It is 6:17am EST & I’ve already thought about a million things for this blog post that probably sound more profound in my head than they will on the screen.
I am up this early with a feeling that I never thought I was going to have again, & I was perhaps happy to never have it again because it would mean that I successfully stopped drinking–
I’m up because I went to bed without hydrating, with more booze than I’ve had in my system since October 4th.
I don’t think I’ve had any new revelations about drinking.
I do it because I feel anxious because I feel unimportant & feel like nothing is “real” & poetry is so small & the world of poets is so insecure & ego-driven. By which I mean we write to construct mythologies of ourselves so we can go among each other & be loved. We make currency out of our ability with language.
& I like to drink sometimes to feel out of control, out of my mythology, my cage of language, or simply to change the way I’m feeling–
Nothing matters, so in my everyday, sober life I build a palatial cage of significance out of my time–
I manage a restaurant, I must matter.
I run a poetry reading series, I must matter (to poetry).
I adjunct, I must matter & be very intelligent.
I farm & have a savvy, realistic business sense, I must matter.
Mattering will make me feel something, which I simultaneously want to be the end of feeling, which I don’t know if I actually want to reach
even though I am afraid of my feelings. The tender darkness from which I feel deeply–
I purposely keep this in check in Boise by being very busy. At some point I decided, again, that if I were to not show this to you I could love you safely.
I associated it with the drinking, I called drunk Megan another person who wasn’t real.
But who decides what is real? (Doesn’t the Velveteen Rabbit associate realness with devotion? Where’s that quote.)
I got messy. I was sensitive to this construct of sensitive poets anxiously constructing things. I rely on another, a “you,” to keep me in check & safe. With a grounded “you,” I can better perform myself, better feel important.
That’s what I want to tell amg. That she makes me feel important, which is what I needed last night.
All my planned “yous” bailed on me for this trip, even if accidentally. S had a plane ticket that didn’t go through. A had a bus ticket that didn’t go through. & the comforting bit is the coincidence, that maybe there could be meaning to it, a lesson that I could learn–
If I didn’t show you this, I could love you safely, but I had another feeling I didn’t want to have again, that part of me that D would call “desperate” which is really a desperation to express myself
to another person, to let them know that they matter because they are real because they make me feel real & safe
& I couldn’t help myself, when I sent you those texts, it was the best I could do & now I’m awake & my skeptic is awake & the voice of the world in my head is awake that that kind of love & devotion is codependent &/or scary &/or wrong & when I’m experiencing it it is drunk Megan & when I’m experiencing it I should keep it to myself & when I’m experiencing it I should punish myself with self-examination, look back to my childhood, see what I haven’t “fixed,” what I’m doing “wrong”
& what narrative am I buying into that I want to love & be loved in this way? I feel ashamed that I want to make this the real
I decide what’s real, which is a terribly vast thing to look at.
I get a feeling inside & I want to map the shape of it with language.
I feel so ungrounded right now.
I guess if I were actually crazy I would not have the awareness of “crazy,” but I feel crazy with the awareness of crazy & it’s kind of exhilarating.
I had to step out of “Boise” to see what I had done to “Boise” how I made “Boise” safe
& continued to make choices by not making choices by saying “yes” to everything in pursuit of matter/mass the end of emptiness (oh god the metaphors the language makes too much sense) because I want
to be a monument in your worlds, something you project specialness onto
even you, who may not read this, who I never wanted to have to see me this way, scared & scary because I want to continue to feel worthy of co-constructing a narrative with you & “worthy” in my head is apparently defined by stability, by not derailing like this.
I want to make you feel both safe & exhilarated.
This is likely for a purpose: if I “make you feel” these things, if you feel them with me, then maybe, someday, we’ll mate.
Or you will be the stable place from which I can perform myself, even if you are not always stable neither am I & I think that’s okay.
Always the hope of being generative.
God I am licking all the seams of artifice & I want to penetrate them
I want life to have a phallic trajectory but it is definitely much more cyclical
which could also be interpreted as “not learning anything” but what if I don’t want
to dwell in that hopelessness, what if it feels better to reimagine it as a feminine learning
a failure narrative // if I can frame it in language, in a concept it becomes comfortable
& acceptable & has the bonus of making me feel smart, a rarity these days.
From the outside I can see that maybe I am inarticulate with fear.
Writing this makes me feel better, makes me feel like I’ve apologized or tried to understand why/how I’ve experienced the last few days
I don’t want to construct time as a cage anymore.
I want to learn to say “no, not now” which I think was my New Years’ Resolution.
The only thing that has changed is that I feel even more capable of describing my motivations & mental states
but it’s still perhaps wrong to think that my ability to put them into language makes me solved or sane.
Maybe it does just mean I’m a “poet,” even though I spend so much time running from it, staying too busy from it
because what does it mean to be a “poet,” anyway? Who gets to construct that meaning? Do I buy into history’s narrative, which is so large, so many ways–
Do I really want to be a poet if all it means is that I can adequately feel safe in moments where it’s clear that everything is artificial
even the safety of language is artificial.
I want to go back to sleep & not feel so afraid that I broke something.
I wouldn’t blame you if you asked me for silence but I wouldn’t like it.
I’m afraid I forgot to say something.