and float.

I beg you to let me keep my position in the sky. I am venus the planet; the first red dot in the sky. 

I don't want to cause anybody pain. Please let me float. 

and sink. and float. 

First session

I'm trying out Better Help and the first session was today. There is a feature when you sign into your account where you can make journal entries that your therapist can then see. What I wrote ended up sounding bloggy, so I am putting it here as well:

Met with Dante (hi Dante :) and had a successful introduction conversation. Dante was chosen by Laura because he (unsure of pronouns) is a queer ally, and presumably identifies as queer, which is an effective way to narrow the field and increase the odds of finding a therapist who might be a good match. While queerness is not a requirement in order to provide me with effective therapy, clicking that box is a way to filter out any potential candidates who might not understand or agree with queer identities. At the very least, it all but guarantees that I will not be matched with an evangelical christian, a white nationalist, or even a doddering old fiscal conservative.

He looked 22 in his profile icon. Not a problem. Even a normal and organized young adult probably has insights, advice, or experiences to share which might prove helpful if we are able to listen to each other and get on the same page. I entered the session with the primary hope simply being that I would be able to present myself with clarity and impart the maximum amount of relevant detail in the time given so that he can start to develop a picture of who he's dealing with.

I thought it went well. The fewer expectations I have going into something, the more likely it is for the result to be interpreted as a success. Dante started off strong with assurances that no topic would be taboo or off limits. He would not be offended or put off by uncomfortable topics, and he would remain actively aware of how his words or delivery might affect me. That's a great start, but little does he know I'm easy: I am almost impossible to offend, and I am comfortable talking about any subject. I accept constructive criticism, and even invite it.

I picked up that Dante studied theater, and thus might share common ground with other LGBT theater folks with whom I have interacted. I have a construct for that. He let slip that he holds a masters degree. In... being good at communicating ? a masters in something more therapy-y? In whatever case, I did not detect that this information was designed to impress me, but rather as a simple statement of fact. It's possible that he thinks I might view this therapy platform as somewhat less legitimate than a brick and mortar outfit, and he wanted to mention the degree just as a subtle "no no... I know what you might have read, but this is the read deal" sort of thing. There are not enough facts or evidence to draw conclusions about any of this - and I wouldn't care one way or the other - but maybe if Dante knows what I noticed and was thinking about him, it might somehow assist with his ability to create what his brain thinks is a fair and accurate portrait of me.

I wonder what he might think if he knew how carefully I selected these words, and how long it took me to proofread and comb through this journal entry before saving it. It will be clear that I am making an effort to sound smart. But throwing in the less formal stuff and the gray-area English no-no's will soften the edges... make it sound less like it was typed up by a pedantic prick. He probably won't pick up on the subtle undercurrent of dry humor though. At least not at first. It is almost impossible for me to write anything which doesn't end up becoming a carefully crafted absurdist comedy bit. Even if I am only amusing myself! Even when I am almost sure to muddy the waters and be misunderstood! ...which then only amuses me more! I did not give in to the urge. These words are on the rail. For the sake of practicality. Because we just met.

Invisible goons in Pittsburgh.

I’m happy. I’m in Pittsburgh in the morning at an Einstein Bagel place alone. I feel like a guy getting away with something - like this minor indulgence would get me judged by persons unknown, but they can’t find me cause I’m in Pittsburgh. 

The thought of those invisible unknown persons amuses me and pleases me, but I simultaneously recognize that the feeling of persons unknown judging you is probably what people feel when they are secretly running away from practically everything. 

I tell myself that I don’t care what other people think of me, but why then am I imagining these invisible judgmental goons while I’m eating this bagel? As a matter of plain logic, I know for a fact that nobody cares about this bagel or the fact that I got strawberry cream cheese on it. 

I prefer the framework where there are invisible goons judging me, but I don’t care because I am a brave hero named Pixy: When I get to Pittsburgh in the morning, I burst through the doors and say “Great!” when asked, and “It’s Brisk out there!” unprompted and “I’m from out of town! I wasn’t ready for this!” just to color it in a little bit more. I order the bagel how I want it, and give my name as Chris after a stuttered second of thought, because they sprang the question on me when I wasn’t ready, and I’m deeply secretly always running away from invisible judgement, and Pixy is a weird-assed name that I dared myself to adopt and wear like a proud badge on a guy who definitely doesn’t care what anybody thinks.

at times like this I get close.

