drab, deep mauve

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On the way back from the hospital on Monday I bought a fish, one fish, a sanma (pike mackerel). It cost me 47 cents.  How economical it is to live alone! That was tonight’s dinner, with brown rice and miso soup from a packet.  The cats hovered annoyingly.
Finished the Horney book.  I still haven’t figured myself out entirely (or even remotely), but I have figured out a few other people and that’s interesting.
My apartment is so hot the back of my neck is sweating.
I’m full of love, but afraid to put it anywhere.
Now I have some assignments so I am going to do my assignments.  I’m not sure why I needed to tell you that, or for that matter any of this.  I’m chatty. I like talking.  The snow is in big Seusslike clumps on the hedges, the sky a drab, deep mauve.

rhyming poem

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To leave two wives
In pursuit of baser drives
And two sets of cats
Just like that
What a poor cohort
Who offers no support
O big-cheeked damsel –
Unlike me, still menstrual ­–
With my former mate
Think twice before you propagate
Lest he leave you high and dry
Tending to his infant’s cry

Our Inner Conflicts

Drew gave me a copy of Karen Horney’s _Our Inner Conflicts_ for my birthday, perhaps for obvious reasons… and one thing I have to say is that I wonder why her name is pronounced “Horn-eye” just as I wonder why the new speaker of the house is “Bay-ner”… I mean come on, these are silly victorianisms; they make one think even harder (pun intended) of the salaciousness of the more logical pronunciations.

In any case, Horney posits three types of neurotic responses; compliance (moving toward others), aggression (moving against others), and detachment (moving away from others). In a neurotic person, one of these modes may be dominant, and others repressed. That repression brings about conflicts.

As with any psych book, reading it I am trying to figure out hmm well which one am I? I am having a hard time with my self-diagnosis. I can figure out pretty easily that Guy A is a compliant type with repressed aggression, that Guy B is a detached type also with repressed aggression, and that Guy C is almost a case study of aggression with some repressed compliance, but it’s a bit harder to diagnose my own neurosis according to her taxonomy (why is it always, I wonder, // three// categories?). We don’t really see our own issues clearly, do we. I imagine that I am also a combo of compliant and aggressive, but in a different ratio than Guy A, and with a quite different presentation. Drew? Nick? Kim? Kim? What do you think?

One notion of Horney’s that I find most fascinating and also most depressing is that we neurotics carry within us an image of our idealized selves that is illusory but based in reality. This depresses me because that means we have a world full of people walking around thinking we are really hot stuff but that’s just a kind of mirage/ coping mechanism and doesn’t really reflect how we really are.

This reminds me of my appt yesterday with my bodyworker. I told her that I’d been feeling a sense of surreality and disconnection, and that I wasn’t at all sure who I was (am) anymore. She asked me when I feel “a sense of connection to my true self” and it’s a good thing I didn’t stop to parse that, because how odd, right, that “I” might be something other than “myself” (let’s just put Rimbaud aside for a moment, shall we?), and how odd also that a “true” self might be something we can be “connected to”, or not. I didn’t think too hard about it, but I did find it hard to answer. Eventually I said

–when I’m performing
–when I’m in connection with others
–when I’m making something

But notice: all of these are about engagement with something other than myself. It follows that whatever I’m experiencing as “true self” is not an independently existing phenomenon, but a relational “being” which therefore isn’t rooted in essential “truth.”

Also it follows that, if this is so, a breakup of a love relationship is about the most uprooting and destabilizing things that can possibly happen to someone like me who conceives of “self” in this relational way. You could tell me a thousand times that the jewel is in the center of the lotus, but I would object that the stems and leaves and roots are all under the murky pond, well-connected to other blossoms in a network of interdependent life, and without that, what is a jewel good for? OK, well, still, shit happens. We are cut, we re-graft, we grow new roots and new connections… but the limbo period…is almost indescribably confusing… and it hurts… like… hell!!!!!!!! (eight exclamation points)

good news/bad news

The good news is, my jaw is 100% healed.  Yay!

Bad news is, I took Nemo to the vet.  He hates going to the vet.  According to the doctor, it seems he may be OK, since what I saw was digested blood (dark brown) and not fresh blood. He is having bloodwork done; I’ll get the results tomorrow.  If he’s OK, and I hope he is, then I will still need to take Dante.

Charge just for Nemo:  $184 plus $17 car service RT = $201.

Just saying.

i cooked

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a variety of curries:  Indian, Thai, Japanese, biryani, a kind of garlicky clam noodle soup, beef stew,
cappelini or linguine with sardines or salmon, rattatouile, lamb chops
with chutney, pike mackerel Japanese style, with daikon, broiled whole
sea bass, chili, Mexican chicken soup, butternut squash soup, broccoli
chceddar soup, salads with arugula, salads with spinach, salads with
apples and goat cheese and pecans, greek salads, Italian salads,
Belgian salads with fried eggs, cha-han, kara-age, salmon, rice, brown
white and mixed with barley, trays of roasted vegetables, whole
roasted chicken, even turkey, twice, zaru soba, guacamole, trays of

beautiful h’ors d’ouevres for our parties….

what does she cook? 

he doesn’t cook.

One of the cats is vomiting dark blood.  I don’t know which one.  I’m very concerned.

Kirkland, Washington, who are you?  Jill? Why do you keep coming here?

Dream that I was trying to view some sort of spectacle (a singing contest? yes, maybe a singing contest… I had wanted to enter.  I wanted to sing back in the USSR, that was it) from the window of a house, was it my house?  A guy I love was in the house, at a couple of moments he walked through the room naked or almost naked, but with some kind of fetish apparatus around his cock. Chains or leather or cloth, I don’t remember.  And maybe something in his nipples?  I don’t remember.  But he avoided me.  He was on another floor of the house.  He twice came to talk to me when I had some kind of heavy tape on my lip.  I was trying to remove my moustache? Humiliating. I was trying to assemble a low chair in front of the attic window, it seemed easier than going down into the crows.  I mean crowds. Maybe it was too late to actually enter the contest. And then I was going with my mother somewhere… outside the house… a shady street covered with yellow plums that had fallen, almost making a carpet, some of them rotting, and an old Saddhu guy eating the plums under the trees… back roads, green, narrow, like the American south… but it surely was in Asia. I don’t remember where we were trying to go.  Too much I don’t remember, I should have written it down earlier. The morning is too weird and too quiet, as the nights are, too.

Will an ice queen emerge from today’s enchanto-scape? Trees like churros in the turquoise morning. I imagine her nipples as dark brown (not the ice queen); mine are pale. Scratchy woolen scarf rubbing on my scar. Legs a little open on the train this morning, in glitter lavender wool tights. The men keep their legs //really// wide open and I hate them for that among other things. I guess it was all those sisters, lined up in a row in identical outfits, that made her a poacher with a daddy complex. Their various homelinesses and vulgar ruched strapless wedding outfits like some dumb poster one sees in the subway for a cable tv show? How can he be happy in that world of Texas party glitz, or for that matter in any world at all? Who’s in hockessin Delaware? My eyeglasses teeter on my middle-aged nose. Someone coughs in the other room.


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