January is long, isn't it? Long and gray. 

This weekend's reflection on how I never really have changed as a person. I've been in this world with my old writing and it's funny how much it's still my voice. Nothing is in retrograde this week (good news for someone closing on a house on the third); my feeling of symmetry with the past is completely non-planetary. What a relief!

I don't remember if I mentioned; I think I did. I have been in contact with a lot of people from grad school and "the past" in general with Casey's passing (Casey's suicide I can never stop thinking) and in talking to one of them, a friend from the internet circa 2004, she was telling me about her kids and how her life has changed (or rather, not changed) since we spoke last. How did the time go so fast, I asked her. I don't know, I don't know.

I want to write something nice here, or at least something funny and pithy, about my month as it's winding down, but it's been such an unspeakable tangle for me lately. 2023 is not coming on gently. I had the sense that maybe it would be a hard year, especially because 2022 was relatively gentle (speaking comparative to the disaster of 2021), but gosh. If I wasn't distraught about the stupid house, it was Casey, or it was the past, or it was my health, or these shadows. Excuse me, I need to hyperfixate on a story I'm writing about a Jedi right now. 

 The woods were indeed very nice this weekend. The waterfall is flowing with snowmelt, even though there hasn't been any snow down in the city. It's a striking time of year to see it. The water is very clean, cold, and clear, and it looks almost black and shiny in the deep parts. I made a fire and climbed the ridge up overtop of the bend in the river. It was amazing how far you could see from up there. The big shoulders of the ridges are so high, even if they don't feel that way down in the hollow.

Otherwise, I'm feeling slightly depressed and a little surly. I don't want to do the work I have to do, but nothing else sounds very good either. My PM was out all last week, so now I'm sure it will be five alarm fire mode as if I was the one that set everything back. 

 Yes, I'm actually feeling quite better - I even hit my five miles today. I'm feeling pretty skinny from not really eating for almost a week, but it was good to run, even a little bit warm. It was misting lightly, but the crows were out, gathering around my feet. 

I admit, I'm so glad it's almost Friday though. Despite last weekend being a long one, I don't feel like I got any actual weekend part in. Saturday I think I'll even get to make it out to the waterfall. I wish it was spring and I could take off my clothes and swim in it. Last year, I spent so much time in local bodies of water like that. Now I miss it. Beluga day was a bit of a tease. 

I'd like to go out to the woods and look at every little thing and then come back and write about them here. I want to start a fire under an overhang and cook something in the cold. I want to smell hemlock and stomp around. I feel tall right now, and I like it. 

 PS: Bailey is fine. Her "screaming at all hours" issues is apparently  just a fun new activity for her, not medically related. 

 "It's just a year," I said out loud to myself this morning, as I drove the farm roads through the rain to the vet. It doesn't have any fundamental difference than the one that just ended in terms of ominous energy or ill-intent. It's just a year, and I can project on it what I want. Still, I can't shake the feeling of doom and gloom. I'm waiting in the parking lot now, knowing that this might be one of those moments that has a "before" and "after." Cats get old like people. Unlike people, when they get sick, there are choices. I'm hoping this year can spare me any hard choices like that a little bit longer. Anyway, there's no sense getting upset about things that aren't for sure yet.

Still no appetite today, but at least I slept through the night without puking. I really wonder how long this will keep up. I want to go running today, and I feel mostly okay, I just can't eat. I don't really know what to do about it. At least I have saltines. 

Gray, gray, gray. I wish I could write something bright and good here, something that would create a little bubble of happiness. Hey, I'm still here, right?

 

 No, I will never stop barfing, I guess. Up all night again, and now I'm feeling weak and shaky and sleepy. Again. A complete wash of a weekend. 

I ran into my neighbor walking Sven and promptly put my foot in my mouth asking how he was, not realizing the huge military funeral on Thornrose the other week had been for his son's sudden, unexpected death. I'm wondering if this was the same son who had tried to take his own life at the house years and years ago now and ended up with the swat team called, and if he died in a similar scenario. It would be a strange, sad coincidence if we're both grieving the far-reaching, devastating effects of a suicide, even if the circumstances are different, and there is no comparative pain to that of burying a child. Either way, what a rotten start to the year. 

Writing up my thing about Casey has helped, though, on my end. It feels less isolating to talk to people who also knew him and are experiencing the same total shock and horror of this. I was embarrassed to discover, in sending an old poet and friend from Hollins that picture of us all I posted earlier from Festival of the Book, that the friend had messaged me in 2016 and asked to publish my book. I hadn't even bothered to reply. It's no excuse that 2016 was a bad year for me. I apologized to him and explained that I never finished the book, that I was ashamed and embarrassed that I hadn't, and that was the reason for my rudeness. He said my book still has a place at his publishing house, but that I need to hurry, he's getting old. It was a generous answer. 

