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Pretty much she thinks she might be an artist as she sobs in the morning pre-work time listening for the first time to "crowds" by bauhaus. she learned today that that man she had insisted upon seeing in concert as a teen - Peter Murphy - was from an even more primal band.
And what would that mean - huzzah - she's an artist. she had been asked what her favorite bauhaus song was by a potential. She usually wasn't out-cooled on music, but did not have an answer. She now has one.
And London, how gifted she was from that City. It had been a place where she had had a breakdown - a chink in her armour. It should have been a red flag to anyone who wasn't a kind rescuer of lost father-fucked fairies. Instead, they tried their troth for a time. He went on to great things and good people to match his own. She went on a voyage of exile and self-undoing. Here she sat ad nauseam in the land of her birth screaming at her brain.
The gift they got gave her a gift. That low embarrassing Friday that she reached her thirsty dead tentacles to try to grasp some crumb of joy/connection. It sucked. She still doesn't look at her phone. One of the techniques she has used from way back is the ostrich in the hole. You really can look like a bush if you're focused.
Once she had reached out a tendril to connect with his cool set grounded third wife. She had been married herself then and thought it was for safe life and wanted to be part of the family... it was of course rebuffed.
The thought of going back to Wilmington while in savannah intrigued her.
She had broken down after her mother left. It made her claustrophobic. Each time, she went into the panic that she knew would make her have to get out of bed, she cursed the fucking shroom knowledge.
"what was it like for you - your first time on a bit of shrooms?"
"it sucked. I was with someone I didn't really enjoy playing with and it made it all cardboard around me. for some reason cardboard is the correct word. And it's the feeling that parents are your trip guides. It made me almost feel irritated as I was fastly vastly trying to process these weird feelings in my head: oh fuck. you mean that not one even pencil is not generated by my perception. fuck. this means...."
what does it mean? she'll Eliot smith that one "the things you'll do you won't but you might." yet why not try to do something. She did that wacky IFS therapy again today because she had absolutely nothing else in her life... and again - again - the parts say they want to fucking sing and fucking write songs and it reminds her of that weird psychic that Robert dinero used with the dog pregnancy test in her guest bathroom trash told her... to write songs.
She thought of Janet seldom, but when she did, she was like a fable - she recognized all the threads and stories of her life that Janet had influenced. (the fucking thunder like the cliffs of dover forming "you're not married."). She recalls looking at that Grateful Dead painting of the skeleton waiting at the bus stop ("that's you!" Janet had laughed and pointed.) It was painful. (yet, a something) She kept telling her to thank god for her gifts - thank god for her beautiful face. She was like "oh wow, this lady thinks I have a beautiful face!" and the only thing she really recalls is the songwriting thing "you'll have three successes right in a row. it will come easy to you."
still waiting
yet of course it resonated with her. She recalled the image she had had in one of the cults hundreds of guided meditations - the purgatory people who will be there forever because they've lost any semblance of imagining the concept of having a beautiful face much less...
'hi'
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