Turning into the Tsunami wearing a Tuxedo

Reading my title I wonder if it sounds like I’m wearing a tuxedo while turning into the tsunami or the tsunami is wearing the tux. either way, it’s cool.

Last night I lay in bed awake like I could play racquetball because I had a chai latte at eight pm and that was a wrong turn Clyde. I didn’t think the caffeine would bother me but these days if I smell coffee I’m out sewing dresses and vacuuming curtains until 3am; it’s just my system.  But last night I had this great easy feeling, no relief, relief of a feeling wash over me that what ever isolation and obscurity that I seem to relish more than my anatomy likes is over; a cycle of life is done, like seeing a thunderstorm end, the hind end of a cloud formation wiping away death clouds and for me, as I’ve mentioned, the last couple of years have been truly face on  gravel lonely.  Finding my birthparents was a big chunk of my life. Unfortunately both of them (living separate lives, at least on a physical plane) weren’t in a place to meet or share; both definitely have their own little junkyards to rummage and it rubbed off on me; getting better at integrating dramas like this into my day to day life so I don’t run off and hide in a cave with some annoyed bears. But  last night it was a relief. Maybe it was Chai babble.  But earlier that evening on the phone with my film producer she said it seemed like I had no friends.  That’s not true;   but I’ve been in a vacuum state, that sort of weird cloud of social purgatory while resetting the bones of my life and I told myself before I move from my loft I was going to get all the crap and dark out on the floor and leave it there; cleaning every closet and walk through whatever sludge and antiquated crap that’s hogged my spiritual-emotional RAM, so to speak.  For the last few days I’ve had one skull bob to the surface in the form of jealousy in mate but twisted to keep me in a bind.  A nasty flashback involving me feeling helpless while everything went right for my partner while everything I touched turned to distilled purified shit.  Twisted in this was the fact we were doing lots of drugs and she didn’t treat me very nicely and I had trouble separating what was truly jealousy versus what was just a black mask of a dark connection that would disappear when she did from my life.  I did leave and it did disappear at least a few feet down. Over the last few days it’s come back in a weird sense of timing right before I’m about to make the leap towards making myself open and known and juicy. So part of me thinks it’s a mind trick, a dumpy illusion to make me feel badly about myself so I don’t try anything. It frightens me when I see these horrid mental smudges that keep me from Love.  And this awful helpless feeling I got years ago of feeling desperate for attention and full of vengeance and wrath came back for a couple of days.  So I keep my promise, sit with it, let it process and stick a filter in it’s mouth so the air around me’s cleaner. I am terrified of living fully most times.  I despise fear. But it keeps a poker near my slender ass to keep me moving forward.  I’ll ride this out.

BTW a friend of mine said that mrleebarton can give off a bit of a 1950’s jack benny maybe a bit showman smug vibe.  The reason I use it is that I have an ambigenderous name and my name is a subset of janet lee barton, a christian romance writer. I’m all for Jesus sponsored orgasms but I’m a man with man parts, unless ovaries are actually inside my scrotum and I have 100 eggs sitting on my vas deferenses like birds on a phone wire waiting for one of my sperm to swing by; if I get pregnant, I’ll know. Point is Mr is to say, Yes, I am Man.

And to Kim, you also have been a mirror that asks to look at the whole reflection and yet, with gentle hands like microsurgery with vines,  heal with kindness and nobility.  Thank you.

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