I'm trying to take that generosity forward into this hard year. To simply apologize if I'm wrong instead of freaking out and avoiding the situation. To check in with more people. To forget slights quickly and practice casual, easy kindness. And I should do something about my book, I guess.

But right now, I need to stop barfing. 

Reader: she was not fine. But after a day on the couch with the dog, I'm finally feeling better. I wanted to watch Bad Batch or something fun and easy because I felt so sick, but what I ended up doing was finally writing up something to share on facebook about Casey's passing, since his family had asked for the details and any remembrances to be shared. I feel like there was a giant egg stuck in my throat, like that bubbled up feeling of needing to cry but trying not to, and now that I said something, I can swallow again. 

I'm physically weak from the illness. I couldn't quite even sit up yesterday, but now I feel the strong need to get up and out, to go to the woods. Last night, I had more weird dreams: that I was in a dream-correspondence with someone, but knew all the while that they hated me in waking life. (That one seems a little obvious.) There was another one that I lived in a little cottage in the woods with a fireplace, and it was Christmas. Another one was about a woman I knew here in town who doesn't like me anymore. In the dream, we were trying to use the same vending machine, and I was trying to make it not awkward, apologizing for the dislike, and trying to get out of the way. 

 Just kidding. Instead of doing any of that, I barfed on the farm, barfed in the SoBo walgreens, barfed behind the weird new pizza joint, barfed at Aunt Lillian's, then barfed on Afton mountain coming home. It reminds me of how I got so sick coming back from Spain and the next day was just... fine. At least, I think I'm fine today? Last night, I couldn't even drink water and almost went to the ER. And now I'm okay? It makes me think there's something really wrong with me or something, but maybe it was just food poisoning.

Anyway, back home today, taking tiny little sips of water and then being amazed when they stay down. 

 Despite all my grief and inability to sleep and feeling that my brain, when awake, was literally poisoned against me - I had the good, soft, conversation dreams last night in the bare moments that I slept. I guess I needed them. And I feel grateful to whatever generosity in the universe or magic or in my own stupid brain that brought them to me. Please. I do need something right now. 

I called my mom who I have been supposed to call for so many days now that it's embarrassing. I had told myself I wouldn't tell her about 1. the house contract because she'd been so shitty about it over Christmas and 2. Casey because I don't want to actually talk about it with anyone who wasn't my secret blog, too much to explain, and also I could see her saying something disgustingly pro cop in the situation. But I ended up telling her about both, and it was really nice. She at least pretended to be excited about the house, and when I said "Casey died this week" she said "Casey <his last name>!???!" (a thing I can't believe she remembered) and immediately understood all the depressing sad my mentor died in a horrific way stuff I'm going through. I feel grateful for that. She's not always an easy person to bring grief to. 

I'm also glad to be going down to Vanaheim tomorrow. I need to be unplugged. I like the blunt fields and dead farms. I like to walk around, completely alone except for Sven, and think. 

I did think to myself today: maybe you should jerk off more and cry less.

 Here's the part where I look at sad old photos from the festival of the book in cville.

 Well here's something to take your mind off things: a giant (like literally a wolfhound-sized) puppy with no collar crying and barking in my backyard, almost knocking me over with joy when I open the basement door to see if he wants to come inside. Three hours of nonstop ball game (with full body cuddles in between) until I finally figure out where he lives and bring him back to his people. They are a young couple with a new baby and didn't even know he was gone. 

 Cold, white morning. I feel full of grief after a night of terrible thoughts. At least it feels more real now, like I don't forget for a moment, and then have to remember. I want to write something about it, especially because his family is trying to get out the story of what happened and generate public outcry. But I don't have any good words right now. 

I wish it would snow. 

I need to talk about something bad and I don't have anywhere else to put it.

Casey's dead. My mentor and friend from school. He took his own life while being held in a cell after federal park authorities arrested him because he was in a park after dark, looking for his lost dog. He had schizophrenia, perceived the police in a state of psychosis, and led them on a low speed chase that ended with him being tased a half dozen times and imprisoned in solitary confinement. The whole story is so much more than that and so much more awful than I could possibly imagine. I almost can't describe it here. It's so unfair and heartbreaking and fucking god, so painful. I know that the type of schizophrenia he had was almost universally fatal - usually because of suicide, but I'd also always worried about police, especially with his habit of roaming around the woods. It sounds like those two things combined. Everything about the justice system failed him. 

