Old People

I’ve never been around old people in my life, with the exception of two desperately sad situations filtered pretty much through my youth, and now I am always around old people as well as getting there myself.

It’s horrible. It’s terrifying and I’m scared. I want to be as healthy in body and ESPECIALLY **** especially ***mind as I can be before I get to a place where it is really difficult to change. OR, is it possible that I am discovering that we, humans, are just absolute assholes and I’m just seeing reality for what it is? No, no I don’t believe that. I’ve seen the flip side of this even though I can’t remember right now because of the state of my feelings, but I have been given the love and also been a giver of love and there is NOTHING like that feeling. So, I guess it is key to cultivating, growing, and reaping the love that can come from a (mutually willing-to-bless-the-other) relationship.

I am so lost right now. It is really forcing me to find the beauty, to go seek it, to go to it. Why should I expect comfort when I’m in the Middle of Nowhere? I have to go to it.

I am so sad for the old lives around me. Why do I see it this way? Am I seeing it correctly? It hurts me to the core that anyone should suffer. I have to look at suffering in a purely human way to understand it so I can stand it. I have to strengthen my skills at surviving the rapids of my own river. The only way out is through.

I made this painting and I feel lonely and foolish posting it. I showed a painting to someone today and I know they just didn’t get it or like it and I hate that my heart is broken because of it. Where is my confidence? I know I will feel better when other people do. Do or die.

Today I Cleaned My Head Out (It Was Awful But It’s Nice To Know It’s Done & Now I Can Pretend To Relax)

Today was an odd end to a fucked-up week. Nothing exactly bad happened, it was just a confusing, hot, broken, up-to-neck-in-boring-shit-to-do kind of week. My favorite person at work who I imagine keeps my heart in front of the campfire has been on vacation for 2 weeks. I intended to get back into some kind of good-feels groove today, and I did, but not without so much intense crying and upheaval of emotion that it left me a little…traumatized? Definitely exhausted. It’s not enough to just post to some online diary sometimes . I recorded some of my conversation with my ghost friends and listening to it later was both so disturbing and so funny that it felt like getting slapped in the face by Santa or something. You know what it is? Today was a Death Day. An acceptance of entropy and the hard work of staying not just happy in life, but fucking afloat. Why do I think I’m going to someday be cured of myself? Do I not know better? I still feel afraid, and I still feel on the verge of tears.

Very soon, I’m going on a road trip to Lake Tahoe and I hope it puts my soul at rest. I don’t feel well.

Couple good songs I heard for the first time today. Two bands I’m really loving!

I worked on this painting today. I love something about it.

©Jen Crow 2019

Record Room II

My notebook and the James Eads Tarot deck.

House has a courtyard entry. Smells wonderfully of blooming jasmine. (Cam told me later – because I wanted to go back out and inhale it – that there is no jasmine anywhere around. I was also smelling fresh, hot tea (not black tea, more like some kind of jasmine-black tea mix. Hmm).

Uncomfortable and getting scared at beginning. The house felt different inside from last time, immediately. Even in the Record Room there was a strange and uncomfortable buzz, like you’d get in a florescent-lit room, which surprised and scared me. The Beatles was playing, and it gave me a kind of mental indigestion. I did not know where this would go, and I was worried about spending the next many hours here. New person on the couch (lovely, strong Michaela, whom I was now meeting for the first time). I also knew that a non-participating Leisha was coming to observe at some point eventually.

I got comfort and distraction things out of my army-green messenger bag: my little, square, blank, hardcover notebook – the one that says “the world is yours” on it that I use only for these times; my colored pencils and pens; my James Eads tarot deck; Mentos mint gum; and my phone to take pictures and/or video as needed.

And so we began.

Outside, hired workers are around but unseen doing landscaping. Summer buzzing noises and rustling of dry palm leaves. I’m in Cam’s backyard with Kenita – a pool, a wood patio cover, it looked well-used as a place to lounge, bake, and commune. The pool, the fences, the shimmer of deep heat and horizontal waves in layers that are freakishly electrical-feeling.

The doubling of things, like a clone stamp. The trees being the strangest green, looking like a painted picture. I’m not sure if it was all just heat waves, or if it was as spooky and wretched as it sure did look. I had to leave it. The traumatized little creatures from the noise and destruction of yard workers. (Thank god Kenita was with me. I JUST LOVE HER – she’s not just a comfort, but fucking wonderfully fun and funny. She is golden). All the comforts of a Mad Max car chase or something. Yikes-ing, we go back inside.

We went into Cam’s bedroom. Aged, sticky with countless Time brand cigarette smoke, wonderful objects full of love, history, and hand-me-down information are placed about. Ceramic siamese cats with shining blue-gem eyes, probably from the 40’s or 50’s. Photos of loved ones. The old, big, dark headboard with a hand-tinted portrait of Cam’s mama as a beautiful young woman once-upon-a-time in Oklahoma – fading from too much sun everywhere except the eyes. (Just beautiful, this is all just so precious to me). Lovely. Friendly lady who was glad I was there. In fact, she was beaming with interest and delight.

The PAINTINGS Cam’s mother painted. Gorgeous, antiqued-gold, substantial frames that Cam’s brother, Michael built. Dancers, scenes of stages and dancers. Foregrounds and backgrounds separate, like a true-life scene. Shimmering movement of bright bodies in the mystical, dreamy darkness of a stage. Yes, they somehow moved, and it somehow was like a glimpse into an alter-reality. It was so beautiful – I was enraptured. I could not believe what I was seeing. It was like witnessing true magic. Hope I get to see them again like that.

(I really want to know what it is like to paint while on. Will experiment. Need to be fully set up before I begin anything).

I feel Michael very much. Really like this guy. I like to think we became friends. He is kind to me, not out of pity, but out of his pure enjoyment of being together and sharing the time.

Later, “read for” Michaela. She was hugely helped. We all could not believe what was happening. It was so powerful. I believe she received exactly what she needed – and with so much love and hope and comfort that all was well and would be well. Deep connections between people that will never fade, that her children, wherever they were in the world would never be disconnected from her even if they paid her existence no mind. There was no cliff to jump off of. No decision had to be made that hadn’t already been made and she was RIGHT and FREE. I cannot go into details, they are too private/personal, but it was amazing and blew us all away.

Afterward, Michaela came to me and put $60 in my hand. I was so uncomfortable. First I said no, but she said “so this can continue”. So, I promised it would go toward the next session to help someone (and it did).

Who is to be helped next (It was Kenita’s son, with loads of advice from Uncle Jim who really enjoyed his smokes)? I’m anxiously awaiting to share this gift with someone who needs some healing, seriously, I can barely wait. Imagine you have a cure but you don’t know what it is for or who needs it. Must depend on the other powers-that-be to do their part. I don’t need to get anxious about it. It’s fun to be excited to do it again – to be excited about living LIFE again. Trusting that it WILL come my way is the hard part. (“The stream will take us home” Haeven – The Sea). Reasons to trust are being shown to me. I can trust “them”. I can trust THIS and because I’m honest about the whole thing, and open, I can trust my SELF. ❤