63

Ro is

<3

Love is...

❤ I concede. I mean Score ❣ I will scoop up some not-even-divorcé rushing the paperwork through for tax purposes. It's not hard to see he cannot be alone, so desperate to plug the one missing piece back into his perfect life. I need the mirage of total control too. So I will glom right on, shove right in, strategically draining the teat while projecting such outwards. I will mask my stench of ketosis with saccharine sayings that all start with, Love is...

Love is...
a Beverly Hills Husband
❣

Love is...
a renovation that rapes the character
from a really great home
❣

Love is...
derivative wedding planning
 House* Styling 

spelled out on mini chalkboards
❣

My real job is to reinforce my husband's stance that he has no inner work to do. We are mirrors. Yes, it's all our exes' fault. Still and always. What if they dated?! Meg's loss she didn't want to rot on the country club circuit. What a weirdo. Extra weird she invited me to breakfast weeks after she moved out and I latched right on. Who does that?

Love isn't someone else's babies, I complain to her over our only meal together. One is still in diapers! I cannot believe my new boyfriend has a kid in diapers! 

This diapered baby boy becomes the target of my misguided rage. I pick on him, disciplining him harshly when I think no one is looking. But he's smart, seeing me for what I am. This makes me even more mad! I will grab his arm, hard until he cries, but deny it. He's late to speak, but when he's ready, it's in full paragraphs and I'm scolded for the arm grabbing, but whatever.

Whatever, I have cool Hollywood friends. Real stars and winners. We play tennis with Borat ❣ And drive to Malibu to see Courtney Cox ❣ Her daughter is friends with my daughter ❣ I even got the Showgirls girl, between bouts of egregious infantilization involving supersized baby bottles of raw goat's milk and SusieCakes cookies, to be the preschool playground bully.

Years will pass and we're way past cracks in the facade. Now when their father travels, I leave them on their own in their rooms. Opposite ends of the house. Too noisy when they play together. And if I hear one on a video chat with his mom, I pop my head in and offer a singsong snack, even though we all know I impart my dis-order one frozen berry at a time.

While their mother's on her "breather" I taunt them with a daily mantra: I would never abandon my kids.

Love is...

a real life fairytale
❣

 *only Houses 

HQ wipe ⏷

🌬You can hear the dryer in the background and a small desk fan I have positioned in the middle of the house, circulating air.

I'm such a believer in having a home that fuels you and a home that is so systematized that you can come and go with relative ease —     to the point where you're bringing in the mail, sorting the mail, opening the windows, circulating the air, and unpacking. And I unpack right in my laundry / mud room. And what I'm doing right now is I took everything that was in my Dopp kits, I had a couple — toiletries, cosmetics — and I laid out a towel, dumped everything out, took a kitchen towel out of the washing machine, and instead of putting it in the dryer, I used that damp towel to wipe everything down.

I have a tray that I'm putting things on. Then I'll take that tray and I'll either put things in the medicine cabinet or back into a travel bag or in the first aid kit in the guest bathroom, just wherever stuff needs to go. And then there's a handful of things I'm going to wash, like my tongue scraper and my tweezers and my toothbrush and some of my guasha tools.

And, I feel so grimy after this LA trip. And so up in the face of my trauma rooted in that geophysical place that I'm even cold water washing the kits themselves, and my scrunchie.

I feel like out of body tired even though I got in after my red eye (where I didn't sleep and where I had the craziest guy sitting next to me). I feel like I transferred some of my crazy to him with permission through a foot rub. I mean just it's such a weird story. But I didn't sleep on the plane. I barely slept in LA. Lots of panic. Lots of things coming up. I don't think any of this is cool, by the way, like, I don't think it's cool to go somewhere and panic. Especially when that's where your children will be growing up because one man says it's so and he makes a lot more money than you.

Um,     but anyways, I got home.

I used a sulfur soap. Sulfur soap is very good for dandruff and acne. And I scoured my body, particularly my feet, and I fell into bed and I slept from like 8:30 to almost 4:00 pm. Then I was back in bed, I think, by 9:00 or 10:00 pm and I woke up at 11:00 [the next morning].

I still feel a little bit floaty, but I just wanted to share that we're allowed to do what we want to do to feel grounded. Even out of body, it feels really good to just address these things, and clear the energy off. I don't know how into household chores I want to get. The garden really needs some love and attention. I don't know if I have it in me today. But it feels good to do something and not just have a full suitcase sitting there. And I do love travel and I am actively calling in much more. I'd say not to a Best Western across the street from the kids' baseball practice field,     but it's nice to feel like ready to go.

I do like to smudge the suitcase every so often. I do like to store it out in the garage, on the second floor of the garage, and then have the Dopp kits ready to go restocked. I have really sensitive skin so I need to have certain things with me. And that kit lives in a cute duffel in one of my closets and I just feel like, if a sexy little opportunity came up, I'm ready 2 go.

So blah blah blah Dopp Dopp

Oh,

    and I don't often carry a handbag, but being in mom mode, I wanted to have a little kit of supplies for the boys. So I'm also emptying out the whole handbag, wiping it down, wiping everything else down and I want to smudge that and my wallet too. LA certainly imparts damage on my wallet.

