribute to my debt by going on an adventure with P to West Texas
so we can tell stories about it
build a memory
learn more about each other.
I almost passed out for the first time today at Morning Owl while weeding. My vision went polka dot & black.
The way I’ve been feeling lately is like that in its newness. I’ve never felt this way before. I don’t know if I like it. It’s not a redemption narrative.
I’ve almost quit my job each day I’ve gone in this week. I know I should have other work lined up first, but I can’t stand to be there, & that’s complicated.
I’m practicing at being more direct. I’m practicing lovingkindness meditation. I’m making protein smoothies. I still feel frustrated & small & disrespected. Like a punished child but I didn’t do anything “wrong.”
& I should trust that P had a bad night & with that came darkness & doubt & that’s not personal. As far as I know we’re still heading in the same direction, bunny hutch & all–
should should should / I didn’t even make room for doubt, as it permeates every other corner of my self that would rather pull your pig weed than believe that marketing is important but I need health insurance & I want babies & fuck, it’s no worse than waiting tables
These days are so uncomfortable that I long for their shrinking. I’m trudging through, doing better than I was. I still hate how fat I look in photographs. I still can’t get quite centered at work. I love P with a ferocity that scares me, makes me wonder on what terms that desire is constructed–
but maybe I want it to have meaning, mysterious meaning. Easy meaning. I want it to be a poem in my body. I want to be fated towards something, or doomed–
doom bigger than the cage of word / of meaning / of my own making–