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November 2, 2014

If I don’t write now, I’m not sure I’ll have a chance later. Maybe trying to reach 400,000 words to date on this blog by December 31 was too ambitious a goal. Writing daily means that ideas don’t much chance to percolate. Ripening ideas tend to be more interesting to me but idea-seeds are necessary steps in the process.


Just finished deleting hundreds of emails, and a bunch of email folders, none of which had been relevant in months, even years.


Has my life ‘amounted to’ much of anything? Hard to say, I guess. By what criteria do I measure?

Here I am an artist, as I always wanted to be, and yet . . . no one has ever heard of me (as an artist). Hardly anyone has seen any of my art, but of those who have, they don’t much care for it. Same thing with my prose and poetry both. I’ve gotten immeasurably better at expressing what I’ve always yearned to express . . . and nobody (still) cares.

Same as my life apart from art really.

I guess I assumed that, at some point, someone would be interested in what I was expressing. Not so far though.

Now that I’ve stopped relying on my 27 former addictions to keep me numb and/or distracted, it really sucks to fully realize hardly anyone cares about me at all. Magical thinking was preventing me from fully understanding that I could drop dead right now and only Spouse would even notice. Everyone else’s lives would be exactly the same.

So I wouldn’t even get the ‘grand send-off’ that P’s relative got. Probably only my in-laws would show up to my funeral, and let’s face it, they don’t know me very well. (Which maybe preserves the illusion that they’d like me if they did know me better.)

I mean, I’d be dead, so I wouldn’t know or care either way. But as a kid who grew up on the idea of Tom Sawyer returning to his own funeral, to see everyone weeping and carrying on, but dimly expecting that it wouldn’t be quite so pleasing in my case… well, it’s painful to see and feel just how little I matter to anyone else.

Maybe I’m just mourning the end of being a daughter child/sibling/etc. If I ever ‘came out’ to my family of origin, I was going to replace Aunt (or Uncle) with Zun, a word of my own devising, to express my fluid sense of gender. It never came up, though, with my brother’s kids, and I can’t even imagine broaching the topic with my in-laws. Only maybe a couple of my aunts ever liked me at all, as far as I could tell, so whether I’m a niece/nephew/or something else, also seems irrelevant.

Cousin, in English, designates no gender at all, which is ideal. Except that I no longer have relationships with any of my cousins. And I have a lot of cousins. You’d think there’d be somebody who would be compatible company.

Like, I’m finally embracing myself in all my glory. But everyone else whom I knew before — when I still hated myself — has all but disappeared. The more I like myself, the more alien I am?

Is potential alien-ness why no one much likes my art too? Or is it just not very good? Such unappealing possibilities.

I don’t even know what to hope for anymore.

The world is changing, and I can find no place for myself in it. Same as it ever was, only I used to think I just hadn’t searched in enough places yet. Now, I don’t know what to think. Except that I’m sad and lonely and would like to be joyful and deft instead.

What to do, what to do?

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