Block

Saying goodbye to the same people is old. So I won’t.

… … …

 

I have about thirty things to write and create for work. I’m a couple of weeks behind. And now I’m not sitting around boiling because of someone else, so the floodgates should open and I should be able to knock this work out, right?

 

Guess not.

I can’t afford writer’s block, honestly. Not with my business, at least. I can sit on my hands and not come up with the rest of my novel, with the rest of my short stories, with the rest of emails. But my business pays my bills and keeps our heads above water, so I have to shake this today. Now, really. Yesterday.

But I can’t stop daydreaming. Sighing dreamily or staring blankly at the wall or ceiling or window. I can’t stop wondering what is left to want and then wanting other things anyway.

It’s not bad. Not for me. But it’s so bad for business.

Wake Up.

2018.5

Watching Korean films like I used to.

… … …

There was a time when I could convince you that I was the only person on the planet. On this entire Earth. That I existed by myself,  that even you were a figment of my imagination. I’d sit for hours every single night, avoiding sleep, watching Korean films. Crying like a baby.

Memento Mori. Samaritan Girl. Old Boy. Sympathy For Mr. Vengeance. Lady Vengeance. Green Chair.

I’d watch Japanese films. Live for violence and sorrow and exploitation.

Ichi The Killer. A Snake of June. Audition. One Missed Call.

I’d watch Chinese films. Feel thrills from little details like seizures and bloody nightmares.

Dumplings. H.

And I’d go on and on and on watching these films. Living in these stories and these moments as if my own life would never start up. Because there was no one else there. Nothing but Synecdoche, New York. Nothing but Last Life in the Universe. Nothing but The Science of Sleep or The Rules of Attraction or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Film was important to me. Almost as important as books, for a time.

I feel myself venturing back into that. Into the sounds of skin, close-ups of lips, the study of weary eyes.

I spent my New Year observing movies that I watched so much, I thought I knew the characters in real life. I remembered some of these actors and actresses like I really knew them.

I think I will go back to avoiding sleep. For the most part.

I think I’ll use my time machine for good every now and then.

2018

If only I could translate sarcasm and cynicism into an active writing career.

… … …

The end of the year means a lot to me. I don’t find it as flippant and eye-roll inducing as a lot of people do. It means more to me than astrology and religion and a bunch of other if’s, and’s, or buts.

I can look back on a year and tell you how I felt with detail and emphasis. It’s just enough time for me to take a lesson, maybe one that I will ultimately ignore, and mold into something real. Looking back on 2017 feels different than looking back on 2016, than looking back on 2015, and so on. I find enough value in it to make sure that I write something, anything, on New Year’s Eve. There hasn’t been much to stop that from happening in the past 7 or 8 years.

This year was a lot of…nothing. Alabama was a mistake but one that I needed to make in order to move forward. This year started with a car accident and ended with a death. It started with a fresh start and ended right back where I was running from. But it did start. And it did end. And I’m not dead.

I made a lot of money this year. A whole lot. I think I made more money this year than I’ve ever made in my life (in terms of working – my Dad’s death obviously reaped me more money but that was lost as quickly as his life). I earned. I worked so hard sometimes that I wouldn’t sleep (or eat) for days at a time.

This year, I had two sexual partners. One that I’ve known for almost ten years and one that I’d only known a couple of weeks. This year I kind of lost the feeling that love gave me, the feeling that made me want to keep going back to it over and over. The feeling that made me deal with situations and attitudes I didn’t like.

The excuses seemed to fall from existence this year. The fear was immense. The desire to withdraw from humanity and become someone else, to live in my own head until my body gave up, that intensified. I’m going into 2018 understanding that I want to escape reality some way,  some how. Even if it’s just by doing well as a writer, moving somewhere remote, and dying in the woods of old age and romanticism.

I understand that my depression makes things up a lot. It tells me things that aren’t true. It takes things from me, things that help me cope: music, art, movies, love, lust, everything. But it can’t take my stories, and it can’t take my day dreams, and I understand that now. My fear of my writing dwindling and dying out have always been unfounded.

