Everything we have forgotten

Written after watching The Call of the Forest: The Forgotten Wisdom of Trees.

Everything we have forgotten

about the earth

and the trees

is coming home to me.

It was born in me

and lost

in classrooms

subways

bars.

I thought about our land

and what it means to me.

And what land once meant

to a people.

And I cried for those

forced from their land

who watched it destroyed

The trauma to the people

the land and the creatures.

I feel dedicated

to do what I can

to plant trees

and restore this small plot of land

And to write

in hopes of inspiring others

to live this way, who can

And maybe one day

We can all live this way

again.

What They Don’t Tell You About Chickens

What They Don’t Tell You About Chickens

By Elliott DeLine

What they don’t tell you about chickens is that you will fall in love with them. Or, more likely, I am among the few who have fallen for these strange and beautiful birds.  People have written poems and odes to all sorts of birds, but I have never read one about chickens. Chickens are grossly underappreciated.

Something else they don’t tell you… is that two small boxes of chicks will result in eventually over a ton of chickens. We picked them up from Moyer’s Chicks in Quakertown, Pennsylvania. I sat in the car while Joey put on a mask and went inside. He came back with two peeping boxes of 50 brown egg layers and 20 standard broilers. They were basically indistinguishable at this point, when I snuck to the back of the car to take a peek. They peeped and melted our hearts all the whole way back to Cortland, New York.

Something you should know about me: I love animals. I mean really love. I was obsessed with them as a child, and very little changed as I aged. And not just the more popular, regal animals. I love pigeons, rats, spiders, snakes…pretty much all creatures are loveable in my eyes.

Something else to know: I was a vegetarian from age 14 to 30. Why did I start eating meat again? For two reasons. One, I was around it all the time, as Joey and his son Drew were carnivores. I don’t cook, and it just became simpler to eat what the household was eating. Two, I had a loosening of scruples around the horrors of factory farming.

We brought these chicks home and set up a cardboard home for them in our new garage. They were adorable little fluffs, not even a day old, huddled under the red heat lamp. From the start, I tried not to focus on the 20 broilers. Joey had bought them for meat. That is what broiler means. They are the standard consumed chicken in the U.S. The other 50 chickens were egg-layers. The broilers were a little plumper and lighter in color. I knew this was going to be very, very hard for me. I tried not to look at them from day 1, and definitely take no pictures or videos.

Joey had solid, rational reasons for raising our meat chickens. It would be much more ethical to raise and kill them, humanely. I knew I could have no part in it, but I understood his thinking. Logically, I agreed. Emotionally I was terrified of the day of slaughter and doubted I could eat chickens I helped raise.

It got worse as they grew. The broilers got hard to ignore. They were ridiculous looking, like tiny dinosaurs with pot bellies and sparse feathers. Within a week, they were double the size of the egg layers, earning them the nickname of “the fatties.” The egg layers became “the brownies,” as they turned progressively more brown. The fatties stayed cream-colored.

They kept growing at an alarming rate. We had to separate them out, afraid they would pick on the brownies. However, they were the most docile animals you’d ever meet. They were very friendly. Despite my best, adult intentions, I discovered that they liked to be held. I would go in with them and they would climb into my lap. Joey discovered me like this one day.

“I love you,” I said to the chicken.

Joey says it was then he knew that we could never eat them. And it wasn’t just me and my mental health that he was concerned about. These fatties were too damn loveable. Friendly, unafraid, innocent, and downright sweethearts. The idea was heartbreaking. It just felt wrong. 

The fatties kept growing. The brownies, too, to a lesser degree. The latter were much more curious and also more skittish. More wild We decided it was time to make them all a small coop and bring them outside sometimes. No sooner had we gotten it all set up when unexpected rain and wind took us over. We rushed out to save them. They were getting soaked, which was not good.

I climbed inside the small coop and started scooping out chicks by the half dozen. I tossed them into plastic bins so we could transport them back to the garage. We managed to get them all back, but they were soaked. We set up additional heat lamps and warmed up some water bottles for them to cuddle. One chick was particularly struggling, so I held her in my hands and to my body, breathing warm air onto her.

Surprisingly, there was only one death. Several days later I came out to the garage and saw that one was lying down, unmoving, on her side. I called Joey and asked where he suggested I bury her. He suggested it would be nicer to leave her body in the woods to be consumed by a wild animal, so her death had purpose. I agreed.

