This is the day after I fractured my foot while climbing down the stairs as I exited the mall after buying a shirt that I will now have to return because it was 1 size too large. This is a mystery. I keep gaining all of this weight, but my clothes sizes are getting smaller and smaller. How is that even possible?

But I was not aware of this as I descended the stairs, somehow landing on the side of my foot on the very last stair and I could immediately tell that something serious had happened. And now I have to go back to the mall to return the shirt even though I was told by the urgent care doctor to stay off my feet as much as possible.

I hope I have learned my lesson. I have so much learning to do. So many things I should have learned at this point in this life this go-round. But who has time to learn anything anymore?

I just have to figure out a way to return this shirt?


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What Where How

What is a person supposed to do when all hope has abandoned them and suicide is not a viable option because even if they are dead, they could not live in death knowing they have caused pain to loved ones? Who has given up hope that some person, place or thing will come to their rescue? What does one do when the rescue party never arrives?

What are the options? How does one keep oneself busy? Where can a person go who really has no place to go? And who has no real will to go anywhere? Or who cannot summon the will on their own to take action of any form? Who has been deadened by isolation and who is too hemmed in by shame to call out for help to anyone?

What is the word for that state of being where you want attention, but you have too much shame to call attention to yourself?

How does a person navigate out of this situation when the walls are closing in all around them? So many many walls.

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A coincidence

“Do you think that if a person (not anyone I would know) is consumed by thoughts of dying and trying to calculate how many days would pass before anyone notices… do you think that’s a sign of depression?” I asked my therapist.

She said if the person who is thinking such thoughts is not dead, then it might be a sign of depression. If that person is dead, then such thoughts definitely are not depression.

And then I asked, “Is it possible that the person who is not dead might die as a consequence of those kinds of thoughts?”

“In rare instances,” she said. “Most of the time it’s considered coincidental.”

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6 to 7 days

Do you think it’s a sign that you might be depressed if you find yourself counting how many days would pass before someone discovers that you are dead? I am guessing it would be about 6 to 7 days. Since my closest (distance wise) friends live about 200 miles away and we never ever speak on the phone and rarely text, I’m not sure when they would notice. And then the closest friends are in Chicago, which is about 1000 miles away. Someone might wonder why I am not responding to texts. And if they are like me, they would probably take that personally and it would never enter their minds that I am no longer of this earth. I don’t think anyone in my apartment building would notice. Maybe until my rent is overdue… maybe the building management might decide to enter my apartment to evacuate it after failed attempts to reach me.

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Valentine’s Day

Roses are wood

Violets are stone

I wish I could save you

From dying alone

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Fool haiku

Such a fool I am.

I don’t want to be a fool.

But I guess I am

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She said, “That’s quite a rut you are in.”

I said, “Thank you. I made it myself. I guess ‘make’ is probably the wrong word. I dug it myself makes a lot more sense. But actually I was hoping you would not even notice it was there.”

She sat there, in the armchair. Staring back at me. Impossible to read.

I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t what to say,” I said.

She continued staring. Or gazing. I guess it was gazing. Gazing continuously for a moment that lasted forever. It was a moment that passed and it made me sad that I would never get it back. It was gone. Gone for good.

She finally said “Why do you look so sad?”

That made me feel so self-conscious. “You’re making me feel so self-conscious,” I said.

She looked away, downward towards the carpet. And she said, “I think I’m beginning to feel self-conscious, too.”

It’s kind of like we’re out on a date, I suggested.

“But didn’t you just tell me you’ve never been out on a date? How would you know?”

I had to think about this. But for some reason, I was having a hard time thinking. And an even harder time pretending I knew how to think. Something about it felt disingenuous. Well maybe not disingenuous. But it didn’t feel authentic. And that made me feel inauthentic.

Finally I said, “I didn’t mean to imply that I’ve never been on a date. But I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date with you.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Unless this is a date,” I added. “Is this a date? Are we out on a date?”

She looked like she was about to answer. But then I was compelled to interrupt. “I guess we are not out of a date. But all of these “is this a date?” “Is this not a date?” questions seem so antiquated, don’t you think?”

“Outdated?” She asked.

