When I got my tarot read this past week I got the same damn messages that I get every time.
I’m a channel and and my purpose is to share the esoteric things that I’ve learned; and
I have all the tools I need to do it.
Why can’t my purpose be something a whole lot more concrete…and profitable…or at least stable? And how is it even possible that I have all the tools I need? All I have in abundance are lipsticks and jelly platforms.
That’s so much responsibility! I’m just a Toys R Us kid. Plus…no one should ever listen to what I have to say. I don’t even floss regularly!
I already did the esoteric channeling message bringing in 2020. I haven’t had a vision since 2019. Or any solid omens in a while. No yellow butterflies. If there are new things besides 4:44 and 11:22 (and I still don’t know what they mean), I’m not picking up on them yet.
So here I am, asking for some obvious signs. Like signs written in Comic Sans or clown horn honks. Or free ice cream. Or a slimmer waistline and a more defined jaw. Or mice that poop rainbow sprinkles.
I’m not in the mood for subtlety. Or more bad news.
So…let’s make it some good news that I can actually do something about with obvious signs. And let’s give me some authority so people don’t think I’m some silly flake. Maybe a nice coat with epaulettes. Or the perfect red lip and winged eyeliner. And let’s put me in front of the people who will listen and can actually do something about it.
Freedom is found within. To do things with intention and conviction. To feel engaged in the course of one’s life. To feel agency instead of subjugation or mere passivity.
Last night I saw the crescent moon dangle over the Brooklyn skyline and I felt the joy of being alive.
I bumped my head on the stars and floated for the rest of the evening in a run down apartment in nowhere in particular.
I was aware enough in the moment to thank past Vene for believing me worthy of such splendor.
I re-listened to the audio recording of my session with Elana from May 2021 and a lot of it resonated with me. Patience, breathing, not taking substances, not giving into revenge or dark magic, the fact that I’m not alone, the fact that I can call upon others in my time of need. That I am loved. That I need to learn the difference between discernment, paranoia and historical pain. That I need to know when to act and when to wait.
It was helpful. If you ever want to talk to her, she’s over here. I highly recommend her.
When we first met she told me I have all my own answers and I just needed to trust myself. She’s the reason I got a sign that says, “What would Veneranda do?”
I know that right now is not a time to be doing things. It’s a time to be reflecting and listening. Being still in contemplation is difficult. Oh, here’s a great article Celia sent me on contemplation in the desert. It’s beautiful and it sent me in a few different directions.
One thing that helps is music. Another is dance. I watched this gorgeous ballet yesterday. Ravel’s Bolero puts me in a trance. This piece is powerful for me.
I know that staying home is good for more than just this contemplative state I would benefit from. It’s omicron and flu season out there. I shouldn’t be spending money needlessly or drinking. All these reasons are good. But I’m still vulnerable to looking for distractions from uncomfortable feelings. Easy fixes aren’t fixes. Some things you have to sit with. So I prayed.
But by 10 last night I wanted sweet relief. Any kind of relief from the regret of bad decisions that were made KNOWING everything Elana told me and then disregarding it. Someone knocking me over the head with a hammer would have done just fine. Instead, I reached out to Asani and asked her for a tarot reading. She said sure, and that she’d hit me up after she pulled the cards.
Here’s what she had to say:
1. I’m very connected to Spirit. I asked her how and she had trouble putting it into words because she can see it. I get that. I’m a visual thinker as well. But if she were to describe it…it was like I was there with her as she pulled them.
2. I need a totem right now to meditate with download information. Some kind of physical tether that grounds me. And an intention spot can be powerful.
3. I’m a channel. It can be hard to know when a new cycle begins. But it’s now. This is the beginning. The time is now. I already laid the groundwork. I’ve planted seeds and now they’re going to be coming to fruition. There is a delay between the two.
4. What is it time for? For me to talk about what I’ve learned. Esoteric things.
5. Something about balance. Balance came in a lot. But I couldn’t write it all down.
6. Either this past full moon (December 26, 2021) or the next one (January 17, 2022) has a planning energy to it. Something has been put on pause. It’s time to break through.
