I guess I forgot to write for a couple weeks. Maybe what I was thinking wasn’t that nice and I was trying to protect the universe from my negativity. Either way I’m back and still immersed deeply in the loan process to secure my mother’s beautiful home on a mountain at a price we can’t possibly afford. Aside from selling my daughter to a Saudi Arabian prince that will behead her for his pleasure I feel out of options. I’m searching for any job I can wrangle, I don’t care if it’s road carcass clean up. We are going to need a lot of money to keep up this charade. I’m still studying to get my realtor license but that’s too far away and it will still take too much time to actually pay off, though it seems promising.
The hill is heavenly with the glorious view of the valley. The feeling of unity with the universe is so open and clear. Surrounded by all the wonderful little critters every day seems too good to be true. I’m excluding my murderously vocal, ass-hat cat who has either killed or chased away my favorite family of quails. The pleasure I derived from watching the bottom heavy birds smash down the hill was beyond measure. They have the grace of a human toddlers and crash into bushes and occasionally bounce off the fence. Charming, but no chance of survival with a wicked Akita dog teamed with deadly, evil fluff butt. I finally opened up to my husband, that saving my mom's home is destroying me. He was drunk and most likely wont remember the baring of my soul as I drove home on jam night, from Sacramento at 2AM. I told him that my depression and bouts of crying have returned. They had been held at bay since the postpartum I suffered 10 years ago. The last memories of break down prior to the postpartum were ten years before that; understandably due to the loss of my close friend. He died in my arms from a self inflicted gunshot wound playing Russian Roulette. He also suffered with depression. Ten years before that, I was violently raped. I didn’t have depression then but I belly-flopped headfirst into a cycle of serious drug abuse and became a zombie for a few years. I’m seeing a pattern, every ten years my mind collapses, hopefully to be renewed. Here's to rising as a phoenix, not just being an average fellow sufferer of PTSD. I’m going to have to return to the books, and maybe if I get enough done in the next hour or two I will reward myself with more work. This work will involve a watercolor palette, so I’m hopeful. It’s a blessing I’m able to at least die trying to save this house. I do love it. AND if I die maybe my work will be of value. The only good artist is a dead one. Ask Van Gogh or Modigliani, oh wait, you can't. While alive Van Gogh couldn't sell his own paintings offering them up: 2 for $0.50. His Irises painting sold for $53.9 million in 1987. Modigliani traded paintings for meals. He died young, poor and hungry. One of his nudes recently sold at auction for $170 million. I'm not throwing in the towel, but it's hard to keep the chin up when the value of your days is measured by monetary means. Reminder to self, "I'm a being of light and goodness. I am not this body, I am just borrowing it from the earth so that I may do something valuable for humankind." That valuable thing may unfortunately be my dark and twisted humor. I just heard the whip, silent to ears but loud in the mind. Break is over.
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My mind wandersI write whatever I'm thinking in no particular order Archives
July 2023
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