“Yes, it seems like we are not out on a date. But it does seem like we are a little outdated.”

And then I said, “I don’t mean that you are outdated. I only meant that we are outdated. But then again how would I know since I’ve never been out on a date?”

“You know more than you think you know,” she said.

“Well, at least that’s reassuring,” I replied. Because it was.


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I’m not sure what the deal is with the past 2 weeks, but I have been in the foulest foulest mood. Irritated at myself. Irritated at people, places and things that are not myself. I just want everything to move as far away from me as possible. Just a few minutes ago, while waiting for the train, somebody stopped to ask me if this was the line for the train to Providence. But I could not hear him very well. Because I wasn’t wearing my hearing aids. Because I was avoiding hearing people. Which can be problematic when I do want to hear people. But I had no idea if I wanted to hear this person or not. At first, I thought he was going to ask me for money so I just shook my head ‘no.’ Then I actually did hear him ask someone else if it was the Providence train. But instead of feeling bad for not helping a stranger,  I thought, that’s presumptuous. Don’t you think it’s presumptuous for a stranger to  presume you can hear them or understand their language?  Muttered English is an entirely different language than spoken English.

And then there’s me. I keep dropping things. And then muttering “fuck!” to myself. If someone made a recording of me in my apartment these days, that would probably be the only word they would hear me utter.

I’m so glad you’re not around to hear it. I hope this is not really me.

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Intentional community

This woman named Fatima contacted me about a possible apartment share. I’m not sure how she found me. Oh yes, it was probably Craigslist. The apartment was in  In Arlington. Everything is in Arlington. So I left the forest and drove to Arlington to meet her and her room-mate Paul who actually was the first occupant of this apartment… of which he modeled on an “intentional community.” When I first arrived, Paul was not there and I was chatting with Fatima, who seemed nice enough, as they say. But then Paul arrived and he was chatting with Fatima and his daughter Yuni or Yooni. And I was listening and after about 10 minutes wondered if Paul would ever speak to me. Finally, out of nowhere, he asked me to describe my “eating style.” I pretended like I knew what he was talking about before I eventually realized he was asking me about my diet. And I guess he was asking because he is a vegan and Yuni or Yooni has only eaten macrobiotic foods since she was in the womb, and was highly sensitive. So they use separate plates and silverware and pots and pans, which makes sense. I said I did not really have a style, but if I did, I would probably be a pescatarian. I think that may have been the wrong answer.

Then Paul asked me what I could only label as a trick question. He said, if I were to get up in the middle of the night to walk from my room to the bathroom, would I wear slippers or go barefoot. I thought about this very carefully because I knew there was a correct answer. I just needed to find it. But then I said, “neither.” and he gave me one of those quizzical looks, the kind of look that founders of an intentional communities might give you. So I explained that I would probably be wearing socks because my feet get cold at night. But this was the wrong answer because socks are more likely to spread dust around than slippers, or something like that. And I don’t think he understood why I would have cold feet. even in the summer. It’s something I’ve never understood either.

At that moment it occurred to me that maybe I was not an ideal fit for an intentional community. I mean,  I can’t think of one thing I’ve ever done in my life that was actually intentional. I live in a world of happenstance. Perhaps I should found a happenstancial community. I bet there would be a lot of interest.


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Have you ever noticed that when you take CBD oil, you get this floaty feeling? Sort of a feeling that you have already died, and now you are ghost hovering the body you once inhabited. Sort of there and not there. I do think about this a lot. That I may already be dead, but there’s a ghost that is trying to correct my many past mistakes and transgressions. I can’t tell if it’s a Holy Ghost or even a friendly one.

*I just discovered that the auto-correct on my ipad insisted on capitalizing Holy Ghost. It just did it again.

****however. Auto-correct does not have any issues with hungry ghost. I’m sure there must be a reason for this.

But what I’m trying to describe is how CBD definitely does not get me high,, and it’s best it gives me a ghostly floating feeling with a calm acceptance that my life does not seem to be going anywhere. And it can probably accept that I will never leave my apartment, or never speak again, or never feel desire, nor ever feel not lonely. CBD just sort of takes the edge off.