7. Something about my name being pronounced wrong. And with this she thought of how the fae have power with names. This is what Google came back with: “In the old stories this phrasing only meant that you accidentally revealed your full name to the Folk and thereby gave them power over you. With your name they could enchant or lure you, they might even be able to influence your behavior. When you know someone’s name you have a certain measure of power over them. You can do things like catch their attention by saying out loud, referring to them even when they are not present, or even using their influence to bolster your own. But humans don’t have the necessary skills and powers needed to do much more than simple things with a name. Fae, unfortunately, do have such skills and powers. This is why people feared them.”
It was something she thought of. With regard to me…when people are able to say my name, they understand me. I might not have written that one down properly.
8. I have a ravenous desire to jump and go. I have tenacity married with wisdom. I have been tempered by having made choices that matured me.
9. I’ve had a period of rest that about me, my desire, my dreams. Now is the time to be bold.
10. There are still things left unfinished from this period. Little details that need to be wrapped up.
11. But the new cycle is starting. There are lots of options. Something about the Tower card and the Two of Cups showing a major shift in how I give and receive energy. I have to be willing to be surprised and go with the flow. And feel a sense of peace.
12. Something about a father figure or inner masculine energy need to be balance. A shift of energy will take place.
13. I have all the tools I need.
Ok. Let’s summon all the forces of good. Of acceptance. Of courage. Of generosity. Of forgiveness. Of joy. Of discernment. Of clear sight and listening. Of trusting myself. Of knowing the difference between the duck and the platypus. Of agility to move over, under, through blockages. Of remembering all my various me’s and linking them together.
I. Tyler was maybe gonna come over last night but he’s injured and lacking in sleep. Baseball. I was maybe gonna order cheesecake and then started shredding carrots (and two knuckles) to make a cake. But it was hot. And I wanted to see J. Turns out he wanted to see me after he got out of work. We met at Win Son, my suggestion. I’d been there once before in August 2018 with the 🦄 before going to this immersive play called Then She Fell.
The date with the 🦄 had been hot. I only saw him a few times that month I was here. And after the first, I’d fought with him because of something that he waited months to bring up. We met up at the bar; me in this slinky wrap dress that could withstand paint (you are forewarned about comfortable clothes and shoes when you buy tickets to the play). I told him about my date with a Palestinian named Tamer at the Natural History Museum during which I gave the boy a tour in a French accent, never breaking character. The 🦄 thought it was hot and suggested I go on a date with someone else and do the same. We role-played what I would say and where I was from. This was part of the kink–him knowing I would sleep with others and always report back. But that night, even in the midst of this great date, drinking milkshakes at a video game bar, I was texting the Israeli. It’s a bad way to be.
J was super cute last night. He’d showered and changed into a little Uniqlo button down. I kept thinking to myself…are we on a date? This feels like a date. Holding hands walking down the street. Eye contact.
I told J about this crush I sorta kinda have on this girl I met–a writer and a thinker. He was intrigued in a way that he wouldn’t have been if I’d told him it was a guy. And not for the same prurient “Maybe she’s into chicks” macho repressed fantasy bullshit so many straight guys have. He’s been around the block a couple of times. This isn’t new to him the way it is to me. Nothing’s gonna happen. That’s a dead end. She’s very straight and very in love with her boyfriend. She’s just sort of a fan girl. I have them from time to time. I’m the basic girl’s Hunter S. Thompson and William S. Burroughs.
“That’s Joan Didion,” you say. “Or Joni Mitchell.” Well yeah. But apparently I give off those vibes to all the girls out there.