Writing will always be there for me. My characters will always be there for me. And so, I’ll take better care of them this year.

 

I don’t know. I go into 2018 as Shaquana Amanda Briggs, Trey Briggs, Treys Ludlow. I go into 2018 as the mother of Rajesh and Urijah. The sister of Tairina, Derrick, and Keith. The daughter of Denise Briggs. I go into 2018 as the on again, off again girlfriend of Wolf. I go into 2018 as a lot of old things, and also a lot of new.

 

I look forward to all the success, all the failure,  all the tears, all the fear, all the love, all the lust, all the writing and fantasies that 2018 will bring. I love being me. I love myself and all that I can endure.

I go into this year as a monster that I most definitely created, and I fucking love it.

Sudden Things

Solitude has afforded me some peace. I understand with vigor that this peace is flimsy – I earned it alone. I earned it without ever staring down my issues with other humans, without ever actually figuring out why I wanted the solitude in the first place. It’s not enough to say you’re sick of everyone – why is the real question. How do you fix it?

 

I continued to ignore this question and now, surrounded in my own house, it came back up. Why am I sick of everyone? How do I develop healthy relationships?

 

Do I even want any?

 

It’s apparent to me that I’ll have to answer these questions whether I want to or not. I’ll have to take a good look at myself. A good look at my actions and intentions. A good, deep breath. And I’ll need to truly figure out what I want out of other people, whether I even want other people, and how to navigate from this point. I didn’t think inviting two people, two people I’m thoroughly familiar with, into my home would cause so much chaos in my mind. I didn’t think it would render me unable to work and, even worse, unable to write.

I didn’t think it would push me so heavily and quickly back into a sour mood, one that evaded me when I was alone with The Young Sir. Into a state of confusion. Into an internal battle.

 

But it did. It has. And I’m right back to figuring out this thing called companionship.

 

And I’m going to fucking figure it out this time. I know myself, now. Let’s know what makes ‘self’ happy.

Small

I have a very small audience. Super small. Miniscule, even.

Part of me wants to grow this audience to benefit my future writing career. A bigger part of me, though, wants to just write what I feel and ignore the growth potential. This is a huge part of my life that seems to cover every area.

Wanting to just keep everything to myself.

I have a very small group of friends/people that I talk to, and that group gets smaller every day.

Part of me wants to grow it, to branch out, to talk to people. But a bigger part of me wants to stick to myself and these two Booger Butts and call it a day. I’ve been dealing with my want for social broadening lately and decided, eh, let’s try it? What a mistake.

… … …

This will jump around a bit but I’m only ever talking to myself, so who cares?

I had a daydream that I saved Urijah from someone trying to kill him and ended up in jail. In solitary confinement. Stuck to myself all day and night and only ever having communication when it comes to getting my food, if even then. And for some reason this was such a great daydream. I felt a calm about it. Sitting in some dirty room with nothing and no one until I just petered out of existence. With nothing but my brain and maybe, if I was lucky at all, paper and pen. Even if I wasn’t that lucky, the thought of being alone forever seemed grand.

The fact that this excites me is a problem, I think, but I wonder if I’m fighting the wrong way. Maybe I should just embrace that. Not let myself get pulled back in by artificial nice guys and lesbians who are already in love with someone else. Maybe I should keep moving forward and stop looking back, and maybe forward leads me and the young sir somewhere lonesome. Somewhere that is just us, except when it’s just us and The Boy Chin Wonder.

… … …

I won’t delete my social accounts again, even though I wanted to. I came close today. But I’ll try my best to stay off of them and in my own world. I’ll fight for my family, for us. I’m so sick of everyone – liberals and conservatives and everyone else. Adults and teens and anti-this and religion and just everything that exists outside of my home. I am sick of arguing and hearing arguments.

To be perfectly honest, I’d rather get a shotgun and a secluded house and argue with gunshots at this point. I’m tired of no one getting ANYTHING. And I think I’ll live in the philosophy that you don’t have to get anything. I can definitely GIVE you these hands/these bullets/this pain, though.