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bless you

I’ve been sneezing all day. Like every 10 minutes. Precisely. on the clock. But then I turn on cable trump news and I get sucked into it. And I forget about sneezing. Although I continue to sneeze. I’m just not as conscious of it. And I am grateful for these days where I do not have pneumonia. So grateful. But I sneeze a lot at work and since I work in an open office, there’s no hiding it. Once in a while someone will call out “Bless you!” which is always a surprising because somehow I’ve never connected office work with any higher power who could bestow such a blessing. I just read that “bless you” may have originated in Rome during a time of bubonic plague… and I guess the plague caused a lot of sneezing. I never knew that. Did you?  Pope Gregory suggested that a tiny prayer after a sneeze would protect that person from death. So the next time I sneeze at work, in a few hours, and someone says “bless you!” I will send them a thank you note for protecting me from death. Maybe I could add “I hope I did not put you out of your way. Sorry for any inconvenience.”

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Today’s the day. The anniversary. 3 years. 3 years in exile. trying to remain hopeful, but so far i don’t see any concrete signs.  i see lots of concrete but none of it speaks to me. But really, how much longer do I have to live this way. I want to live a long long time. but not like this. some humans are not built to be alone.

If I could just see a flicker of hope for better things ahead. i don’t even care if it’s a false hope. why nitpick?


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I forgotten

The thought of you on another train on Christmas Day in 2018. A solitary resident of the Quiet Car. But it was never your intent to be so quiet. It was never your intent to be alone. Never your intent to fear connecting while at the same time yearning for it. What happened? How did you become the way you are? How did you reach this place? What trickery of the universe brought you here?

You’re not sure why you are going to New York. To reawaken something dormant perhaps. To shake up your infrastructure. Possibly. For someone apprehensive to leave the cocoon, it’s strange that this is where you are going. Or maybe New York is the perfect place. So many others living in so many other cocoons

You carry this hopelessness on your back. A weight you are trying to shed and you’re not quite sure how you will shed it. It needs shedding, doesn’t it? Hopelessness. If you were not alone you might feel differently. Or you would have other things to think about. Anything would be welcome. when was the last time that happened? Probably a month ago. In Chicago. When was the last time you actually laughed? It must have been in Chicago, too.

You worry way too much. Oh how you worry! Especially about being forgotten. Everybody you know is preoccupied with something or other. How much do they think about your existence? There may be 1 or 2. You may be thought of nostalgically. Reminding people of a time and a place that reminded them of you or that you reminded them about. But that time and that place are not you. That’s the big fear. That you will be completely forgotten until it’s too late.

Gosh you wish you could think about something else. You wish someone would write something else about you. But that will probably require a little research. Because you’re difficult to track down. Predictable but unfindable.

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Sometimes I feel like my neediness will swallow the world and there will be nothing left but shadows of crumbs. And then my neediness will sweep those up, too.

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It was freezing today. Not outside. But inside. I couldn’t do anything. I started out with good intentions. Well maybe not that good, but definitely intentions. I thought I would venture out to one of the 2 new ‘recreational’ marijuana stores that just opened in Massachusetts. I had what I thought was a simple goal of buying CBD/THC oil and THC pain cream, but neither of the stores had any in stock. Or I would not know for certain if they had it in stock without waiting in line for 2 hours since no one answers their phones. I then spent 3 hours at my computer researching the differences between CBD and terpenes and if they were better in combo. I realized that I really needed to find an authority on this, someone other than a stoner 20 year old working the cash register. So my quest for a store that was not a smoke shop took another 1 or so of research before I was overcome by a heavy fatigue. And took an hour and half nap.

Then I decided I really needed to step out of my head rather than work on planning a Montreal trip, especially since I could not even decide which travel guide to buy or where I should buy it. I still don’t know.

I ended up going to the movies, The Favourite, which I did not understand at all.  even though my hearing aids amplify the sound more than adequately, for some reason British accents sound all blurry. This is the 2nd movie in 2 weeks where this has happened, the other a Harry Potter spin-off with British actors.  I wonder what can be done about this. My hearing. Not the Brits. I think actors should be able to find work regardless of their accents. Don’t you?

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