Reloading the little travel Advil.

Yes, the worry dolls, and I think know they need to charge a little bit lot.

    ~all that kind of stuff~

Reconciliation & Ready To Go-Ness


Implied Metaphors
from the Micro to the Macro of it all

^

This was recorded on Sunday

now it's Wednesday

The tray is still sitting on the floor of the living room

and that's okay

☁

62SOS

I L☉VE U

I AM S☉RRY

PLEASE F☉RGIVE US

THANK U

My childhood was defined by labor, violence and mockery. And caregiving. So much. Required (addicts) and inspired (baby brothers). Throughout it all, and ever since, I have had a knowingness — an innate faith that guided me. Yesterday, I felt that faith extinguish. No warning or fanfare. Surrender into the material plane realities of inequities and relentless tasks of eking out a living confined by ethos and energetic bandwidth. I see how and why people go towards the dark. I have compassion for the panic that rules society.

Los Angeles – the place and the metaphor – finally knocked me down into a heap of gIRL mess and I don't know what follows. Perhaps this is when one sells out or gets into sex work or maybe I'll become a postal worker and walk all day but I don't want to have to drive that little boxy truck.

I L☉VE U

I AM S☉RRY

PLEASE F☉RGIVE US

🍀THANK U🍀

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61SOS

SandwichesOfSobrietyVol.1#recipe

⚐ garlic naan, flash-broiled

⚐ slather of mayonnaise 

⚐ two slices American cheese

⚐ thin layer maple-roasted turkey breast

⚐ thick layer microgreens

⚐ healthy dollop lemon hummus

⚐ freaky squirt hot honey

⚐ fork & knife

⚐ pair with spicy ginger beer, over ice

⚐ garden rosemary sprig

60

⏾

In my early thirties, when I was living through my only divorce twice, anyone I fucked I instructed split me in two. Crack me open I used to purr and they all did try their best. And then one day I met a boy who's pain matched mine.

    Click

was a girl (mess) all over again

I had impulsively prayed for a body love on a flight home from new york where I kinda broke up with this super rich (smart and funny) guy I was only sort of dating. He was a friend of my ex husband's, more an acquaintance, but the need to justify the difference reveals the masculine conundrum.

Landed, ubered, gathered the mail, and hauled my bag up a few flights of stairs.

Shoes off, hands washed, jeans wrangled down to my ankles.

I came so hard that I squirted all over the hardwood floor in the hallway, peering into a tiny deco crystal chandelier kaleidoscope. Sweatered spine on hardwood because I knew I was going to cum hard and I'm a clean freak. Wiped clean those glossy floorboards. See, the body love's energy came in, and Spirit told me I had work to do.

I next perceived this very specific to-do list, to call in a body love using the energy of my space — a one-bedroom apartment I shared with my two young sons in mid-city — just across the street from those lacma street lamps. So I did all the to-do's before Spirit said tinder. I had worked all week. Wrote down all the tiny chores, crossing them off, feeling great. It was a friday. I tindered over the weekend and remember taking the boys for barber shop haircuts, then was parking in his garage late wednesday afternoon post consultation with an honestly happy couple. They walked me to my car and we all watched a swarm of bees circle the jacaranda to the back left of their home. We had seen the bees before, in a clear line of site out their bedroom window, and we watched again from below until they bid me farewell like nervous parents. I hadn't had that and it was sweet.

That was in the spring of 2019. I wore a cream linen skirt suit, 70's, with suede manolos. Had put a vetiver, neroli and faintly cinnamon body oil on my legs, careful not to oil the suede. It felt like I only took left turns on the drive home seven hours later, and once I successfully pulled iris into her assigned slot, I did know I was fucked. We hadn't yet but I was, I just knew it. You know that feeling when it washes over. Yet when you want the assignment, as in your soul needs the work, you take it.

Lessons come packaged as they will, enticing in their present tense while draped with red flags looking back — that's * if * you pass the test. I finally did. I passed with zero fanfare last fall, and now it's spring again, and I'm grateful to be here. I'm on the eastern shore of maryland, a farmer of sorts, devoted to moving inside learnings out after a long, hot decade fighting against myself in the city of angels, where I kid you not, I had six different bedrooms, each one rearranged countless times.

gIRL mess class starts in our bedrooms because I can tell you that many, many bedrooms are stale with avoidance. Thus on the flip side, bedrooms are ripe with potential for actualizing, living within, our authentic desires on the daily.

As adults, or doing our best to act the part, our energy in one realm of lived experience is indicative of our big picture energy. So I wasn't just dirty talking, I was committed to cracking myself open across the board. What I was doing in bed, I was doing in life. I broke my reality apart, swept up all the pieces, dusted them off and laid them across the table to sort. Like items like to live together, so I compartmentalized my particular gIRL mess into piles. I like a pile. A pile seems to dare hey, here I am, come deal with me.

    Tomorrow, we answer.

No two people's piles look the same.

Not sure if this is called karma or fate, or if it's just the work of being a (high) functioning human being? We're here on the material plane, and maybe we've been here before, hence all the piles, but what * work * it is to be in a human body on the material plane dealing with our stuff?

💤

 IT'S SANDWICHES FROM HERE ON OUT GANG