LNOD

January 4. 10:33pm

I’ve been sitting in this bed, pencil in hand for almost 45mins and the only thing I can think of is how journals should come with some kind of warning about how intimidating a blank page can be. My therapist and the internet thought this would be a good idea, and everyone said to not think about it too much, but that’s literally all I know how to do. 

My mom died so I came to the hotel to stay with Uncle Penny, because the rest of my family doesn’t trust me being so far away at school by myself. See, that’s what I’m talking about. My family has a hotel that my Uncle runs, but if I hadn’t explained that just now and someone found this journal sometime in the future, they’d think some weird shit was going on. How much of the thoughts in my head do I explain, or do I just talk to myself, knowing the full context of everything I’m talking about?

This is so stressful. 

Anyway, I can take all of my classes online so I came to spend time with my favorite Uncle and my mom’s closest brother. I hadn’t stayed here in so long I’d forgotten how nice the hotel is. I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised, my family is a dynasty of saditty, southern assholes, so Uncle Penny didn’t have to dig too deep in his sissy bag to make white people want to spend their money here. 

It’s been two weeks since her service which means I’ve been here 10 days and we actually haven’t talked about it once. I’m not entirely sure who’s avoiding it more, but I’m glad for the illusion of normalcy for now. My mom was so big. She was everywhere and now, most days feel like trying to breathe in rooms with no air. Uncle Penny, is cool with me letting a part of myself suffocate, for now. I imagine because he’s probably feeling the same way, but who knows. 

Words I’ve Written for Artists I Love

*Voicemail Beeps*

I took some flowers by for you today. It was nice out this morning, but by the time I finally got down there the rain was on the way, so I might have to visit again tomorrow to make sure they’re still there.

It looks like Carl and Steph stopped by too, since the last time I was there. I didn’t even have to tell them this time. I know they’ve got the kids and, they’re always so busy, so busy, but sometimes it feels like they want to forget, you know? Which, I understand. I know it can’t be easy for them, I knew you longer, but you were theirs. That’s harder. But I don’t know, just when I was afraid they were letting you go, they showed up on their own. 

Maybe time is turning this into a different pain. One that’s not killing them to carry. 

Anyway, I got back in the car and shuffled on some music for the drive back and guess what came on? Only you babe, can put out this fire burning in my soul, only you. 30 years later and I still hate that fucking song. Thanks. A year straight, every time we’d get ready to go out, you had to play that song. It’s not even that great of a song! Every time?!?!

Those were good nights weren’t they?

Sneaking liquor into the club so we could split the cab fare back from the city. God, that ride used to kill me. Or worse, waking up to realize the guy we’d gone home with wasn’t as cute before noon as he was after nine. But hey, the train ride back was cheaper and we got breakfast! Remember when those were wins? 

I did an interview the other day and the guy, this kid about our age when we met, he asked me what it was like being a part of all the stuff we were back then and did we know how big it would be rah rah rah. I told him we were more worried about chasing guys than anything else. Work and all the other shit just, happened I guess. I didn’t want to make light of it, it’s amazing looking back on it now, but I just don’t think we were thinking about it like that at the time. I know we weren’t. 

Especially at the beginning, we had so much fun that summer, turning New York into our own private haunted house. Ghosts of guys who wanted more but never were. Dead ends cursed to wander lower Manhattan, wondering “what if” until who knows, while we ran into new lives, never looking back again. 

We weren’t good. I think that’s something I can say now. 

Much too late. 

Then life move on, and very well, and for that I’m thankful. But here I am, alone in this house, sending voicemails into the ether because I lost the only other leg I had to lean on. What a fucking ride. At least I’m not dead like you, though. You always left too early, I always stayed too late. 

What are you feeling right now?

uh, like, right now?

Right now. 

I don’t know. Just kinda blah. Bored. Here because I know I need to be, but don’t really have anything to say.

Ok. Why do you feel you need to be here?

Because I want to be better. I want to be great. I want people to know I’m great and be able to experience that and share that and be inspired by that and be moved by that. 

That’s a tall order. Admirable, but a lot to ask. 

I don’t think it’s too much. 

No, I didn’t say it was too much, just a lot. 

Why do you think it’s a lot? 

Who are you? Why do you think people should have this relationship with you? What about you makes it worth it to people who aren’t you or who don’t have a vested interest in you?

