cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Possibly the dumbest hope that I have ever had. Alex wrote me that she is "in the shit at work." If she loses her job, we have no immediate hope. She has no hope. I don't know the specifics of what is going on there. She says it is paperwork and reports that she has not had time to complete while driving around and providing care to people. There is a guarded fear that I have. I remember during the spring after August the 12th here in Ch@rlottesville that we met at a coffee shop. This was long before our romantic entanglement. She had a bad back injury and had also hurt her foot and limped in with a walker or something. This was the time when she proposed that I impregnate either her or (the bad) Lindsay and move in with them as a sort of general fix-it guy. I liked parts of this idea at the time, but I was in the middle of some crazy shit doing civil rights journalism and investigating neo-nazis and I just did not have the mental bandwidth to deal with it all. She seemed... out of it. In retrospect, clearly on pain medications. Of course, given her condition. And there have been times since then when she was spacey. I have to wonder if she is addicted to opioid pain medications. I have this hope or fantasy that she kicks her ex out in the next few weeks and we start a normal relationship. I keep fucking her, daily, bareback, and she gets pregnant again and is able to carry the baby full-term in spite of being 45 and we raise a kid together and are married and live happily ever after. If she is on opioids and is fucking up at work in part because of that, none of this will ever happen. She will be financially unable to kick Lindsay out. I am not able to make up the means to run her household. That would mean that she is an addict stuck with her abuser indefinitely. I could be wrong about this suspicion. I hope that I am wrong. I am still so ready. I just want to massage her shoulders and make dinner for her at the end of the day. I want to bring her flowers. I want to do everything right with her for the rest of my life. I want to deflect arguments, and agree that she might be right, and take the trash out, and read the book that she suggests. But it is all so tenuous. She may have already fucked things up so badly at her job after less than two months that she gets fired. If so, then I don't know where her life or my life goes after this. I just watched the movie, "Communion," because of the really specific stuff about UFOs in the last few years from DoD and now from D@vid Charl3s Grusch. The new stuff from Grusch seems pretty compelling and I am inclined to believe it, indicating that literal aliens from some place other than Earth are visiting here and doing science and tourism and probably all of the same things that we would do if a new island was discovered in the Indian Ocean populated by species not found anywhere else on Earth. Anyway, I found it a bit sad and endearing how the main character in that book could be a NYC resident who is an author who has the financial resources to possess a second home upstate in addition to a nice apartment in New York City. The 80's was the last of that conceit. A working writer who has neither a trust fund nor a big Netflix deal could not afford a studio apartment in Brooklyn, let alone a nice place with room for a kid in Manhattan plus a house upstate. The idea of the working writer in that supposedly non-fiction film and book was from before the age of the internet. Now, we are "content providers." Or, slightly more charitably but still condescendingly, "creatives." Both terms coined and spread by asshole tech bros and their lick-spittle staff. Both terms intended to deprecate the value of providing the actual substance of what people hope to find to read and think about rather than the banal architecture of holding it there in space while it is read. As if a website or an app was any more wonderful to the reader than a bound magazine or a book. The writer was still a romanticized figure in 1989 when that movie came out. Even while starving. Today, we are the content providers given less than a pat on the head while the world that we write goes by. Denied even romanticization, I have little enough to offer to Alex. I can fix things and build things and be very good to her. Being a writer has no standing left, no matter how good your shit is or where you have been published. Not today. I am going to fall asleep and wake up in the early afternoon. I will spend a few hours showering and getting my shit together, and hopefully pitching new material and editing my book. And then I will enter the grind of doing delivery driving for eight hours or so. Hopefully around 7 pm I will get a text from Alex which will not be optimistic but at least indicate that she still has a job. That she has autonomy. That can control her own future and make her car and mortgage payments and send Lindsay an eviction letter. And perhaps we can start existing together on our own terms and having a future that we have a say in if not explicitly design. And maybe something can happen at least once a day that makes her smile. 2:16 a.m. - 2023-07-17 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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