MLK Day
Dissociation is easy. Peaceful. It’s a little taste of what I imagine dying might be like.
It’s been hard recently to be fully invested in my day to day life. Or rather, it’s been really hard to be fully invested in the reality of my day to day life. I can do the lovely, leisurely walks to my job in the early morning, bundled and chilly, with my camera ready in hand in case a little leaf on the floor catches my eye. I am fully invested in the morning cuddles my cat gives me and my partner’s head softly laying on my chest as I scratch his back. My eyes closed and my mind in the cotton candy clouds of life through rose colored glasses. Glasses that are not my prescription, so everything is blurry and the fucked up world beyond the tea I hold in my hand is out of focus. That is where I am thriving recently. That is where I live and where my reality lies… but it’s not my reality, and it’s getting harder and harder, more and more depressing, to try and dissociate from the real reality. To live in ignorance and bliss is not so blissful after all.
Dissociation is peaceful until it’s not. Death might be peaceful until I realize I’m actually dying.
It's January 20, MLK Day and also the 2nd presidential inauguration of Donald J Trump.
It's been a hard day.
To be honest, it's still surreal to write that name, to speak it into the existence of my world. Donald Trump. I feel so dissociated from the reality of the word that it pains me, physically makes me sick, to break that thin veil I've been building and write "Donald J Trump."
Even when I talk with people, the thing that escapes my mouth is "that guy" or, “I can’t believe ‘“he”’ is in office", I have a hard time acknowledging his reality.
Recently my dad told me that it was important to focus on the good, and only let that in.
We were on a phone call, and I was telling him about my life. My beautiful and perfect life. I told him I was happy and loving my home, my partner, my job. I was walking to work, I was running in the mornings, but there was still a little something nagging in my brain, a sickness of sorts.
He told me that if I ever thought about a sad or bad thing, or let negative energy come into my life, that I should quickly cast it away. I told him I absolutely agreed, that it was exactly what I did if I ever let evil crawl into my brain, but it feels like I'm betraying that by being a writer. Instinctively the first thing I want to do when I let a negative thought float into my head is get it out in the form of words, or my other love of photography.
Like earlier today, when I was on my walk to the brewery where I find myself writing now. I was mentally and physically depressed, my experiment of not caring seemed to be failing my body. I have an instinctive need to care, to know what my fellow human is going through and to sympathize. So, on that walk, I thought about what it might be like if I simply stepped onto the railroad tracks and stayed there until a steel machine came to flatten my existence.
At first I wanted it so bad, I imagined the relief of the lights getting closer to me, the deep sigh I could breath before impact, but immediately after I wanted to run away, far from the train. Thoughts can be scary, and I had frightened myself. But instead of running, I stepped onto the tracks, pulled out my camera, took a very out of frame and shitty picture, and continued my journey. Maybe photography and written word are my ways of casting things away.
I have to let them become a little bit of a reality, let it exist in some way, outside of me, and then I can release the thought and let it go.
Now I want to cry. This realization is happening in real time, and it’s hard to come to terms with the emotions that are taking over me in this little bar… but the cute bartender is serving me tonight and we're still on the verge of a potential friendship, I wouldn't want to scare him away with my seemingly alligator tears.
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"Are you okay?" he would ask.
I would try to swallow any lingering sadness and give him a little nod. Then I would burst into silent tears and he would say he was getting off in an hour, then I would wipe my wet cheeks with the sleeve of my vintage italian sweater and I would nod again, then extend my hand, which he would take. Then I would let go, take a long drink from my beer and continue writing. 40 minutes would pass and I would head out the door and never go back to the establishment.
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The people next to me at the bar are talking about accepting someone despite the fact that the person just bought a boat. They are also talking about the color of the beer they're drinking, that it's a nice color.
She looks like a small blonde swinger from those reality tv shows about Mormon wives in Utah. He looks like a Flagstaff lumberjack, actually like the Flagstaff Lumberjack, the mascot from Northern Arizona University. I'm picturing how they would end up having sex later in the night, and both of them would fake an orgasm.
My bartender crush just came up to me and asked, "what movie should we watch?", and I contemplatively said, "hmmmm", putting on my best little show. He said that they had been seeing the same movies every week and I asked if they had watched Dogma recently. He said no, and I said, "it's a goodie".
I stare into my blank writing screen and then glance at the old school TV with the VHS tape playing. I zone out as I watch the shot of two people having an extended conversation while on the flat "escalators" of an airport, meant to get people to their gates at a reasonable time.
Ben Affleck used to be cool.
Tomorrow I’ll come back, if inspiration strikes, and think of another train, and another thought I might expel.
20.01.25