I walked across our new land to the eastern woods. I laid her down on a bed of moss, and put some stones and flowers around her. I cried. But I also felt this incredible connection to the land, the earth, and to life. I envy people who are spiritual, because I have trouble accessing this part of me as much as I’d like. It seems very comforting. But as I walked back home among the trees and the setting sun, I felt a true sense of infinity and beauty.

Joey had been building a shed that summer to house our goats, but then the deal fell through. We decided it was time to move the chickens there. It’s hard to believe they all still fit with just a couple wagon trips! I have a hilarious picture of all 20 of the adolescent fatties sitting together in the black wagon. I really treasure that memory.

The two breeds of chickens did not get along well though, so Joey built a moveable coop for the fatties. It was neat, because we moved it each day with the tractor and they got to munch on different areas of grass. It had a trap door of sorts that turned into a staircase to the upper bunk where they slept. This door still haunts me.

The fatties, stubborn and fat, would not climb up the ladder, so we had to lift them up into their bunk in the evening. They were about 10 lbs at this point, and still growing, so this was no easy task. We are talking about lifting 200 lbs of chicken every evening!  They would squawk and fuss and the whole scene was ridiculous. Every night we got a good laugh, and we both came to really love these animals. We loved the brownies too, but the fatties were so full of personality and humor.

One September evening we were putting the fatties away and things got hectic. I had forgotten to put up the ladder and some were escaping back down after we put them up for the night. As mentioned, lifting them was no small task. Stressed, I hurriedly pulled the string to close the ladder-door. The next part still makes my stomach turn.

I heard a distressed squawk and felt something in the way, but it was too late. I dropped the string, and her body fell out. Her neck was severed and there was a lot of blood. She was still moving.

“No!” I screamed. “No, no, no!” I don’t remember much else. Joey says I kept screaming. I ran about a yard away and curled up in child’s pose on the grass. I covered my ears and shut my eyes tight and kept saying “no,” as if this could somehow block out the truth. I sobbed and sobbed.

After what seemed like hours Joey returned to my side. He reassured me that it wasn’t my fault, and it was an accident that could have happened to anyone. He also told me she was dead immediately. She was only moving because, well, the old saying about a chicken with her head cut off, right? I was so relieved she didn’t suffer.

I struggled a lot after that. It took a little while before I could go out to the coop without feeling dizzy. I cried a lot. Like I said, I really love animals. And these chickens had become family. Eventually though, I started to accept what happened and heal. There were still 19 fatties to care for.

And then, tragedy struck again. First, it was a brownie who somehow stayed out over night. We found her body with the throat ripped out- a clear calling card of the mink. Joey felt the weight of blame that time and I had to reassure him.

A few days later, one of the fatties had simply gotten too fat. They weren’t designed to live long: just to produce a lot of meat. Her leg had broken from the weight of her body. Joey had to put her down. He’s still really shaken about it to this day. He said he wasn’t expecting it to be so hard, but that he could never slaughter animals for meat.

What was amazing that say was the flock. One chicken clearly was close with the injured one. She sat beside her, leaning, making comforting noises. The rest all gathered around, solemn, knowingly. It was moving. I once again felt spiritually touched.

But the true horror happened the night that the mink got into the shed.

I remember hearing Joey downstairs around 5 am, which is early for him. I got up.

“Hey, is everything alright?” I asked.

“I heard noises coming from the coop,” he said, “I’m gonna go check on it. Can I use your phone’s flashlight?”

I went to the bathroom and checked on my rabbits. When I came back out into the kitchen, he was back. “Everything alright?” I asked, nonchalant.

“It’s….not good,” he said.

I felt the earth slipping out from under me. “What? What happened?”

“A mink got inside….the door is warped.”

“I should have noticed….”

“It’s ok, it’s not easy to see. I had a feeling….I should have been checking it.”

“Are they dead? How many?”

“Over half are dead.”

I collapsed on the couch sobbing.

“I’m so sorry sweetie,” Joey kept saying, rubbing my back. He was the hero that day. He cleaned up the mess….all the dead fatties, he carried to a hidden spot in the woods. He said it was horrible. The other chickens were attacking him, including the rooster. They didn’t want him to take them. Unfortunately, there was also one that was not quite dead that he had to put down. This was awful for him. He didn’t tell me at first, but he needed to confide in me eventually. I understood.

