the over-share

As I write this I am sitting on a cot in a small room in the historic barracks of Fort Warden State park in Port Townsend, WA. Someone just finished washing their hands in the bathroom next door. My foot is numb from leaning on it, my back aches, and my eyes are somewhat weary from sewing screws, springs, ceramic shards, and a handful of plastic buffalo beads to a doily. I am wearing flannel pajama pants covered in cowboys and cowgirls skiing through snow-laden firs.

I drew drowning horses in charcoal and pastels today. I attended a lecture on humor in literary arts that provoked an instant ah-ha- three problems stories now have a new route for revision. I spoke to two people, two people who were not my therapist, my partner, or related to me. I ate in public. I smiled and said hi to someone.

Then I came back to my little room- which is oh so like a room in the nuthouse, had any of those been private- and safety pinned a whole mess of doileys and placemats together, a la the new multimedia piece that I am working on about babies and death and time and feminine “crafts” vs (masculine) art. Or some shit.

I watched ravens tussle over crumbs in the parking lot and stood at dusk looking at the Sound for a very long time, until I sneezed.

Tomorrow I am going to eat three meals with other people and I may even speak to them. I’m attending two workshops and a lecture.

There’s an empty plastic cup on my desk that still stinks of the vinegary cheap wine from Walmart that I brought here wrapped in tell-tale Walmart bags.

Someone is now pissing in the bathroom. They can hear me type as they pee.

I did not eat cake today.

 

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