Moon Memo: February is the worst month
Good morning from the frozen wastes of Southeast Portland, Oregon. It's cold, and I'm unemployed, and I'm feeling stuck inside.
Didn't get my dream job. Just as well. I probably would have been too publicly trans for a world that is looking to erase me right now. Maybe it's time to go small.
Maybe it's time to make the world smaller around me. Find my crew, and keep it at its level, instead of being a heroic public tranny (very inappropriate slur...do not use unless you are trans and even then, well...). Who has time for saving the world?
Birthday was lovely. 21 people crammed into my living room watching The Elephant Man. Then wandering the city with Jade, eating dumplings. How blessed am I? How delighted and wonderful.
Spent the week after my birthday writing poems. Set a goal for 3 poems a day. So far, that has means 16 new poems. That's half a months worth in 5 days. I'll share some at the end of this memo.
New notebooks. Finished my daily carry notebook, and am now in the next one. Took some of my birthday money, and turned it into a hobonichi techno. Little pocket sized planner with daily pages. Nice to write in during the early morning, and figure out what to do each day. Too expensive. But that hasn't stopped me before.
Keep battering myself against other bodies, trying to feel alive. Feeling bad about that. I hate that. I want to just enjoy sex, but then I feel selfish and empty.
I feel selfish and empty all the time right now. I hate that my good feelings about myself are tied up in work. Being productive. It's sick what we've done to ourselves. That we are doomed to define ourselves in capitalism.
Of course, everything happening Out There. The absolute disdane for us. The absolute hatred of us by power. No wonder all my friends want to abandon this place. I'm here out of spite anymore. Spite, and the small bits of community that I feel.
Of course, that's breaking up. M is leaving. E is probably leaving soon enough. G is dead. This feels sadly like the end of something, and I'm not sure what is coming next. Just keeping on the page, and the screen, trying to write my way out of it.
46 years old. 9 years after my world fell apart. You think I'd know what I'm doing at this point. Feeling stuck again.
What a fucking downer. Well, you are subscribed to this nonsense. Feel free to unsubscribe if you can't handle snow day sadness.
Try to be good to yourselves. I see you out there trying. I'm very proud to be your friend. Keep trying. Keep trying. Keep trying.
Misha