We can share.

Before I die I will figure out how to distance myself and still survive. I can’t imagine keeping in touch with people anymore. I’m done with it.

 

Let us depart.

 

Entitled to It

Is it my duty in life to feel something?

… … …

Nowadays, I’m often surprised when I get more than a little excited. It’s jarring. It feels like I’ve grown immune to these types of feelings, to truly experiencing anything other than survival emotions and extremes. You’re depressed. You’re euphoric. You’re engulfed in love.

You’re dying.

It was getting to the point where any feeling other than complete and utter panic was nonexistent. So it is really surprising when something like an episode of a show I like, a conversation, a thought, a game, a smile, when those things make me FEEL. They make me feel small snatches of something and I’m thrown off balance. Really, anything other than one terrible extreme after the other feels alien.

But I don’t mind being able to enjoy amazing stories again (hello Game of Thrones, Hi Man Seeking Woman, what’s good West World, nice hat you got there Stranger Things). I don’t mind reading great stories and loving characters (you’re awesome Saga, great reading The Good House, let’s chat again Youth in Revolt). Even rereading things I read while I was deep underwater is a treat.

There is so much that you lose in depression. In giving in to what other people think is right for everyone. I found myself in this big house in Alabama, in these rooms that I’m decorating slowly and awkwardly. I find myself in the clippings from extra books I have, from the second copies I purchased by accident. I live in dark, brooding paintings of squid or men with tentacles for faces.

These little things, they make up for so much lost time. Rajesh talks and I can truly laugh. I can stand with him in the kitchen and tell him stories about my childhood, show him a tour of bookshelves and explain why I like these books, encourage him to collect things. Urijah jumps in the bed with me in the morning and I tell him about the day we’ll have while we stare at the windows, at the ceiling, at the walls. We laugh and cuddle and then I carry him to the bathroom for his morning pee, and I open the door to his playroom so he can start his own adventures.

I can live like this. And I honestly didn’t expect this to turn out this way. I expected this war with my own self to be the great war of my life, the war I would agony over into old age. Maybe the war I would lose way before then.

I like these little feelings, these variations of feelings. This life.

 

Experience

The experience of life is not all about other humans.

They’re a big part of it. Most of your daydreams, and my daydreams, are going to be full of conversations. Sitting quietly with another human, all those long talks and robust hang out sessions catching up. There’s going to be a lot of discussion, a lot of just being, and a lot of failure and success in companionship.

But the other part of life is solitude. A garden early in the morning or too late at night, the sun fading away or brimming and spreading. It’s going to be about the violence in your head, the dreams of nothing but air and madness, the voices if you have them.

It’s going to be about the colors. The sounds of an animal panting to keep up with you (hopefully a pet). The thoughts that ruin your day or make your night.

Life is about those moments when there’s nothing around but you and the air you breathe. The plants that watch you. The chaos on the horizon.

I don’t think about life with others as much as I think about life away. Burrowed in a home that is too disconnected to be feasibly safe. Too on the outskirts to be classified as part of this human thing we do.

I’ve lived the part of my life where companionship ruled. I’m ready to see the rest.

Inhale.

It’s time to get up.

I mean that in a variety of ways. A bonfire of variety.

One way is that, well, I’ve been physically unable to do anything all day. That depression thing. Where you can’t do anything but sit and daydream about characters interacting with people you’ll never meet but would love to. Astrid being able to show her hallucinations to people, to a room full of people, and everyone being amazed. This is what your violent, overly sexual, terribly plagued brain is like? And plugging other people up to it and realizing that no one else has quite the same brain.

 

Is it a parasite? The ocean? Love, hate lust, etc? I’ve gone through this one quite a bit and it’s morphed in just a day. Chaunce hasn’t been in the most recent version of it but Joji and all those others have, regardless of me trying to keep real people out of it. I think it’s time to sit down and start writing and vomit my creativity somewhere.

