a flogger forever

There’s a scene in Crime and Punishment commonly referred to as”Raskolnikov’s Dream”. In it, a serf beats his old mare to death, whipping and flogging her with senseless rage because she fails to move fast enough and isn’t capable of towing the load. This is the only piece of literature that has consistently brought me to tears.

Each time I read that, I’m the man and I’m the horse. It must be an epic translation to make me feel so deeply. Or maybe that’s just me. Sometimes, when I need to access that emotion, let the floodgates open, that’s what I turn to. I have the copy if anyone is interested.

When I went to Kelowna, I got a prime spot at the hotel without much fuss. I’m not going to name the hotel. Let’s just call it “secret motel”. As the girl checked me in, she said something funny ” Could be worse, you could have a short child.” It was peculiar, but I enjoyed how funny that idea was. Most kids are quite short, so that was part of the amusement, but it hit on a different note too. I felt seen.

I plugged my computer in and did a bit of inbox cleaning. Sorting out the promotions that I actually am interested in can be difficult. I do actually read most of my email. I want to stay on top of things and get good deals. I have been all over the map for the last few weeks and will continue to be. Without structure, I find it difficult to perform.

in that hotel bed, my mind was racing despite the olazapine, so I took one of the ambien and embraced the metallic taste in my mouth that I’d wake with. All I see is red, in these situations. Quite literally, the time on the clock was beaming into my water bottle and making it glow red.

The pills worked. I did sleep that evening. I got up at 6 am, found Bloomberg and waited to see if I’d know anything about money.

I just got off a zoom call with my counsellor from BC Cancer and it alarmed her to hear that I look forward to dying. Maybe it’s the warrior in me or something, but it often feels like a comforting fact. I too will die one day and all of this truly is meaningless.

As I type, I wait for my homemade apple pistachio pizza to bake and think of all the things I don’t get to look forward to. Decorating, not fun for me. Consumption of all kinds is a kick to the gut. I’m pissed that my dad was right to a certain extent, although I’m accepting my lot in life, that I might always be poor.

I tried on some clothes at Warehouse One in Waneta Plaza, and if I know anything for certain it’s that you can’t look good on a budget. It’s not possible. Also, nothing is ever a good fit. Where are the tailors?

I had a moment of profound self-disgust in that change room. I suppose I’ll always have body dysmorphia, but it’s getting worse. My age is gross, my body is gross, and all of it matters much more than you’ll ever know or be able to accept. Self love doesn’t fix reality, so the next person who calls me beautiful is going to get a punch to the face.

Where are the tailors? Where are the builders? How are the connections maintained? How do I keep up? How do I solve the puzzle? It’s impossible to source local here. Got to know a guy, or several. It’s endlessly stupid to try to achieve anything without them.

My place came with the stupidest blinds ever, cheap, disgusting, pointless. A friend of mine helped me get those down today and it made me feel something for him. It’s the little things you know. A small change and I’m full of appreciation. I appreciate people who know how to do things.

Still I will continue to hate myself. I will continue to hold myself to a higher standard. I will not be as kind to myself as I would be to a friend. That’s a soft way of going about it that keeps me firmly in the squandered potential side of being. I don’t want this to be it, I’d still like some adventure.

I bought a few towels today from Walmart. Pride towels. The only thing with fucking color. I’m going to have to buy from all over just to make the linen closet of my dreams a reality. Probably will need to go back to Kelowna to get my swinging chair.

My newest library book is called… WEIRDest people in the World. The call number at the Trail Library is 153 HEN. It could take forever to finish, just like the last one did. At least this one is softcopy.

There will be no secret mountain where I live. It’s already been killed by all the people who didn’t realize what they were set out to protect. There’s no more secrets here anyway. I can’t wait til this is all over and I can unhinge myself from this abode. I’m so ready to go and move on. But alas, this is a choice I may not get to make.

No medical appointments until Wednesday, so my journey may be on hold until then. I’ll check in again when I have something to say.