It took a long time to heal after that. The six remaining chickens were clearly traumatized. You could see it in their eyes. One would refuse to go to bed, searching and calling for her dead friend. This killed me to watch. I tried to pet them and comfort them though…they were still unbelievably friendly. We all got through it. And I feel an even more special bond with the Big 6.

Those six remain, along with the brownies. I don’t know how long we’ll have together. They weren’t bred to live long, only to be meaty and easy to kill. I think this is cruel, and we’d never buy them again. They’ve obviously been uncomfortable and awkward at moving all their lives.

We’ve both been vegetarian again. I’m not sure it’s permanent. I think it is for me.

I’m sure we will have many farm animals…but nothing will be quite like the fatties. Maybe this sounds trite, but  I’ve learned a lot about myself. A lot about my soul. And I look forward to everyday I get to spend with these lovely creatures.

I guess what they don’t tell you about chickens is they will also break your heart. But for me, I guess it’s worth it.

Love is always worth it.

Trees, old photos, celebrations, and more.

Here is a blub I wrote during my timed writing assignment at my writing circle.

We are waiting for spring to plant trees. Joey ordered over $1,000 worth. Plums, apples, pears and more exotic fruits of which I forget the names. We also ordered regular trees from the DEC’s yearly sale. Basically we will be planting many, many trees.

I like to imagine my future life as a tree planter. I imagine my arms will get stronger from digging and hauling dirt. I will probably be covered in dirt a lot, so I’ll have to wear outfits i don’t mind getting dirty.

Another thing we are waiting to do is plant crops. It will be tangible physical work and I like that. It seems more natural and human than other jobs I’ve had, such as sitting behind a computer or sorting things in a warehouse.

I’ve been nervous about spring- worried I won’t be good enough, or that I’ll lose my enthusiasm. But now, writing this, I’m feeling excited. There will be sunlight again and we’ll be out in it often.

Another project will be building the rabbit hutch and enclosure. This has been making me nervous because I want to be absolutely sure it’s secure from predators. I also worry I won’t be any help with the construction and will hate the work and just get in the way. I’ve never built something before.

Still, why the defeatist attitude? This will be a chance to learn something new. And it will be a new experience to write about.


I wrote this one looking at a picture of me from 5 years ago...lol.

Too skinny and pale, bespectacled boy, reading in the Mission, San Francisco Queer Open Mic. A trans boy voice, that was my shtick. Gay, also: that was the kicker! What an ass! What powerful words! Glory be the trans boy writer in his Levis and black sweater with his perfectly styled pompadour. Looks like he belongs in a poster of an 80’s new wave band. James Dean vibes. Who is he? So sad and serious, so lost and mysterious! Who is that boy?


I wrote this one tonight at the writers’ circle.

When the danger passed… some met their shadows. Some were greeted with fresh air. But all were forever changed. They gathered and had nights of feasts and dancing. People strummed guitars and beat on drums. Someone played a flute. They had roaring bonfires at night, and around them, they kissed and embraced and snuggled up with one another. Nothing like this had happened before the danger.

But some did meet their shadows. They were solemn, unable to join in the festivities. I was one of them. Maybe it was the sudden change, after all that time alone. I couldn’t throw myself into it. I still felt like I was grieving. Grieving something which, at the core, I was glad to be free. Like the death of an abusive parent. But still, I was mourning.

By the third day, as the others were starting to tire, I was hit with waves of joy. The freedom became real! The music was more relaxed and quiet, but that suited me fine. Often times I just sang to myself. The bonfires got smaller, but more intimate. We shared poetry by ourselves and others, and dreamed up a new world now that the danger had passed.


And here is one last blurb taken from a blurb I wrote this evening. Writing to Heal is the name of the writing class.

Can writing help me to heal? I don’t doubt that it helped people like Maya Angelou. It’s helped me in the past. Just right now I need to keep my writing and art kind of light. Not shallow or glib, but not dark and heart-wrenching, for my mental health. Maybe “writing to heal” doesnt’ have to mean writing about trauma. Maybe there is something inherently soothing and healing in just writing about life. Yes, I like that thought.

“Elliott DeLine’s work in the 2020’s was positive and full of hope. He often alluded to times of great pain, but did not dwell.” Ha…

Art-stress, and a poem about nature

Aw man, tonight I’m not feeling great. I made a self-portrait and it seems to have really messed me up. I feel agitated….really on edge and spacey. I did it in my old style I used to in high school. I guess it just took me back to that time in my life. I wasn’t thinking about it while I was working, I was just sort of in a trance for hours. It’s a really good piece too. I wish I could just feel good about it.

