Too dark to Dance

It’s too dark to Dance

And I’m too tired

Fucking darkness!

Damn this time of the year.

There’s still some time

Inside this yurt

For Dancing

But daylight brings up

All other things

That scream to be done

In distasteful choir.

It’s hard to ignore the obvious...

I fight for good feng-shui

And the odds are against me.

Goth at heart

Who could never afford

That kind of style,

Without looking grungy or cheap,

I still refuse to give up.

A few plastic pumpkins

All year around

And some growing in the garden

If weather permits

Could be all my arrangements

That fit in.

But other little treasures:

Crystals, painted rocks,

And other tokens of magic

Don’t have to be black

To count.

Look inside of me, if you dare.

As pitch-dark as this late November night.

Why? I love the Sun

And I want to be happy

More than anything —

Another two anti-Goth traits.

And seriously, folks:

If you think depression is cool —

You never had one.

If SADs hasn’t hit you yet —

Maybe you’re of different makeup.

This is the time of the year

When Death lurks around,

So you’d better deadbolt your doors

And leave lights on for the night.

Not for me though:

No locks, just a few layers

Of plastic and fabric

And that tiny LED light

When tealights burn out.

God I hate darkness.

I’m dead-scared of it,

Yet not a single light

For miles around.

I am a creature comfort junkie

But there’s hardly any here.

What the fuck am I doing here?

Why did I come here in the first place?

Because I love Montana,

And was lured by the promise of love

From someone who won’t talk to me now

Because I’m “too much “.

Because I ask for tangible expressions

Of what he promised,

But he calls it “finding fault.”

So here I am, in the heart of wilderness,

Amongst the mountains

Every traveler on I-90

Sees as majestic,

Formidable, unapproachable.

Who could possibly live there?

I do. And a place like this

Is no gray zone:

It’s either heaven or hell,

It will either exalt you or kill you,

If you’re not careful.

If you’re not on top of your game,

Knowing what you are doing.

I keep fighting for my peace of mind

For winning daily battles

For doing my art, no matter what.

How often have I heard

That one has to join the cause

Bigger than themselves

To be legitimate...

It is true and it is not... all depends.

For me, personal stuff has always been

The most important.

Not protesting some political decisions

Or supporting social causes —

But sorting my own shit out.

Doing it with diligence,

Facing those internal shadows

The way I face that mess on the desk,

Wondering where it came from.

Cleaning it up, feeling desperate:

It takes away from my art!

But I can’t sit here

Pretending the disorder isn’t too bad.

It is. External or internal —

What use are you to the world,

If you can’t manage

Your own private space,

External or internal?

Oh, it can’t be perfect

But it can be better, for a while —

A small shrine of artsy coziness

Amongst endless night.

It’s time to go to bed,

2a.m., hellooooo!

Or I’ll start too late tomorrow.

But I can’t call it the day

Until I claim it — in my special way.

So many projects yet unfinished

But some vital work is done.

Both scut-work and the spirit work...

no jokes.

And unexpected bonus of fog...

The silver lining of gloom and doom weather.

I love the fog...

Maybe just one score like this

Makes me a legitimate Goth...

In a flowered skirt,

Covering the black hole of my soul,

Crying for love,

Which keeps eluding me.

My only company is

The meow-gical Cat.

As long as she thinks I’m fine,

People’s opinions don’t count.

It’s too dark to Dance

And I’m too tired

From doing work of today:

Keeping warm, clean, fed,

More or less connected

And relatively sane.

The latter takes the biggest effort

Of journaling impressions,

Insights, hopes

That could be too outrageous

Even for a goofball.

I’m still adjusting

To doing all basics alone, off grid,

After being left to my own devices...

What did I do wrong

That no new art project

Is yet accomplished

Or, (that’s totally sci-fi)

Well marketed? 🤮

Am I just a failure?

Did I fight HARD all my life

To end up like this?

But — is it even my own voice,

Chastising me for not being

A #1 hit, a sensation?

What do I really want?

To be HERE. Check.

With the right person... *Sigh*

Here’s the malefic magic formula:

Ditch someone in heaven —

That will be their hell.

And try to convince them

It’s all their fault.

I’m falling through,

Let down by someone I relied on.

Accused of all their transgressions,

Projected on me —

The psychology class

You can’t pay me to take,

Yet I’m forced to learn,

Bona fide.

That Supernova inside,

My only light

At the end of the tunnel

Is Truth and Love

That don’t seem to belong

In this reality.

I may be ending up

With another bad poem

Because I don’t give a rat’s ass

For making it catchy.

And that Supernova only exists

In my imagination.

Dammit, too dark to Dance,

And I’m too tired.

Real art projects,

Even small ones,

Take more time than I can afford

To take away from sleep.

Last option?

Scribble something.

Out of the darkest time of the year,

Out of the wilderness in Western Montana,

Out of the shattered heart

Of the girl who tried

To become Somebody,

But despite her effort

Remained nobody —

Unnoticed, rejected

By every agency

She sent her writings to,

Except what she can’t afford

To pay for.

But worst of all — UNLOVED.

I do not have a ‘success story‘ to tell.

Just sitting here by the woodstove

With my hair down,

Pretending I might be

A Pre-Raphaelite model,

A published author,

A Dancer who doesn’t lose her balance

After dark.

A woman basking in attention

Far more substantial

Than occasional lip service...

The kind of attention

You don’t talk about.

Gods are envious they say.

Don’t know about that

But people are.

They’d call it inappropriate.

But no worries.

I’m perfectly chaste,

Not by choice.

And I fucking despise this bullshit

With every fiber of my small pathetic being,

With imaginary Supernova inside,

Which can do nothing but produce

Another string of words.

No substitute for what

I really want —

And it’s always beyond my reach.

Too dark to Dance

Too tired.

Starved for the sunlight of love

In that black hole

Of “No, no, no!”

That life throws at me.

As if life is death,

Suffering is joy,

And effort equals idleness.

Fuck it.

According to that twisted logic

My black hole must be a white hole...

Beating reality

With its own weapon.

Ever heard of Wheel of Fortune?

Everything changes.

Guess where I’m most Goth?

In that dark sense of humor.

Nothing has changed yet,

But somehow I see the possibility

That after all I might get

The last joke.

November 19, 2020.