Dear Fellow Member of Society,
Here we both are, swimming upstream in this. I do not know where you need to spawn. I do not care. That’s not my business. We will both eventually die in the abyss.
I am sorry my arbitrary set of rules and regulations I have created for myself and crystallized my behavior around conflicts with yours.
I realize in the grand scheme of things neither of them matters more than the other. It doesn’t really matter if there’s space for pedestrians in front of you or behind me or if someone’s in the intersection or if someone has eleven items in a line at a checkstand or if you aren’t carpooling or if you don’t cover your mouth or whatever fifty years from now when I’m dead or dying. I won’t care then. But right now I’m caught in minutia because they give me the illusion of control over something, just something, anything, a slippery sense of falling off into the void, and you got in the way. You got in the way of my feeling powerful over loss of ego. Ego is really what I need to lose.
I am sorry if I made you feel less that the amount of respect other human beings deserve. I’m working on it, but sometimes I need to work harder than others. I am sorry if I hurt you.
I had a swell of fear tonight and had to call someone for help with it. There was no real reason for the fear. No new information that would lead me to be afraid. I’m not sick. No possessions of mine have broken. I’m not in a jam with school. I have no new problems to face. Just regular, run of the mill fear swirling its skirts around me, laughing and hissing and spitting while it talks.
It told me I was terrible at the thing I want to do most in this world today. It told me I have No Business Writing Anything Ever. Stop it, Seer. Give it up, girl. There’s no point! You’re terrible. The worst.
I called someone pretty soon to help me get out of the spin. He helped. Within twenty minutes, we got me out of the ditch.
I think the thing that fueled this doubtfest was a bit of extremely positive information about my work that someone gave me the other day. Crazy, right? What happened: Someone tells me they like what I do, and that they want to help me put my shit into the world. I ride high for a couple of days. Hey, I’m good at this! There is a place for my work in print! Huzzah. Then for a day I feel nothing. And then KABLAMMO I feel like shit and doubt everything I create. Everything I touch turns to shit. It’s all awful.
I have to remember: it doesn’t feel like angels sing when I make good work. That’s not why I do it. And when people connect with my work, they don’t tell me angels are singing in their ears, either. That’s not why I do it, either.
But I’ll be goddamned if I stop doing it because I am afraid. Afraid of what? Let’s see which fears are even real.
Am I afraid that people won’t like me? I have sung that song for too long. I can tell you that living my life according to what I presume people want me to do doesn’t make me happy.
Am I afraid that I’ll be poor? I’ve been poor making good money! When I’m unhappy I spend every dime I have trying to make myself happy. I’d rather have less to go around and be satisfied with my life.
Am I afraid that my work will never find a place in the world? Wheels are already turning to make that happen. Every time I read aloud I connect with at least one person there (that happens for almost everyone at every reading. If you’re reading this and you haven’t tried reading aloud yet, you may want to). And so what if it doesn’t? Some of my favorite writers never found a home for their work in their lifetimes. That doesn’t mean their work wasn’t good. And that bridge is so far away from me right now.
Am I afraid that I don’t have the chops? I got into a school, so I had to get past an admissions committee. My professors think I have chops. I won an award for some poems. (Did I tell that I am an award-winning poet?) So fuck you, fear.
You hear me, Fear? Fuck you! F you in the A! Go home and take a shit! Get lost! Go jump in a lake, you scrote!
not your pal, Fear
If you need something to put in your mouth and chew on instead of fear, BOOM:
I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing……Only I will remain.
And if you need something for your eyes and ears to hear instead of fear, here (Find musician Steven Buck here):
No one can take my honesty, my realness.
God, what a caustic, unpleasant person.
The things she’s thinking could happily live on in her head alone. Unvoiced.
I speak truth to power.
They’re all jealous of me. Jealous!
She’s not as pretty as she acts. For reals, God’s not that pretty.
I’d like to see her without her face on for once–
but then, she doesn’t have the self-esteem to do that in public, does she?
She could really do with a good hot oil. Her roots are a mess, too.
Someone should tell her! I would want to know, were that ever me.
I intimidate women–
that’s why all my friends are men.
The only men that kick it with her are the horny ones; the other ones can’t stand her, either–
the only person she scares is herself.
Moving this way through the world is the only way I don’t compromise myself.
She seems so sad. So lonely. So forced. So affected. So serious.
Every action is a manifesto mixed with a tantrum wrapped in a “Dear John” letter.
Who killed your dog, seriously?
Who killed your fucking life?
Who killed your joy? Remember? When life was fun and
people were happy even around you?
It’s not my fault that no one understands me.
Look, the world owes and will give you nothing. You have to take it.
Reach out. Take it.
So, remember how the other day I said that flirting was all weird? Uh, yeah. It’s a little weird to say it, because in real life, it feels all natural and shit, but it’s only been a week and a half. But this person, this man, is a very, very special human being to me. This is different from any other romance than I’ve ever had. I know, I know, everyone always says that. And maybe they’re right.
Seer has a boyfriend! Seer has a boyfriend!
Someone confessed to me today. I did not intend to be this person’s confessor. But I’m happy to serve that role. I’m good at it. I’m pretty mad myself, so people can tell me crazy stuff and I won’t judge. I’ve done some stuff I’m not proud of, so I’m not too judgmental of other people’s actions. And once I come to love you, there’s not a whole lot you can do about it. I’m just going to love you. I may have to step out of your life if you’re dangerous to me, but I’ll still love you. No backsies.
In talking with said person about person’s self-judgment, I realized my twisted view of morality. At least, I think it’s twisted. Maybe it isn’t. Morality, for me, is fluid. It works for me. And I’m sure there are a lot of contradictions in it somewhere.
I finally got to a yoga class I’ve been meaning to go to for months and months. The teacher was recommended by my teacher in New York. She’s the first teacher in the Bay Area I’ve encountered who’s actually given dharma talk during the class.
Today’s topic was being satisfied. The hungry ghost syndrome. The hungry ghosts are surrounded by a huge feast but they can’t get full because their mouths are too small and their necks too thin, but they have huge stomachs that demand food. They try and try and keep eating and eating and eating, but they can’t get full. She told us that her teacher’s teacher says, “You’re already neck deep in grace.” You just don’t realize it. You keep looking for the next thing and the next thing and the next thing to fill you up, to satisfy you. The next set of letters after your name, the next piece of shiny metal, the next set of numbers in your bank account.
You’ve already accomplished so much. At least, I know I have. I assume, darlings, you have, too.
Please Seer, can I have some more?
It’s spring. Why does it rile the blood so? I don’t know. But it is. Maybe it’s the yoga. Maybe it’s learning the new breathing, and the Uddiyana Bandha, the abdominal lock, while doing death meditations. (Google that one to see what I can do now with my belly! I can suck in all my guts! Whoomp!) But I’m feeling ruffled and prowly. I can’t be the only one, can I?
The other day, I was at a barbeque. All was good whilst my friend Zorro Smitty was there, my other uncoupled friend. It is worth noting that he turns on at parties. He is there to chat people up and dance and drink and eat and be generally in a good space. Me? I will find an encampment and sit. Unless I like the music and feel comfortable. Then I’ll shake a tailfeather. But I don’t like parties unless I know every single motherfucker there. I just don’t. I never have, unless I was loaded to the gills, and I don’t do that anymore.