I just started to type out a bunch of nice memories about him, particularly from before he was sick, but I just feel so empty and sad and miserable. I can't make the words come up. I could tell you about how the orange mountain lilies in my yard are from old farm sites in the National Forest adjacent to his farm that we dug up together one muddy April, 15 years ago, or driving around in his old truck with beers balanced, his funny story about grabbing the wasps and pretending they didn't sting him, how in the many times that we were traveling solo together for poetry readings or panels, he never once made a pass at me or was anything but platonic and deeply kind, despite the "older professor and young ingenuine" stereotype that was almost sickeningly commonplace, or when I couldn't write my grad school submission letter so he wrote it for me and then made me read the part where he'd said "she has all the flaws of any 21-year-old" which hurt my feelings but was so funny and true in hindsight, or later, much later, drinking fancy beers in breweries after readings and him paying with his book money, insisting on splitting it with me like I'd done anything,  god, his books, he signed every single one of them for me with different messages ranging from "to the white witch of Staunton" to "if this book was the future, then I walked where you used to live," going to Hatteras all together on vacation in 2016 and Sven and Apple playing, stupid Sven rolling in some dead dolphin and the way he laughed it off even though it was a huge mess, he was like a fucking father figure to me and he shouldn't have had to fucking die like that. I'm just so, so, so sad.

 Seriously, what a beautiful morning. I'm sad that there wasn't more snow yesterday, but everything is so clear, cold, and bright now for it all. The row of houses on my block looked so sweet and classic in the sunshine. 

I'd really like to be out in the woods enjoying it, maybe having a fire on the side of a little waterfall or creek, and not at stupid work. Two people down on a team that already has issues with the fair distribution of work and I'm feeling the heat. On the other hand, it's just so hard to care right now. It's a short week since Friday will be down to Vanaheim for the weekend. I suppose a weekend wandering around farms and fields with my dog sounds very peaceful and nice. 

I wish there would be some real snow, though. It either needs to snow, or turn into spring so I can get going on my garden. Although I guess I shouldn't rush that. If the porch will need replacing, I want to get that done before everything starts going in the yard so none of my flowers get trampled. (You know, my big priorities.) 

 It's after 10, but I am the only one awake in my house. (My house, oh my heart.) I don't know how that's possible because I was up the latest, until almost four the way I don't actually do anymore, but here I am, trying to quietly cut up an onion for a frittata, aware of my friends asleep on various surfaces all around me. It's a good feeling. Cozy, isn't it? The dogs cried and cried for breakfast, but on getting it, they went back to bed. I may pour myself coffee, go read on the porch while this mess is baking. I feel so full of something big and light. 

 Me when I realize it's Friday and I have sixteen people and three kids over to entertain but all I want to do is sit in the basement of my newly under contract old house with the Trash cat.

 Erhh. Bad mood today. Trying to tell it back to myself the way I like to do when I'm feeling like I'm overreacting, but shit, I just feel shitty about the things that are making me feel bad. I guess that's unaccountably vague. 

Tomorrow is my favorite work friend's last day, and I am in office thing about it. I had been feeling complicated by the way she seemed to rebuff my efforts at maintaining a post work friendship. Then today, she asked me to work on her quite recently-late mother's eulogy with her, a death I know she is utterly destroyed by - a contrast of a deeply personal request plus general uncertainty which reminded me that she's always been complicated and confusing to me, and is actually going through a lot that doesn't involve me. (I always have struggled with separating that out - personal rejection from the people I love going through personal issues that don't involve me. Blog, you know. It sucks. It's hurtful to those I love and embarrassing.) 

I acknowledge this about her.  And that maybe there are people in life - treasured, dear people - that never ever exactly make exact sense to you, and you can still love them. 

Five years ago this week she and I started together at this job. I had my first work-related panic attack in front of her. She advocated for me when I never asked her to. She made me get raises I didn't deserve because she said to my boss, "hey, we both get them, or it doesn't happen." And every morning, for at least three years, we went for a walk and got coffee together. That was nice. 

Then (and this is the sloppy drama part) one of the other catty clique people I work with made some typical, shitty comment about her today, and I wanted to smash her fucking fat, ugly, lazy face in. I wanted to burn down bridges at work over a passive aggressive slight against my friend who is leaving, whose life is so big that it doesn't include me, who the first time I wrote about her in this blog, it was to describe how she was a better person than me because she was from Cville, in that certain particular better bred way.

So this is me getting ready to go to work tomorrow into all this.

 What was that thing about not WILDLY celebrating your dilapidated house eggs until they've fully hatched? (Yeah, that's the metaphor. I'm a writer, that's literally my job.) Still, I am really excited. It feels like this huge weight has been lifted off me. I can walk around and see potential and happiness and growth instead of constant uncertainty. 

First day back at work. Well, by back, I mean sitting in my PJs at my desk here at the house but still. I should really do the stuff I said I was working on back the week before Christmas when I was actually doing nothing... but the house is a mess because I've felt so unable to engage with it, and it would be so nice to blow off a bit this afternoon and tidy up the place. 

It will be good to get back into my exercise and healthy habits routine, even if I'm less motivated at work. My favorite coworker is quitting - I think I mentioned that - and I'm bummed about that. I get the sense that I liked her a lot more than she liked me, but I guess that's okay, sometimes life is like that. In a way, it's a relief to not do the dance of promising each other to make friendship plans outside of work, when if we haven't done so in the five years we've been working together, we aren't likely to start now. 

 Rabbit, rabbit.