A poem of mine just won this contest and was selected to be published in this book and I get to do a reading at the Grounds for Sculpture! I can do it. I can do it. I can do it. Things are looking up.

Well so I guess I’m starting to own my own shit. I told Tannwen and Reuwai that they could either hire me as their official Terhune’s photographer or I could just keep my photos to myself. Basically. In a nicer way than that. I’m proud of myself. But still feel icky. I hate asking for things.

But how is it that the girls who are demanding and controlling of their partners always seem to strike this bizarre balance within their relationships where the guys listen? I always try so hard not to not seem demanding and try so hard to be a pleaser and I always get walked all over for it. And my relationships end because basically I am getting no respect at all. And the ones who demand all the time are getting respect. Where is the middle ground? I want to treat someone right. Fairly. Like an equal. And be recognized for the fact that I am doing so. Not be taken more advantage of because I’m nice. Relationships have gotten me so utterly bamboozled I just want to throw it all away and say fuck it all and fuck how you all think relationships are supposed to go. I don’t give a shit.

I just want to keep trusting my heart and following it down the dark and dusty paths it always leads me.

I hate that guys keep wanting to keep me in this little box.

I wish there was a simple answer. I wish there was a clear way to swim out.

The creative path is a delicate relationship with yourself. I reject that there is only one way. A thousand voices tell me that only practice makes perfect and that I have to scrutinize each syllable and that if I focus and meditate and write every day for 9 hours…that is the only way. And in college Kathryn Petersen made me write everyday…forced…and it psychologically ruined it all for me. Anyone who is touting that there is one way down the creative path is kidding themselves. Or is too self-involved in their own process to recognize that everyone’s process is a delicate ecology of psychological magic. We have to carefully cultivate our own souls. Soak in life into every pore of our body, mix it with blood, stain it with heart rhythms and murmurs, let it sink through our flesh, bounce through the rims and canyons of our eyes and just fly out of our irises. Just rip the band-aids off and breathe out that strange, spinning inner world that is swallowing you whole. Stop making me feel guilty for not walking your path. My path is my own, and it is right in itself. And it is chaos and creation in the backyard. And it is a thousand times more enjoyable than sitting and staring at a screen trying to pluck words out of your eyebrows. Just live and wait until the words are boiling inside your fingertips so scorching-ly hot that you can’t possibly keep them inside any longer. Then just fucking bleed. I guess Hemingway and I feel the same way about that.

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