Speaking of Burroughs, J. brought him up later in the night. “Why do I always have a thing for guys who have a thing for Burroughs?” I asked to no one in particular. J. lolled. And I don’t mean that he laughed out loud. He rarely laughs. He actually said ‘lol.’ It’s a habit of his I happen to find endearing because it’s completely sincere and idiosyncratic. Whether he knows it or not, he’s teaching me how to lean into the autism. How to stop with the ingrained ableism. He tests me in ways that force me to grow. He can be irritating but only when you don’t know what’s going on seven layers deep. I’ve learned. Or, rather, I’m learning.
II. I slept at J’s. And, as per usual standards and practices, we had morning sex. It’s such a foregone conclusion. There’s no discussion. It just happens. It’s the most vulnerable J ever gets. He’s calm; focused; less damaged; tender. And I get to dote on him with affection. Little kisses on his nose and forehead. His curls wrapped around my finger. All that is beautiful between him and me sublimates with daylight and I never know when he’s going to retract into that head of his and resume worrying about everything. So I appreciate it.
I tried thinking about the others this morning, with him curled up next to me. And I couldn’t. They didn’t pull focus. I was there in that moment and not longing for anyone else.
He said something this morning: “Well, Keith and Iggy made it to old age, so I guess I might be around for a few more years.” I don’t know if he thinks he’s being cryptic or if he thinks I wouldn’t catch on to what he’s saying. But I know. I know that he has been waiting to die. Pushing the envelope because he feels tragic. Maybe he was told he was no good one too many time and he’s been trying to prove them right. Maybe he’s cavalier about death because he’s so beautifully fucking sensitive under it all and life is just too much. For someone who’s waiting to die to entertain the possibility that he might just make it to old age was him acknowledging a moment of peace…dare I say…happiness. And the boy doesn’t know what to do with either of those things. He thrives on chaos. I should know. I was born into chaos. Generations of it.
III. It just so happened that we were both headed to the same place. 86th on the UES. J gave me a lift and we crossed into the city via the Queensboro Bridge. It’s the first time since I met him on December 1, 2019 that we’d ever been outside of Brooklyn together. Not that it’s a milestone or anything. Just…well…I come from vast country. It’s bizarre to me that the entirety of my relationship with a person could be reduced to a single part of a single city. This boy and I have spent the majority of our time together either in my bedroom or his. Our safe places are insular. We need more respite from a world not built to our needs.
I was three hours early. I didn’t need to go into the city with J. But he offered. I didn’t want to say no.
I spent time at a toy store I like and bought a squeezy dinosaur egg with a triceratops fetus inside and a bouncey ball. I sat for two hours in Central Park, writing and waiting for a Filipino man to come back for the phone he left on a bench by accident. He, Erwin, eventually did come back and thanked me profusely, even offering me a reward. While I was waiting for him, a rat came within three feet of me, casual as all get out, just creeping along the bench. He looked at me. I looked at him. I shook my head and said, “Nope.” And he scurried away. It was a very New Yorky experience. Really though, what I knew…and this is going to sound trite…is that I’m back. I’m confident. I’m me again. I don’t fear the world.
At the dentist’s, I talked to the dental tech about the Yankees. Four of the players have Covid and they might have to cancel tomorrow night’s game. I filed this fact away to ask Tyler about it later.
I got out of my appointment early and headed back to Williamsburg and straight to The Levee for a drink and free cheese balls. I used to go there with Nathalia back in 2019, when we’d take breaks from all day Ratagast drink fests. It’s divey. It’s metal heady. And, of course, Emily loves the place as much as I do. Emily and I are similar in too many ways to count.
Drink drunk, I made my way to see about an old friend at The Nitehawk. Mr. Tony Bourdain.
IV. I’m not sure anyone will believe me, but Tony and I are the same in too many ways to count. He was antisocial. He was a born romantic and poet. He was addicted to chaos and melancholy. He didn’t know how to be loved. And he flirted with death his whole life. He loved watching the never-ending human drama play out. By turns he rejected and craved normalcy in a self-inflicted torture.
The whole documentary felt like deja vu, down to the fucking Siberia Bar. I’ve been trying to remember the name of that place for so many years I thought I’d made it up. It was a red lit commie bar down in a train station on 50th and Broadway that NO ONE I’ve met in this city seems to remember. But there on the big screen was Mr. Bourdain, bathed in a ruby glow.