It’s a start. Shit, it’s a save. I haven’t been up to anything but working lately, but even that is a bit of a save. Even that is more than before – I’ve been overworking but it’s kicking my ass into getting up. I actually made writing playlists today. I actually earned my keep this week.

I need to learn to draw, most definitely. I have a vision but I can’t keep telling myself I need other people to do it. There’s no one else. I’m not getting married. I’ll never be with anyone, not seriously and not long term. And I doubt I have a whole lot of time left.

So I’d like to draw, to learn to code, and to actively write again. I want to go ahead and take the amazing parts of me out of the trashcan and exist again.

So. I go.

Herself

She’s not herself anymore. I checked. Somehow, she’s gone.

So maybe I’ll be her, instead.

But then who will be me?

… … …

 

Sleep is becoming an annoying thing. It’s always either too much or too little, too soon or too late. I’m sitting here awake at 12:17am with no intention of going to sleep in the next ten to twelve hours. It’s really 1AM – I’ve been on Eastern time my entire life and I’m having trouble letting it go.

My head is always an hour in the future, an hour in the past. It’s tomorrow when it’s today.

It’s amazing how something as simple as hair can create a new attitude. Or unleash an old one. I haven’t felt so normal, at least normal by my standards, in years. But having these sides cut somehow makes me a real person again. It makes working easier. Even makes thinking up stories, reading, and enjoying solitude things again. Real, livable things. I like it. My weight may be way up there, my posture shit, my teeth eroding and dying in my mouth, but I am as close to being myself as I’ve ever been.

Age and hurt and lots of clippers, yeah?

I’m trying not to be so afraid, though. It’s stuck in me. I fear having the headphones on at night sometimes. That I’ll take them off and Urijah will be gone, snuck away by some unavoidable circumstance, some selfish person. His organs sold and his life meaningless. I literally worry about that, him or Rajesh being killed and having their organs sold. I don’t typically worry about myself. Not that I don’t find myself valuable, but I’ve lived.

Tons.

I’ve lived as a black American, at that, which is culturally the best you can be, though not emotionally if you really want to get down to it. A black woman, which definitely hurts emotionally but is such a win. I’ve been on the outside of a lot of fences.

Why am I listening to something as smooth and lulling as FKA Twigs right now? Sleep is tapping at me, poking, and I find myself wanting to slowly crawl over to chaturbate or something and distract myself with bodies. r/jacking or something. Obscenities and the people who love and share them seem to make me even sleepier, though.

 

This world is getting smaller and smaller for Urijah, for me, but it’s also getting fuller. I guess.

 

One would guess.

Boxes.

I shaved my head again. Well, the sides. Cut this hair, this hair that is longer than it’s been in years, and shaved in down to the lowest point possible without being scalp. Just the sides.

I didn’t leave my tiny sides this time. And now I have this odd samurai puff on top of my head.

… … …

 

I’ve been writing a lot lately. Just not in stories or any sort of fiction, really. No, I’ve been writing for work and in journals and on here. I’ve been writing about me and my life and my thoughts, writing email campaigns, writing press releases. I’ve been writing any and everything.

I’ve been researching as well. Reading about the past and present and future and never. All from my l-shaped desk. Or my bed. All from my back ‘porch’. All around this house, in this house, over this main floor. I’ve been existing a bit more.

In that existence, I realized I wanted to shave my sides again. And I realized I am pretty good by my dolo. And I realized I want to approach Urijah’s education a bit more…realistically. A curriculum. The one I want costs around $600, but it’s an investment I will make to ensure he learns both what I want him to and what he needs to.

I have narrowed my vision to the people in this house, these two intricate humans: Urijah and Mashu. Dude Ranch and Trey.

I have narrowed my goals to writing and business. Writing and skills. Writing and learning. Writing and writing.

I’ve become a person on the outside of the box. The beautiful outside of the box. The details are swarming me and I’m ready for it.

So here I am, outside this box, in this box, with this little boy, with our futures, becoming something new. With the sides shaved off my head. With the scale finding less and less of me.

 

I’ve been writing a lot lately, you know.