Can I just stick up for myself for a second?
I am human; both bad and good shit has happened to me. In response, I am very tough. Sometimes, I wish I were less so because my ability to freely connect with folks has become an obstacle course where I observe for any building perceptions that I might be able to dodge. There are very few people who I am able to let my guards down with, and even those consist of hidden mines I forgot were placed.
As I’ve written previously, I do not know what I am doing in career-land. Frankly, I feel a fire under my buttocks to get this all figured out. (Make the decision! Okay. And make a plan.) Today is a relatively free day. I’m propelled by the practice of writing something here, doodling my daily doodle, trying to connect with people out there…
I live in Atlanta - a major metropolis filled with culture and opportunity - and I’m looking out to the ether for connection with you.
Okay, queer. Yes, queer. There is so much complication surrounding this existence. Philosophies continue to ferment, and I believe in/value this time to continue to ground in myself, as the brave decision of being an out queer person grows from fantasy/monster-in-the-shadows to effervescent/spooky reality - sorry. I don’t know how to communicate the trauma that comes from being closeted. No one else’s path is mine to consider, (unless direct,) but I am essentially a 33-year-old kid. I’m lost. My friends and family have been patient, and I’m in this strange feeding phase wondering if I even deserve that. It’s sad! We press forward, folks.
Lots of shame through the years. Wanting attention for being what I thought people wanted me to be. How glorious it is to settle into your safest self?
16 JULY
Miracles
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim — the rocks — the motion of the waves — the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
Walt Whitman (1819-1892)