I watched the documentary, taking notes furiously on sheets of paper. I never can go to a theater without feeling this intense urge to write. But my phone was down to 4% and I still had to make it home.
There were all these themes that got echoed back to me from onscreen. Keith. Burroughs. Iggy. Aguirre, Wrath of God.
Really, though, it all came down to this fight between light and dark that I understand in my very marrow. I was already attempting suicide at 12. I can navigate in the dark like a fucking panther. And I feel that this film fed into the narrative that suicide is a weakness or the coward’s way out. It’s a cheap way to go. I get that everyone who loved him felt his loss so keenly. But no more than he felt his own loss his entire life and battled the eventuality for absolute decades.
The first half of this year almost sucked the life out of me. What I survived should have been my undoing. And yet, here I am. No suicide attempt. I white knuckled my way through this bout with whatever residual faith I had that the nights would eventually end and dawn would arrive. I survived by summoning the very elemental forces of nature and using every possible resource available to me to get through it. And I know, as sure as there is breath in my lungs, that it wasn’t the last fight I will face. These things come in five year cycles. I will be tested again. How many victories do I have left in me?
I hate that people look for meaning in Bourdain’s death and, finding none, call it a waste. There is no meaning in suicide. Don’t judge a man by the way he died but how he lived in spite of that trajectory. If you understand the biological underpinnings of depression that can upshift into suicide then you know how much suffering has led to an irrational act. He left no note. He had no plan for his beloved daughter. Those aren’t the actions of someone who was thinking rationally. He was in such pain that he couldn’t see straight. I know. I’ve been there.
The film fails on that account. Survivors told their tales of anger and bewilderment. It’s the one part of his life that Bourdain couldn’t narrate himself.
I ask myself, now that I am back, why I am back and what makes the difference? I spent the ages of 36-41 rebuilding myself from rock bottom and learning to love myself in defiance of everything I was ever taught, always knowing I could be reduced to rubble in an instant. When things got really bad this Spring, I had to remind myself of that defiance. I had to sit on my hands and wait for the most gut wrenching pain to pass because I knew there was more out there waiting for me to accomplish.
Now that I am better, that I am back to February 2020 Vene, unafraid to the point of staring down rats in the park, how do I hook in the next phase of my purpose?
I told Nicole recently that I don’t care what people think about me or if they think about me when I’m dead and gone. I just want to leave the world a kinder, gentler place. Or at least engender that legacy in others who will carry it on as I did when I inherited it.
The difference between Tony and me…the difference between J and me…is that when my constructive and destructive forces battle one another I don’t come out a nihilist. I believe. Reluctantly. Amateurishly. Recklessly. Hopelessly. Passionately.
On Monday morning, Andrea and Mikey did something that happens to me with regular frequency.
I told them there was no way I could ever waitress. I wouldn’t be able to hear people or take orders or make eye contact. They dismissed it out of hand and said I’d probably be really good at it.
The problem is this: I don’t get taken at my word.
There are things I cannot do. And not because I don’t want to try. I worked in a bread store one day and the smell of the bread was so overwhelming, I couldn’t take orders. It took a week for me to get over the one day I worked.
Shift work is also not a good idea. I need routine because it takes too much effort to plan out weeks with irregular schedules. I will mess up.
But even in the bigger scheme of things, having an invisible intellectual disability means that people measure me with a neurotypical yard stick and I will never measure up. It will just look like I’m not trying. Or I’m being obstinate. Or deceitful. Or exaggerating. Or stubbornly stupid. Willfully ignorant.
And, maybe, if I just applied myself I could reach my potential.
But this is me trying. This is me swimming against a powerful tide that no one else can see. This is me succeeding. This is me thriving. I’m earning a gold medal in getting by and a badge of honor in righting wrongs. I’m imperceptibly influencing people in ways that will alter the course of their entire lives.
