the dirty truth, as uttered for the last time

So, I had this little incident at the Lorimer stop this evening as I
was dancing home after a lovely evening with E. And I was bending down
to get this book out to look at for the first time (and some lessons I
learned about it will follow). However, as I was bending down these two
homeless dudes walk by and one bends down and points behind me I think?
And asks me if that’s a fly or something. “Oh, my back?”. Yeah, it’s a
tattoo, and this dude is all excited, and I lift the back up of my
shirt to show him my deco wings and flowers (a design inspired by deco
art) and he’s grinning this super white smile striped across a dark
dark brown face, and then he says, “You’ll be happy in life…You’re a
good person, you’ll do well in life, and that was beautiful… I know
you’re going to have a Merry Christmas, and god bless you.” Me:
“Thanks, sweetheart, you as well. Thanks a lot” As he’s walking away,
the local Brooklyn kids and ladies and gents are all thin-lipped and
staring at me with stony faces, probably horrified that I would take a
minute to even respond. As this guy is walking away he says “You got
something good for Christmas planned don’t ya?”. “Indeed”, I said,
“Have a good night”. As he walked away he was grinning, smiling at his
friend who had walked ahead.

So this book I was reading made me start examining myself. Mostly I was
struck by an odd thing the fetus uttered to me about him “wanting me to
be with someone who can better take care of me”, and how odd and
preposterous of a statement it was. I mean, why is that even a relevant
concern? I was born with my own responsibility to take care of myself
and I have not done that. At least properly. I forget to take my
medicine, I do shit that puts my health at risk. I have never sat down
and taken responsibility for myself and my condition.

I wear this condition like a badge, a badge of sympathy, as disclosed
by my comment, I exist to make other people happy they are not me. What
kind of shit is that? That’s me, utilizing a genetic disorder and
something I have no control over like some kind of fucking identity,
instead of just an aspect of circumstance and something I have no
choice but to deal with. But somehow, somehow, I have let this
condition ruin my life in the idea that I have of my life and the blame
I have shifted to the situation. For example, I have not gone to school
because I had to have heart surgery. Somehow I feel as if I had truly
put effort into this endeavor, I would have done it. I honest to god
have no interest in pigeon-holing my ideas of myself into a single
degree. I simply enjoy creating too many different things to neglect
myself to one corner. This is why I have said that I want a degree that
allows me to take classes in shit that interests me, instead of having
to take a core curriculum in the field I am interested in. In fact,
none of my endeavors that I take seriously in my daily life truly make
having a degree necessary, because creativity cannot be just taught at
a school, it has to be fostered.

I suppose I can readily admit that I have felt the need to utilize my
heart condition as a point of identity because so many fucking people
utilize their accomplishments and material wealth as an identity, when
in fact, it is a circumstance, no matter if it were through sheer hard
work or luck.

” Many of us pre-occupied with avoiding past disaster, even to the
extent we forget the present or how to hope for the future”. Mike
George.

And I realize these things I don’t care about in other people have
somehow made their way into my line of vision because I feel
intimidated by lack of….the. I mean, I never cared what you did or
didn’t have, I cared who you are, yet I feel the need to explain myself
constantly by throwing out the daunting phrase alluded to with heart
surgery. And I realize something: I haven’t chosen a direction and
really pushed myself because I have been totally involved in this
self-pity writhing bullshit that allows me to push my mind to consider
preposterous shit like moving to Massachusetts when I have no desire to
be there, except to be closer to my family. But anyways, I guess I have
been afraid to take on a new identity than messed up luck girl who is
creative. It was a better story than college drop-out who moonlights as a
model writer painter. I’ve said this, and for some reason, I started
believing it. I mean, I’m better than that, for so many reasons.
I just haven’t realized my own potential simply because I became too
comfortable being so and so’s whatever who had some fucked up heart surgeries.

I SOLD MYSELF OUT…

Another thing I realized that has been completely inflamed and
re-invigorated because of the honest truth, as painted by this quote by
the same man:

“Surely passion with its connotations of turbulence and compulsion, is
far from relaxing? But if we build a wall against passion, relaxation
is impossible. Scientists had demonstrated that if the amygdala (the
biological “seat of passion”) is removed from the brain, we lose our
ability to function on any emotional level, preferring to be solitary
than to interact. We become indifferent to the people for whom we once
felt love, and uninterested in the activities that once inspired us.”

So how did someone steal my amygdala? I have no idea, but I
can say that the stagnation of people who inspire this passion is
complete validation that I not interact in large quantities with
people, correct?

No, not quite. Quite to the contrary, I’m kind of tired of spending
retarded amounts of time being inside, in the basement, bundled up and
hiding under a blanket.

I have all of this reinvigorated energy to confront my fears that put me on this road. I want to write write write.

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