Money doesn’t do it for me. Sometimes I wish that it did. I’m not paying rent and I’m still broke. I’m uncomfortable. Laura pays when we go out and it’s been a year since I was generous. I’ve been hoping for two years that woodworking will pull me out of the weeds. I’ve been hoping for magic that hasn’t happened yet.

I want to keep doing what I’m doing but I don’t want the pressure. I don’t want to feel like I’m failing. I want this to feel natural and I want to know that it’s okay for progress to be slow. I want to be reassured that my strange looking progress is my process. I want to make $16,000 a year and not break down crying when I’m not sad. I do not wish for average typical brain functioning but at times like this I get close.

I want that to be the whole thing.

I’m still doing that thing where your human body is violin strings. Besides that I’m getting better at wood working. I’m in my shop that’s two out of three bays in my mom’s garage in Kennett. I’m listening to the Sandhills EP by Toro y Moi and it isn’t anything like I expected. I love this.

I made a table for Kyler. He asked for something that would fit his drink. I made it and I am proud of how it turned out.

I got back from the Appalachian Trail with Jonas on Monday. Seven days and fifty miles or something like that.

I want to be warm and make stuff and have that be ok. I want that to be the whole thing.

Alcohol Use Disorder and my experience with Disulfiram after three weeks.

I like the term "alcohol use disorder." It sounds vague and impersonal. Unlike the term "alcoholic" it doesn't seem to imply guilt or require a disclaimer about what amount of shame should or shouldn't be felt. It's abbreviated AUD. Clean and clinical. You can read about it in the DSM-5.

I've been calling myself an alcoholic for decades, the same way I've been labeling myself as having ADHD, all while knowing that neither one of these labels paints a precise picture. Both terms are just common shorthand for a complex personal situation. I could go on about this for hours.

I asked my doctor to prescribe to me the drug which makes a person violently ill if they drink alcohol. It used to be marketed under the name Antabuse, but the name of the drug is Disulfiram. I'm taking it.

The most slippery aspect of quitting has always been impulsivity. Whether you want to celebrate or mourn or you simply feel tickled by an inkling, it all goes better with booze. I am a person who cannot be told what to do. I will not fall in line easily. I mutter or exclaim the phrase "fuck everybody, fuck every thing" constantly like a mantra. Even when it's me giving the orders to myself, and those orders are given with good intentions about preserving my health and wellness, I rebel. Nobody, including myself, can keep a beer out of my fucking hand if I want a beer in my fucking hand right now. 

If there is one thing I hate more than being told what to do, it is feeling sick. I become a big baby if I feel so much as a sniffle. Disulfiram makes you sick if you consume even a small amount of alcohol. Proper boozing could be dangerous or fatal. Disulfiram has the capacity to cause a possible reaction for up to two or three weeks after you stop taking it. I take it every morning. 

This is the easiest time I have ever had after a quit, because the insidious insistence of impulsivity is absent. Consuming alcohol today would be approximately as logical as smashing my toes with a hammer.

From what I've read on the matter, there seems to be unanimous consensus that while treating AUD with medication has shown overwhelmingly positive results, the treatment should always be accompanied by counseling and support. I have as yet sought no such support, because I am busy and I'm sick of people telling me what to do.

66 and die

When you ask a person for specifics, you are asking for closeness. You have indicated that you heard them. You can divert your eyes ; demure. 

They are touching your arm ;  

You kiss them. 

You live until 66 and die

before i find peace.

I’ve let myself get bashed apart over and over. I stood back and watched like it was an experiment. The ocean dulls the sharp edges of glass, and similarly I hope my curiosity and compassion don’t break me to pieces before I find peace.

belong to one another.

My hand is a wide flat toad resting on the wheel. Look at your hand on the wheel. If you see a wide flat toad let me know. Our hands might belong to one another.

shields are up.

 I try to put ethics first. And logic. I’ve always kept that close to my heart. 

I’m happy with what I’ve seen and who I’ve shared time and energy with. I’ve done well on that. 

Through all of that though, my idealism has taken a hit. Shields are up. 