I’m a tectonic shift whose change will be registered in the very ground for future generations to behold.
You don’t get paid a salary for that. The reward is when you see that you have broken through to someone. When the stigma recedes. When they start living more authentically.
I am happy to be paid in karma. Just as long as I can keep a roof over my head.
What does it feel like? The first thoughts in my head in the morning are still anxious, but I’m able to talk to that scared kid and help her not be scared and therefore angry and reactive.
I’m able to see the Matrix. And by that I mean, all the woo woo. If you don’t believe in it, that’s ok. This post isn’t for you.
I can sense my purpose more clearly. I can feel other people’s energy more clearly as well. I don’t have to be annoyed. I don’t have to to absorb anything that isn’t meant for me. Sometimes that energy is important because it allows me to translate the message they need to hear in the language they can understand.
I heal myself. Sometimes through writing and reaching out. And sometimes that healing gets perpetuated because you need to heal too and whatever I’m doing has some purpose in your life. There’s a method to my madness that’s been proven time and again. This is how my reluctant faith was born.
I just have to trust.
To the non-believers (Samy and John…both nihilists who would repel each other violently if they ever met for their sameness, and Mikey to a lesser extent), I have these vicious obsessions with men. That’s totally understandable given that they don’t believe in higher purpose. They think I’m playing out dead end repetitive patterns with men who don’t deserve me. But that’s because they don’t understand that I have all these lessons to learn and these guys all play a role.
Guys more than women because there’s just no way I can have that intense connection with women when sex plays a huge role in how I understand a person.
How does the Israeli play into this…I still don’t fully understand. What I know is his continued presence in my life is meant to teach me lessons. About jealousy. About self worth. About my strengths. All the karmic Gordian knots I have to detangle.
I daydream about him intensely after we talk because of how he wants me. It’s sex plus intellect and understanding. I need to see me the way he sees me and there’s deep insight in that. Being understood means that he’s seen truths about me that I need to wrestle with.
John understands me in a different way. And I understand him in ways he can’t intellectualize but he feels them. It brings him comfort.
That is what I do for men. I allow them to be themselves by listening, by seeing the size of the cloth as well as all the individual threads and reassuring them fundamentally without them even having to say the really deep, heavy stuff they’re so afraid to say but aching for someone to catch. When it isn’t disconcerting, it’s the most comforting existential feeling they could possibly have.
Very few people understand me, and even then they only understand parts of me. It means that I get hurt. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
I have so many litmus tests for trust with men. There are layers to my deception. I will throw down every gauntlet to see if someone is ready for the next level. Until then, I can control who I am to them. If they don’t pass, I don’t write them off like I used to because I’ve learned that there are others doing exactly what I’m doing.
Tyler’s the main example of that. Anytime I’ve mentioned him to mutual friends, they say…”Tyler?” in this way that lets me know they’ve written him off as just Travis’ friend. It’s endlessly amusing.
Andrea told me the other night that her biggest fear is being invisible. I don’t worry about being invisible. That’s never been my problem. I’m too bombastic to be ignored. If anything, what I’ve struggled with is fitting in. What I think holds true is that I can’t fight my nature. I’m going to stick out. I’m just going to make sure it’s for the right reasons.
I love being underestimated. If I am a tabula rasa it means that I can attack from angles no one expects (much like the Spanish Inquisition). Test defenses. And then reveal something about myself. Sometimes those tests are me intentionally trying to repel someone with something untrue to see if they catch the lie. If they don’t catch the lie, they carry on believing it to be true and I don’t mind if it makes me look bad because they were never going to understand the truth anyway.
Even the people who do love me and understand aren’t capable of taking in all of me. I’m too much. I’m uncontainable. Men act as bumpers and borders to let me know where my edges are. It’s proprioception: the sense of self-movement and body perception. What it looks like to those who don’t understand is a need for validation. I don’t need to be validated. I need to be reflected back to myself or I lose touch with that vastness.
