cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

three things

pub triptych

I thought I lost my Sensa pen. Remarkably it had not been stolen when my car was broken into; so many other little things were. It is the last thing I have from someone who was once a major influence in my life. I write with this pen every day, now that I've found it again.

My wallet is a bit of handcrafted leather that I bought in Vancouver the day after the MSG's birthday last year. The artisans of Indian Summer Leather make lovely bags, as well.

And of course, the beer is a Newcastle.

"pub triptych" by cygnoir

._.-.

In my dream, I met Dave Eggers. I was being held hostage in my house by thugs from the future who had traveled back to my time to force me to do certain things for them, which things exactly were unclear. At one point, I was glancing out my window through sheer curtains and I saw a party going on in the house across across my backyard. Dave Eggers was glancing out that house’s back window and our eyes met. It wasn’t a romantic moment at all; I quickly moved and hoped he hadn’t seen me because I was sure the thugs would find a way to punish both of us.

But he came over, climbing through one back window and then the other, and I tried to be very nonchalant while still freaking out about this whole time-traveling thug business, and that seemed to work because we ended up spending the rest of the day together, mostly picking apart the books on my shelves and talking about photography. He was flirting with me a little, which felt both nice and uncomfortable.

When he asked me about my ring, I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then I followed his glance to my left hand and there was a wedding band. “O, he’s dead,” I replied, and suddenly had a vision of the MSG’s funeral, and that’s when I made myself wake up because I knew going further would just upset me.

This is why I shouldn’t read books about dead spouses. But I have been devouring The Dogs of Babel since it came to me by happy accident (read: donation we can’t use) yesterday in the library. The protagonist is a linguist with a Rhodesian Ridgeback; how am I supposed to put this down?

._.-.

Therapy yesterday was strange. We ended up talking about a subject that I didn’t know was so upsetting to me until we were right in the middle of it. I have had this pattern of pretending like everything is all right with a friend or lover, even when it isn’t, and then one day either laying it all out for the person – which never, ever goes well – or simply never speaking to the person again. Repress, then explode or disappear.

I think this is intimately connected to my defensive reaction pattern. I am convinced that if I bring up issues with a person, that person will counter by striking through my issues with a big red pen, rendering them invalid. I have not internalized the concept that two people can disagree and both be right. I do not know how to confront people without hurting them to the point that they go away. Disappearing is easier.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

∞