Outerspaceplace

It’s unlikely I’ll return to the same reality where we first met.  If we haven’t yet met, it feels entirely possible we will meet some day in outerspace. 

fully electric

I haven't talked for real here in a long time. I tell myself it's for ethical reasons. Part of me is convinced I can't do justice to what I've seen. I want to quit being shut up and shut down. Sunsets and joy and pain are what I've seen. 

In the time since I quit talking, I've been with women. I had a wife and some other weird shit. Sex with a good man one time, and I sincerely wish that had gone better. There is nowhere to begin but here. 

A story. How do I pick one.

Electricity between humans. Here is a story I can tell. Electricity and space and skin. It isn't electricity exactly, but there isn't a word for the energy which exists. There are people among us who feel energy. There are people who pump it out like a firehose, and they don't even know it exists. I was a bystander until I pulled the thread and took a $10 24hr long Mega Bus trip on a whim. 

I felt the energy and she knew I felt it. Only for a second. I wasn't trying to feel it, but I am open as wide as a book with a broken spine. I felt it for one second flat. It isn't worth anything, but I was there when it happened. Fully electric.

 Bicycle is the only thing. Please only keep remembering bicycle 

Van advice

When you aren’t sleeping in a van your life is less pure. Every day can be crisp and real ; stethoscope to the beating heart of earth. If you try a tent the cops might fuck it up.

start a business

Prone and alone. Lime green in a mean mist. 

I’m an emotional short circuit ; bent, ruined, almost ok

The plot is in the title. No preferred frequency shakes me. My feet will flatten 55 gallon drums. 

I finished my first table.

I need a new way to make money. I decided to double down on woodworking last year. Now I'm prying open my Roth IRA to pay off my credit cards, so the money had better start flowing in soon. I've put what amounts to a herculean effort (for me) into acquiring the skills and equipment that I thought would be necessary to start a new woodworking/table-making business. I've been dabbling in wood for years, but took it full steam ahead last August. I've been working steadily, and I have almost nothing to show for it. Except for this one table.

It didn't take me since August to make one measly table - I've been working on dozens of them. I get the table tops to a mostly finished stage, and then I put them in one of several stacks of mostly-finished table tops. Dozens. Some of them have an issue which needs to be corrected, but mostly I put them aside because of a spontaneous visceral need to start a new and different one.

The plan seemed so simple: build and sell tables. People do that. I can learn how to be one of those people. The goal still seems logical and achievable, but I have yet to gain any traction. What I do have are dozens of artistically rendered table tops; projects which can be re-kindled and completed. This is only the first one. 

I won 1500 bucks

I was in LA 32 days ago rolling off a two-day sober stint. They were supposed to roll tape two weeks earlier. Two weeks earlier, I was ready. I was practically wearing a bow tie and annunciating. But I got a last minute call that filming was on hold, and two weeks passed.

I ate that slim $12 burrito and watched planes land.

As the sun went to a beautiful low angle, I walked past a burnt out homeless encampment under a highway bridge and felt unsettled. An hour later I recognized that what I had seen was a mistake rather than an attack; the way the tents and equipment were arranged spoke of an accident. Why hadn’t I processed those telltale details before? They were ok.

I had a fuckload of margarita and a shitty quesadilla and then pasted a dispensary address into Uber. The dispensary was mid-level sketchy, and that would be a whole story, but I wiggled my way into the best blunt I have ever seen.

The next day I met Jay Leno and I won 1500 bucks,

in LA

Landed in LA a couple hours ago. My luggage is an Aldi shopping bag that fits the criteria for free and can easily fit my shit for three days. I dropped the bag at the hotel and walked toward the first taco tent I could find. 

The area I’m staying is in the middle of the airport industrial shit. I marched forcefully down the sidewalk like I might grab the day right out of itself and wear it like a shawl. 

I sat on a plastic bin set up for seating next to the taco grill. The whole setup was under two blue pop-up tents that billowed lightly in the breeze. I stretched that moment until it snapped. For that moment it was perfect. I might catch one more before I fly back, but more than likely I won’t.

A good damn line.

Stopped at Wawa for a coffee and a pre-made breakfast sandwich. When my card was declined twice, two separate people in line leapt forward to say “I got it.” Now that’s a good damn line.