I’ve been mad at Tyler for even longer than he knows and it’s not even mostly his fault. I was angry at him for not reflecting me back to me when I needed it most. But there’s simply no way he could do that accurately when all my systems were down and I was malfunctioning. He can reflect me to me when everything is working as it should. I have to understand that about him. It’s not a fault of his. It’s his nature. In the tool box of friends, he reflects good me to me. When I break down I must go to others.
This is why it is important to have a varied toolbox of friends in my life. They wouldn’t necessarily get along with each other. They wouldn’t form a squad. But I don’t run in a pack. I don’t know what to do amongst a cadre of likeminded people.
Women are social creatures who look for group approval. It’s a useful skill, evolutionarily speaking. I’m not like that. I knew it when I was in first grade. My purpose is different. I have to stand outside the circle to be able to tell others what is going on. I give perspective. Either you love this or you hate this. Perspective isn’t always pretty. Some people just want the pretty.
I want the truth; good, bad or indifferent. It’s the only way change for the better can happen. It’s the only way I can heal others. It requires sacrifice and suffering. Like all the best things do. I can’t identify with the suffering or it becomes who I am. What I need is to be reminded of the suffering, in touch with it, so I can know other things by contrast.
To contextualize what I’ve been battling these past few months, I guess you’d have to know how bad things can get. Neglect, illness, physical and mental deterioration, and suicide attempts.
I’m an adult autistic who wants to live independently. I’m walking on a high wire without a safety net. I do it well enough to make most people around me think I’m capable and just a little lazy and ditzy when really it takes all my faculties to operate at this level.
Having anemia and depression and autistic burnout on top of other physical health issues is enough for anyone to find overwhelming. I’ve had to advocate for myself over and over, sometimes pushing personal relationships. Sometimes just posting blood test results on Facebook and crowdsourcing for solutions.
I’ve been doing this on Medicaid. It’s been a full time job taking care of myself. Many times the examinations have been extremely painful even after the medical professionals claimed they wouldn’t be. I faced them alone. I came home alone. I had to feed myself, dress myself, shower, etc. That on top of memory loss, skill loss, financial strains, and trying to maintain friendships only made life harder.
But to the medical establishment my problems weren’t a big deal. They fundamentally don’t understand autism and how bad things can get. They don’t know what it takes to function at the level of neurotypicals.
I look normal. I speak well. I make eye contact. I’m intelligent. But that doesn’t mean I can take care of myself. I don’t know who could have helped. I don’t think the system has people to help people like me. But it should. There’s a huge gap in care.
During this time, I’ve gone without food, without medicine. I’ve burned myself. I’ve forgotten to take out tampons, diva cups. I’ve lost things. Dates have passed. I’ve broken down more times than I can count.
But I also gave a talk to Amazon. I cut Emily’s hair. I helped J through his legal issues. And Mikey with his dad’s eulogy. Taught people about autism and Covid. Taught myself about enough medical issues to be dangerous. Survived in NYC.
It’s amazing how much of me I lost in the past six months. It should be just as amazing that I came out the other end.
If what I’m learning could help others have more compassionate care and a kinder world, I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. Maybe that’s apparently what I’m here for this time around. That’s what gets me through when things get too hard and feel like just too much.
Because otherwise it’s just me on my bed alone, trying not to cry, wondering what the hell I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Intuitively it doesn’t feel like that’s the case.
It’s October 2018 and I’m cold, laying on a futon in Crown Heights, trying to go to sleep. I’m uncomfortable because the futon has yet to be built that is amazing to sleep on. Futons fails as sofas and as beds. They’re sort of mediocre at everything but they get the job done.
But it’s not even the futon. It’s my feet. They’re freezing. I do the internal two-step of, “Fix the problem,” and “You can tough it out,” that I do when I’m exhausted.
And then this voice comes in that isn’t mine:
“Take care of yourself, dummy! Survive, goddamnit!”
It was so convincing I only needed to be told once. I put socks on. I fell asleep.
