Didn't grow up to them, not a fan.
But here is the thing: When one of the so very few good friends you have in a hell hole is a fanatic, the least you can do is mindfully check out their stuff.
He sent me a selection and there were few that resonated with me.
But then again, I don't know whether it's because of them or 20th Century Boy's Bob Lennon
I haven't had that rough of a morning in forever. And boy was it excruciating.
By cosmic grace, J. was dropping by the rescue to help with feeding/cleaning AM shift. She saw me, waited until we were done, just knew, hugged me authentically, let me cry the waters of my body in her shoulder, took me to the park with coffee and a big plush toy that, cosmic grace had it, was in her car.
-He needs a name.
-A powerful name.
B. named him Monkey Boy. Monkey boy is now with me. The pain was debilitating but after spending that time with J. I was able to function, but I took Monkey boy to the coffee bar with me, dozed off, tried to be a bit productive or bring alleviation, went to the apartment, dozed off, roomie made food, Monkey boy with me.
I left for the evening in better spirits, came back to Monkey boy
I told B. during my Baltimore trip that my achievement for the day was that I went to bed without intentionally hurting anybody. Mediocre shitty achievement I thought back then. Seeing how Americans (most of those I deal with, especially in the white midwest that is) blatantly canonized and normalized using each other, hurting others along the way, having such a self-absorbed and huge ego image, makes me realize it is actually achievement.
Initially, Monkey boy was here to remind me that at least, I'm hugging a plush toy, using one for soothing and comfort, and not an actual human being.
With time hopefully, Monkey boy would remind me of J and that cosmic grace.
Because people like her, like B., like P., with every passing day in this hell hole, I come to realize how fucking rare it is to find them and be granted the gift of their care and/or compassion.
Been essentially sticking to the company of P.
In a toxic culture toxic to its own people to alienating degrees, the outsider mingling with the local waters has more heightened senses and is receiving alienation as ultimate burning levels of radiation.
So in that corner of that divebar with P. in front of me, my ebooks in my tablet, my parking lot notes, I am good, and kept safe, and keeping myself safe. I don't give into the shitty inclinations and I don't seek to answer that insidious call for self-destruction uttered by this white nationalist american christianity for everything that is not of it.
As if that made its members any saner.
Anyways, this track that P. showed me is absolutely befitting to the ugliness of the circumstances, the people, the culture in here.
It has been a saving grace in these days, something that is candidate to reignite my fire. I am partaking in it in multiple forms, hoping to God it will finally click inside me and I get my inferno back.
Good grief I want my inferno back.
