Journal of my Direction

I have everything I need at this time. Some would say I should be content. I have a roof over my head, food in my belly, a place to shower and bathe, some clothes to wear, and I'm even fortunate enough to have my own vehicle, paid for and legal. I have a small income and I get by through the month. I'm not considered wealthy by financial standards, but I don't feel poor either because I can usually afford luxuries like cigarettes and a night or two out on the town. So life is simple now and I'm wise enough to know that's a good thing.

I spent the past three months beating the shit out of myself for having a business fail. I guess I'm just not very good at accepting defeat. It seemed like a good idea, but everything I learned in the endeavor only taught me that the idea "would never fly" --- meaning that the financial aspects were not in favor of the idea. It took me three months to "let it go" and "get over it".

So then I thought I would just look around and party. Go to the bars and crash parties and be an animal. Have some fun, get drunk, relax, flirt, whatever. That didn't go so well either. It wasn't as fun as I thought it would be. I thought there'd be dancing and charming men to kiss. But it was just nasty snobs who tell me they don't want me around. I never imagined I'd find "snobs" at the bar. I guess the party really is over.

Today I cleaned up our little cabin or cottage. I did some laundry, some dishes, and just looked around sizing up what I have and if there's anything to want anymore. I made a list of some basics that might make this place a bit more comfortable. Things like fresh pillows and some mattress cushions. Nothing very exciting, but maybe comfortable is not exciting. I can say I'm comfortable here, even if it's not my house, and even if my husband and I disagree on what marriage is or how men and women "should" be. I still know what's good about this place, what's good about him, and what's good about me. That part I still know.

The problem isn't the word "good" at this time. The problem is the word "better". I don't know how to motivate myself or give myself directions without the word "better".

"Well, this is good, but maybe that would be better." That's usually what I tell myself when I'm trying to figure out what I want or what I want to do. Is that foolish? I don't know. It's my way and I don't have another way.

Something as basic as thinking about sex. I go through hell in my mind trying to figure out what to do about those thoughts and desires. Is masturbation "better" because I don't have to worrry about hurting anyone's feelings? Is the "real thing" better because I like it "better"? Which one is better? Maybe neither is better? Maybe they are both equally good for different times. Probably. But that doesn't help me decide anything.

Then I think about other desires, knowing where I've succeeded, where I've failed, and wondering if there's anything I still want to try or see or do.

I like this place. But there's nothing about this place that is "mine" except that I call it "home" and that it is comfortable enough. I feel like it's better than a jail cell. That's what it feels like to me --- a glorified jail cell. Better food here. Better conveniences. Open doors so I can go out whenever I want to. Some nice tools for me to use to write or make some art with. Compared to jail, it's really good here. But compared to Room 46 or that abandoned cabin near the church, it lacks some charm. It lacks the power of possibility. I'm confined to only writing and doing small projects. I'm limited as to what I can make of it.

I'm a woman. Most women think like birds. We want the best next we can possibly put together regardless if we have eggs to put it in or not. I don't need a shiny big mansion that I don't know how to keep clean by myself. This small cabin is enough of a headache to keep clean. But I have a strong desire to refurbish, to paint, to decorate, to design, to produce, to create....to make things beautiful. This cabin home in Suburbia is stifling.

I hide in it most summer days because the weather out there is so treachorous. The temperature today on July 14th, 2023 in Tampa Bay is 93 degrees. I went for a little walk and I was sweating after five minutes. I didn't even want to wear the t-shirt I was wearing. Sure somewhere, someone has their toes in the water on a beach or at a hotel pool. But not me and not everyone. Those of us who can't afford that are stuck hiding under the comfort of the air conditioner, hoping and wishing we had a piece of mother nature. Sure, I take showers and bathes as much as possible. Cold showers, hot showers, and I pretend that I'm standing under a beautiful waterfall somewhere. It's a lovely dream.

Maybe that's as good as it gets. Maybe I can't go hunting anymore for some dark, enchanted, romantic, abandoned castle somewhere I don't know. Maybe my ideas that a place like New Orleans or Detroit that would offer such opportunities is a foolish fantasy. Maybe my hopes that the music and the cuisines would be better and more available to someone with shallow pockets is just an illusion. Maybe. But there's no way to know, unless I go and find out for myself.