The voice visited me for the first time when I was in seventh grade. Life was no bueno. And I was an avid atheist. I was ruminating in English class about whatever the mean girls had said or done that day and the voice just said, “Don’t worry about what they think.”
It was pretty remarkable.
Now, the voice has never said anything harmful. And it’s only happened a handful of times that I can definitely recognize.
I miss it right now. I’m doing the things to get better. I sometimes forget that my job right now is to let my brain heal and I think I’m being lazy or wasting time. But these things you can’t force.
It’s just not so easy to take things slow all the time when I want to be doing more just for the sake of doing. If I did more right now, I might burn out and be incapable over the long term. I have to recover before I can do better. With intention.
The voice, whether it is divine inspiration or just the part of me that is my internal parent, I don’t know. There are lots of things I might never have answers to. Humility is hard for a nerd to grapple with.
Today I watched a Sapolsky lecture on depression.
I learned about prolactin, heme oxygenase, glucocorticoids, and Substance P. Stress is the enemy. Stress leads to inflammation, rashes (currently covered in one), lowered immunity, aging, and neurodegeneration. It’s a vicious circle.
So many lessons to learn so I can teach them to others. It’s time for a nap.
1. It’s fun being charismatic and commanding attention. What’s not great is when you’re around others who really desire attention. They want people to hang on their words but they aren’t charismatic. You can feel them wanting what you possess. It’s even worse when they’re in the conversation and the other person just ignores them and focuses on you. That happened on Friday night a couple of times. If I were more with it, I’d recenter the conversation to pull others back in, but it already requires so much energy just to be witty and make eye contact. I can’t do the heavy lifting for others who can’t do it for themselves. Not aaaaaaall the time at least.
I just don’t want to be resented because this happens.
2. Sometimes, and I don’t know why, I see things happening way before they’ve happened. I don’t see when or how or what it will look like. I just know that at some point it will happen. I knew I’d sleep with V two years before it happened. And now I know I’m going to sleep with someone else. I don’t know for sure, but it popped into my head not as a desire, just a realization and a resignation. I think I saw it in November 2020. Could I stop it? Not sure. I could delay it. I could submarine it. But it’s not really a big deal because it’s got nothing to do with the price of tea in China. It’ll happen and then it will have happened. As long as I know that now I don’t have to get all up in my head about it.
3. Travis says I remind him of his sister who’s an actual witch. I like teasing him the way I used to tease Adrian when he was little. But I also kiss him on the top of his head and tell him he can hit me up whenever. And I pray for him. I wouldn’t tell him that. I don’t think it would mean anything to him and it might even feel like an insult. It’s weird how I can care for someone when we’re not even very close. I just know that the night I met him my heart swelled. I hope it never feels oppressive.
As for Adrian, I’ll wait until he’s an adult and then reach out. I’ve been saying this for about five years. I’m not interfering in his life or Margot’s. If I told you how much that breaks my heart to not have him in my life it would break your heart just to hear it.
4. Last night I just chilled (sweated is more like it) with a bowl of ramen and Sam Cooke. Top Ramen with an egg whisked in at the end and some frozen veggies. I sang along. Then to Al Green and Stevie Wonder. I didn’t get to Teddy Pendergrass or Otis. But I played The Supremes…”Can’t Hurry Love” and “Love Child.” My sisters would tell you this is torture under the Geneva Convention to have to listen to me sing. But I’m paying a premium to live alone right now so it’s just me.
5. My birthday is in nine days. An arbitrary day but good as any other to reflect and decide what I want to take into the future with me. Mikey said he would make a lasagna (ricotta, not béchamel because we know better). There’s a 37% chance it will actually happen, but it’s nice to know he cares.
6. Emily is slogging through the Tribeca Film Festival. I get her back at the end of June. We’re going to see The Lemon Twigs at Elsewhere on August 18th.
7. Nicole is in Chicago experiencing the same things I experienced in 2017 and 2018 when I was exploring NYC. I love it. And I’m so very, very grateful that I’ve got her in my life. I hope she comes for a visit so we can riff over nachos.
