Fff

 I'm not that Rebel. Not that fiery hellcat redhead. Not small and mighty. Not fearless. Not argumentative and fighting the status quo. Not brave. I'm moving tentatively, which is also not me. I'm a sparrow, but colorful. I have wings and will spread them. I may be all the weak, watery-eyed side characters. The dull masses. But I will always matter. (How many of us are "I"?) How many of you here on earth now are also me? Long past the age of seven, aware that existence doesn't center on me. But all this Energy is pinpointed in me, primed to be seen through Chloe's eyes. To slant the view to be from my perception. My facet. My acute speck of infinitesimal understanding. One compound segment of the Eye. These lone evening hours: 10 epiphanies per second. Ok, I've put off the dishes long enough...

Lemon soda

 Haven't had a lemon soda for about a month. Not disappointed. My Depression is real. I could fight it, but haven't been. But maybe it's Depression's heavy carpet. Without the sadness (or am I too numb to it) it feels like this is a facade. A lot of fear, covered by a flurry of manic inspiration, enrobed in a dull fondant of ennui. Toska, really. Not the benignity of Depression.

No se

 I like that being hidden and anonymous is possible even while journaling. X makes me want to have sex. Like actively need it. He's okay to look at, but it's his character's swagger that fills me with lust. 

Whoever makes women ashamed of their lust needs a nice kick in the groin. With ice skates.

Moth

 Lily was looking around for Violet again tonight. Sometimes I know Violet's skinny frame is elegantly, gingerly tiptoeing through the den on her way to Katherine's room. 

It's dark out. It's cold. I am reading an absorbing novel, so that when I watch the musical I will know what's going on.  I'd like hot coffee (the romance of pouring it into a mug) but it's already too late. Maybe decaf. Or maybe tea. 

I'm so thirsty. For beverage and warmth and physicality. What I've been doing, a depressed person would do. Sleeping all day, 12 hours at a time, binge-tving, binge-eating, not showering, and holing up in the house. Skipping days so I don't have to make phone calls. Because business hours are over. Also picking my scalp. Also using my wheelchair when I am perfectly capable of walking. Cocooning. Time to open wings. And flutter, if I am too afraid to fly just yet. 

An Evening

 I'm not sick. Achy, though. New stylus from Katherine. I feel a new way.  Pain. What a thing. Trace of my earlier cold. Did I take my ibupfofen. Time o' month, maybe. Why don't I love me enough. What is it to love. This night a continuation of the nighttimes in my childhood. That girl saw a bleak winter field. Stars bright from being in the cold. Alone. That never ended.Looking for that deep sorrow buried in a barn. What barn. But ive never stopped being conscious of the barn. At the same time it's beautiful. All alone, but the Universe knew me. I know aspects of It. What it is I look for in that abandoned warehouse. Those abandoned places.

50

 I inhabit a heavy and small body. My lungs work. The signals my brain sends to my leg are interrupted somehow. The problem doesn't seem to be my brain itself, maybe a sensitive nerve down the path. I have no faith in the neurologist I've seen. He has said my ankle reflexes aren't fully normal, and that I definitely did suffer rhabdolmyolysis. And my anxiety-induced stiffness did nothing to help. But he's dismissive and lacks passion.

I accompanied my parents and brother to Wild Horse Pass Casino in Mesa to experience a Vietnamese-inspired dinner with Chef Mai Pham. We were greeted with iced water, chardonnay and merlot at the table, and as we had a very good seat up near the stage (but not too close), we were served our first course, a green papaya salad, with too much cilantro, very promptly. The prawns that came with it were coated with green curry, and were plump and amazing. I was brave and took a bite of the Thai basil that came with the salad. It was licoricey and clove-y, and a huge sip of the merlot mellowed it out so that I wasn't overwhelmed. While we let our first course sit, the chef talked to us a little about her life after Saigon, and my mother and I got a little weepy (also due to the wine), and then we all enjoyed some highlights from a Food Network special Mai Pham had done.

Following this, there was some demonstrating (unfortunately, I could not really smell anything coming from the stage, but everyone else at my table could.) and then our jasmine rice was served. This ended up being a bit awkward (everything from the rice and after was served family-style), as it started to clump and get cold before anything else arrived. Since my father cannot stand shrimp, he ended up helping our table finish up the barbecue pork, which pleased and amused our server, as she hefted up the absurdly heavy square plate that had sat the pork. Then our condiments arrived. The green curry shrimp arrived in a lovely sauce, and that was the highlight of the evening. Lemony, fresh, creamy, rich, slurpy...I always know something is tasty when my eyes mist up. It was less because of the wine this time. Some less memorable but filling dishes followed, as well as some much-needed more rice, and then the dessert came, a lovely scoop of ginger ice cream (made with 5 different kinds of ginger) garnished with a kind of chocolate-dipped almond brittle. I was bloated after dinner, but I had walked a lot of stairs earlier, so I was okay with it. Nothing like fish sauce to hike up your blood pressure.