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ends abound

December 30, 2014

Wasn’t able to turn in both sets of keys to the old apartment because office for old apartment inexplicably closed Monday. Note on door did not indicate if they would also be closed Tuesday, so I’ll have to drive over, again.

The Moon, caught up in clouds, is catching my eye out the window.

Great swaths of my life feel in limbo, at least until the old year passes. Eight hours of sleep last night felt like 12, but I woke up only remembering something about Hungary, about translating from Hungarian into English. {My friend T is from Hungary.}

I’ve decided to do nothing about X.

Winter Holiday card that I mailed to Australia on 12.4.14 still hasn’t arrived. That’s annoying. Especially since I hoped it would cheer up the recipient, who has gone on to need a lot of cheering up in 3+ weeks.

I want to work on wasp witch, so I can resubmit it next month, but it wants me to wait until the year changes over. It’s hard to refrain from trying to write poetry, but I have managed it so far.

I’m going to have to end my relationship with the Indiana credit union where the bulk of my savings has been residing since 2002. Because I rarely use the account these days, they’ve been charging me $5 per month, which is a lot more than I was earning in interest. So I’ve been paying them to keep my money for me. I didn’t transfer the money over to a bank account in Maryland when we first moved here because I thought Indiana could use the money, needed the resources for the community, more than I needed the liquidity. I’ve been waffling for months about what to do because I didn’t want to end such a long-term relationship. But it’s time.

KJ apparently retired in August, and moved back to Missouri. Spouse and I never got out to Charlottesville to visit him. I had intended we should. His blog had posts almost every week about friends from far away coming to visit, and K and his wife hosting them, showing them the sights. So I put out feelers for Spouse and I to come out. The response was a guarded, “yeah, I could spare you an hour or two on a Saturday”. I was mortified, heartbroken. He was the best guy friend I’d had in years. He wasn’t just my friend when we worked at the same environmental agency in Indiana, but we were in grad school together. He and I partnered on a big project; it won a substantial prize at the local GIS conference that year. A whole ‘nother chapter of my life . . . has vanished as if it never was.

After 15 years of buying desk calendars from We’Moon, this year I bought something small, of recycled paper, from our local independent bookstore. Much as I love/have loved the art in We’Moon, I don’t love that male energies are not welcome. I don’t fit within that ideological community anymore, and haven’t for a while.

Finally got around to re-mailing the gender diversity information I’d originally sent to my doctor in November (but it bounced back to me as undeliverable). Hopefully it will arrive this time.

I never have decided what I want to hear from AROHO about the Retreat next year. Maybe because I’m fairly certain they are going to reject me anyway, rather than admit me as a known nonbinary person. I feel torn because I would like to hear what Diane Gilliam would say in her presentation, about her Gift of Freedom process. She was in my small group. Her poetry was a little . . . too Christian for me . . . and I never could quite figure out why I found her so annoying, so I worked at overcoming my prejudice (whatever it was). She recommended interesting poets to me to read. I read her book, Kettle Bottom, with trepidation — and loved it. Everything she’s written for AROHO emails has been intriguing. I want to hear more. I’d also like to see at least some of the (other) women I met again.

Ghost Ranch itself, New Mexico itself, we have unfinished business. There is no doubt that they will welcome me when I return. It’s only AROHO that I wonder about. Would the people I met, and liked, shun me, if I’m allowed to return? My track record on ‘coming out’ to people . . . does not reassure me.

I feel like an unlovable monster again. Maybe that’s Loki.

I like monsters. I can relate to them. They make more sense to me, often, than neurotypical people do. If they want to eat you, it’s nothing personal: they’re hungry; they’ve got kids to feed. They’re just trying to get by, live their lives, like anybody.

I want to write joyful things from a Loki perspective, but that’s decidedly not the wyxzi I’m in right now. I’m feeling mournful, heavy, dreary.

Dreams are dying all around me. My own dreams.

I know these things need to happen. Are long-overdue even. But they’re still painful.

What will replace them remains unknown. How soon I might feel hopeful again? I have no idea. I don’t know anything.

Which nicely sets me up for my theme for Creative 2015.

More waiting. More sitting tight. More not-knowing.

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