Well if it’s going to be somebody, somebodies, why not me? Why do we have this relationship with any writer, singer, painter, chef, literally any artist? Because they decided to do. The decided to do and to share and those who did it well, there stories were able to land and burrow deep into people and grow into new thoughts, new feelings. Ultimately, new behaviors. 

So you want to change how people act.

Sure. But that’s really broad. I’m not trying to brainwash people with propaganda. I’m trying to provide them with situations they’ve never experienced, perspectives they’ve never seen, or wouldn’t otherwise have access to. Where they go and what they do from there is up to them. I wan them to have to make some decisions. If I give you all of the information, the decision that you make tells me everything I need to know about you.

And what do you do with that information?

Me, personally? I don’t need to know it. This is for other people to dine out on, to challenge the people in their lives with, in some cases, to make things easier for people in situations now that I’ve already been in. 

Ok, talk about that some more. 

Hm. Oh! Ok, my parents can’t retroactively make me feel more secure about myself as a queer kid, growing up in the religious south. I’m 32, that ship has sailed. But some queer kid’s parent in the religious south could see this story and think, “I can do better than that. I can be better than that.” And then go out and do it. 

So textbook representation. Are there any things you’re working on as exploratory or experimental as opposed to being directional or prescriptive?

Well, yeah, lol. My life. I work through my own shit through the characters I write. Reliving experiences to try and see someone else’s point-of-view, to be better to them in written record than I was able to in real life?

Does that serve anyone besides yourself?

If they’re not in my life anymore and, through whatever means, that chapter is closed, am I worried about what’s serving them?

Touché. So this is all therapy?

How fucking meta is that?

Lol, so are there any stories you’re telling that aren’t facets of your own life?

Start off with plants that are living. This seems like a no-brainer, but humor me

If there’s no way you can get living plants, then read @hgk477‘s guide for How to Bring Someone Back From the Dead and do #45 twice

Place your plant in the brightest spot in your house, but not in direct sunlight. I’ll explain why later. 

Go to the plant store and get new potting soil specific for your plant.

On your way back, grab a 24-pack of bottled water and ingredients to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Once you’re home turn on your favorite album, plants love music. 

If you can’t think of anything your plant might like, play Mort Garson’s Mother Earth’s Plantasia or Stevie Wonder’s The Secret Life of Plants.

Turn your phone off. It’s going to ring and you don’t want to talk to who calls. 

At this point you’ll be exhausted and won’t know why. Go ahead and take a nap.

When you wake up you will have slept much longer than expected and it will be the next day. Don’t beat yourself up. 

Take two bottles of water out and go to the room where your plant is. 

Drink one of the bottles of water yourself and sit directly in the sunlight while you repot your plant.

I know you turned your phone on even though I didn’t say do that. That’s okay. 

They’ve either called or text you by now and that’s where this gets tricky.

Getting this plant into a new pot is going to be difficult but you must stay focused. 

Do not, under any circumstances, respond to their calls or texts.

If the urge to reply is too strong, instead of texting, say everything you want to send out loud to your plant.

Give the plant a name that is simple and not tied to anyone you know. 

Keep talking to your plant, they love hearing your voice. 

Don’t worry if you start to cry, that’s normal. 

Make sure your tears land in the new soil. This is more for you than the plant but do it anyway. 

Take a breath to let the soil settle. 

Remember those peanut butter and jelly supplies you got? Make one sandwich because you’ve probably forgotten to eat or not had an appetite. 

You may still be sad, but your body will thank you for having eaten.

Make another if you feel so inclined. 

Go back to your plant and water it from the other bottle you took out this morning. 

Make sure your plant is still in the brightest room of the house, but not in direct sunlight. 

That spot is yours. 

Repeat these steps everyday and keep a close eye on the plant’s growth and your feelings. 

By now you have a healthy habit of getting out of bed, getting some sunlight and food, talking and light physical activity.

The grays and you might not even know it or why, but these are all the things you’ll need to do to get through them. 

Keep a close eye on the plant’s growth and your feelings. 

When you’re able to water and check your plant without crying or fumbling your words THEN you can reply to their texts.

Say to them what you’ve been practicing and be clear about your boundaries. 

Take a picture of your plant.

Post it to instagram.