8. I have to think of fun things to do with Jon when he comes to stay for two months. He got us ticket to Andy Shauf, which makes my heart swell. He’ll probably be busking or maybe not. But it should be good times.
Last night: King Tai and Superpower with Andrea. I told her my theory of Crown Heights as Middle Earth and who is who.
I got to meet her father. A Spanish attorney. He was extremely kind and helped me realize that I can be a little too jaded. I needed that fatherly energy.
Then Franklin Park to Mikey, Trav, Joshy, Dusty, Miriam (who shares my birthday). I got to debut my new fan because it was huuuuuumid. We weren’t going to be let in because it was closed but Mikey came out and brought us in. This is what it’s like to be friends with industry people. They’re good people and more generous than any other group of people I’ve ever met.
Then to the stoop (Josh’s front yard).
I can’t remember (I never say that) how, but Josh offered his arm and we walked to his building while he told me the story of a trip to Europe at 13 wherein he was taught good manners and how to treat young ladies. It was darling.
The stoop gets more elaborate every time. Josh has decked it out with every herb and giant sunflowers. It has a good energy. Even if the guys pee in the front yard. 🤦🏻♀️
I got in more Andrea time. More Joshy time. More Travis time. More Mikey time. Lots of hugs and kisses and love from Mikey. I might have cried for a second because Mikey and I can say things to each other.
We have a bat signal worked out in case I really need him.
Then to Mikey’s with Andrea and Travis. Travis rode his bike along us as we walked. We went up to the roof and watch the sun rise and paint the Manhattan skyline pink.
Back to Mikey’s room where we discussed assassination/hit methods and Mikey and I kept throwing each other references and catching them. That happens unintentionally. We’re in a room with others and the conversation starts to exclude others. We’re on the same wavelength and vibing. Like jazz musicians.
Mikey is always touched when I pick up on his reference or he on mine. He puts one hand on his heart, and with the other he gestures at me. “This is why I love you.”
I touched the boys a lot. Grabbed their beards and hugged them. There’s just something about them that is sweet and in need of honest affection that has no other end than to convey kindness and caring. They’re so earnest, even in various states of intoxication.
It is so important for me to be able to be kind. It puts me in touch with my soul. This is my church service. A pilgrimage from holy place to holy place.
I’m not going to stop assuming the best about people until they prove otherwise. It means I am vulnerable to disappointment and hurt. I need to be able to take a person as they come, with complexity and weaknesses.
I’m being exposed right now to complex truths about someone I love but don’t have a relationship with at the moment. Unflattering truths that even a mutual friend who is speaking them doesn’t know what he’s revealing to me by saying them. In a single story, the mutual friend illuminates things I didn’t know and shows his ignorance of goings on that fill out this picture of the person I love. I don’t have to do anything about the new information. Except that it’s teaching me how to accept people even when they lie.
Yesterday, before going into the city to get a root canal, I prayed. I asked for signs. Obvious signs. Signs that would hit me over the head. I didn’t want subtlety.
The signs came. A trip to the Gap where I found the same jeans I’d shopped for the night before online for $10 instead of $80. Not getting run over despite walking against the light on Lexington. Barely avoiding stepping on twigs and dog vomit while writing. Other things I lost count of.
And then a man on the train literally saying, “There are signs everywhere. You just have to know where to look.” That’s straight out of the movie Fool’s Rush In. I couldn’t believe it. But also, I asked for obvious. Spirit is cheeky. Spirit knows how to speak my language.
“Ok!!!! I get it!”
On the walk to the gastroenterologist, the skies opened up like a zipper and rain poured down in sheets. I walked the last few blocks getting drenched. A lightning bolt struck across the sky and thunder followed instantly. I laughed. I laughed at the sky and all the invisible powers of good in a state of mild ecstasy. It was beautiful and innocent. I felt the thunder shake my soul of detrius and a light shine from within.
Veneranda Jade 