To Sleep, Perchance To Dream?

Some years ago, I was a resident in a halfway house for “nutbags”, people with emotional problems real or imagined, who were warehoused to keep them out of everyone else’s way.  Most of these people spent 90% of their time sleeping.  I swore that I wouldn’t be like them, but I was young and stupid.  Over time, what was happening has become apparent.  These people had nothing, no chance of a real life with friends and keys.  Looking at the world of which they could never be a part was too painful, so they slept.

I swore that I would never be like them, but here I am.  I never considered that some people are not wanted around, I never thought that those who claim to be the closest are those who hit the hardest.  So I sleep, hoping for a nice dream somewhere between the nightmares.  Miranda stands her watch over me, sometimes Ariel will offer a cuddle, Winston will eat my fingers.  What more is there that they can do?  They are cats, they are not empowered to effect change in a human world.

So, I sleep.  I dread opening my eyes to the dismal room around me, and when I do, I shut them tight again.  I long for the day when I will not open my eyes, but it is too long in coming.  Why could I have not died in the auto accident thirty years ago?  Why could I not have died in surgery in 1976?  I can’t even do anything myself; I’ve failed at everything so far, why should I believe that I would not fail at suicide, and be left totally screwed up and unable to try again?

So I sleep.

Things To Do

There are so many things I need to do, so many tasks to accomplish. Can I ever do them?

1. I need to make enough money to pay the out-of-pocket startup expenses pack to my purse. So far, that’s about $200.
2. I need to make enough money to buy a camera that is clearly mine. I’m looking at about $2500 by the time I get through with that.
3. I need to make enough money to pay off my debts. How interesting that will be, as about a third has been defaulted for ten years. $50,000
4. I need to make enough money to afford a place to live that isn’t a gangland slum, a place where reason and decency dwell, a place without power games. Who even knows how much that would cost?
5. If ever all that is accomplished, I would like to go to the grocery store, buy a can of broth, and sip it slowly, savoring every drop of the first meal I will have had in a very long time.

No, it won’t happen that way, but I can carry the dream to my death.

Dear Santa

I hate you.

Love,

Diana

X-mas Day

On this day of renewal, of the return of light and lengthening of days, I am reminded that I am nothing.  I am reminded that I never will be anything, that I never can be anything.  I am reminded that if I am anything at all, I am Wrong.  Not what I say or what I do; not how I dress or the name I use; no, I am Wrong.  My very existence is an abomination.  I am reminded that, no matter what I do, the worst characteristics assigned to me — things I am not and things I have not done but are assigned to me anyway — will always be with me.

Tonight, when I lay upon a mattress on the floor in space I sublease in my own apartment, I will ask Santa Claus one more time to intercede on my behalf, to ask doG to end my life.  If all else is denied me, I ask this one thing, because if I do not exist, I cannot be hurt.

Please, whoever may be listening, let me die tonight.

So Very Quiet

The world around me is quite quiet since I left LiveJournal.  In some ways, it’s nice; solitude gives one time to think.  In other ways, it’s less than ideal; solitude gives one time to think.

No silly memes, no kids musing about how to defraud the student loan programs by using the money to pay for gender transition.  Just quiet, and the occasional echo, like Charlie Brown calling “Hello in there” into his mailbox at Xmastime.  So, I write about the little things: setting up another computer system, waiting for a clear day to continue shooting the “Heinz Chapel Project”.  I look in on LJ, seeing “business as usual” and remembering Germany in 1933.

Flying solo can be pretty nice.  If there’s no place to land, I can always ditch into the ocean.

Diana, The Bookkeeper

I’ve finished the bookkeeping for the day, after a trip to obtain supplies.  Who, though, am I kidding?  Without a major miracle, I’ll see my “net worth”, as I jokingly call it, slip further into negative territory.yes, I know, I’ve only been at this for eight weeks, but I’m not sure I do know how to put myself “out there” without driving everyone away.  I’m not even sure I know what they want.

I think I’ll go cry now.

Am I, Really?

I spent some time retouching shots for the set I’m tentatively calling the Heinz Chapel Project. It’s interesting to see a less-than perfect shot become just a bit better with a few rather simple manipulations. All the while, though, I find myself fighting the feeling of being a ridiculous parody of a “photographer”.

I make no claim to being an “Artiste”. I started this because I need cash. It is quite clear that I am considered unemployable, so doing something on my own seems the way to go, and trying to sell pretty(?) pictures required the least investment of time and money of all the options I could imagine. I don’t, however, want to be some moo with a PowerShot. I need that I be reasonably good at what I am trying to do, that my output be worth the asking price. I honestly don’t know whether or not that’s the case. Perhaps I’m my own harshest critic, perhaps I know that I am engaging in a fantasy. Perhaps I’ll never know which.

Hello world!

I is a Diana Clarion.  Diana Clarions are generally innocuous creatures, although they are fierce lovers of liberty and don’t suffer morons easily.

On mention from another user (you’ll know who you are , I thought I’d get an account at WordPress. I suppose that multiple journals can’t hurt, but figuring out how to use/synchronize them will be interesting…