It’s been really frustrating lately that creativity triggers me. Joey suggested that maybe I draw nature and not people if I’m going to do black and white pencil drawings. I do want to make some art of nature, but I want to be able to do all kinds of things. It’s frustrating. I really have to watch out for my mental health though.

I want to take another writing course that will help me hopefully write some short stories. I’m worried about this though, too. Can I no longer do any art that has a dark side to it? I don’t want everything I make to be light and positive. Do I? I mean, it’s a valid question. What is the point of making art that doesn’t feel good? Does it serve a higher function? Or bring a deeper satisfaction long term? I dunno.

Can I write happy short stories? I guess. It’s interesting that it seems shallow for some reason. That seems like an immature outlook, of the suffering artist. I just want to be able to express a range of things in my work. Hmm…

Well, I don’t have to figure it all out at once. What I discovered tonight is that doing portraits in my old high school style probably isn’t healthy for me right now. It doesn’t mean I have to stick with light subject matter forever. I just need to be careful of this. I think I’m going to have to develop new styles, which is actually exciting.

I’m writing this all largely in an attempt to calm myself down. I want to go to bed pretty soon, because I go to bed pretty early and wake up around 5 am. I slept a lot today though. I’m trying to just apply some self love and forgiveness. Here, also, is a new poem about nature. Typing that out will calm me down.

In The Early January Light

In the early January light

yellow-white sun with an orange halo

the song of the cardinal

Blue shadows around snowy foot tracks

mostly human

A trail of paw prints

leading across the frozen pond

to the island

where a fox beds down in the tall grasses

Spots along the bank 

where the snow is dug up

from the deer, eating the grass

The wind whistles low in my ears

I have cold hands

and the world seems just a little bit

fuzzy

Tree-covered hills in the distance

grey

while the trees in the foreground

appear almost black

Four crows

cut across that grey expanse

beneath the white-yellow orb

and the encroaching clouds. 

Some blurbs from this week

Inauguration eve: If you seriously think this is “just another president” I don’t even know how to begin to talk to you. Is Biden the dream? Of course not. But this is a matter of safety, for some of us more than others, but for us all. Lives are at stake. We are talking about pure evil. I don’t feel in the least bit hyperbolic saying that. We are talking about basic human rights and freedom from 21st century fascism. This will still be a fucked up country. But if this doesn’t matter, what possibly could?


It should not matter what you think of me. And yet, it does. Today I asked Joey in the car, “Do you think I look androgynous?” I knew better.

“This feels like there isn’t a right answer,” he said. “Are you asking if I’d have trouble telling your gender?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You look nonbinary. Or like a feminine trans guy.”

I pouted silently. Why? Now I realize it was, “No, what would a cis person think I am?”

The answer: male.

“I’m feeling insecure in my femininity,” I said.

“Oh boy…” he said, and he reassured me. We laughed.

But what is it I want? This thinking gets insane. I fall into what I call the “gender hole.” Is it about clothes? Make-up? Postures? I don’t want to be a trans man, and I don’t want to be a cis woman…at least not today. I don’t think. But I take so much comfort in our, dare I say, butch and fem roles. I want to be a stereotypical girl in personality. Whatever that means. I love when we are gender stereotypes and we laugh at it.

Like 90% of the time only one person sees me because of Covid isolation. So I guess it makes sense that I started quizzing this person on my appearance. I have fear of coming across as a cis het dude. I worry about my voice, my inflections….It should not matter what you think of me. But it does.

I want to create some confusion and attraction from masculine straight and queer men. Whatever masculine means. Why? To everyone else I’d like to be platonically intriguing or go unnoticed. Either way. Why is this so embarrassing? I guess it fits easily for cis people. They have the same desires to be seen correctly and be attractive to those they find attractive. They just don’t feel the need to articulate it.


In the early January light. Yellow-white sun with an orange halo. The song of the cardinal. Blue shadows around snowy foot tracks, mostly human. But there is a trail of paw prints leading across the frozen pond to the island, where the fox beds down in the tall grasses.

There are spots where the snow is dug up by deer eating the grass. The frigid wind whistles low in my ears. I have cold hands, and the world seems just a little bit fuzzy.

There are tree-covered hills in the distance that are grey, while the trees in the foreground appear dark, almost black. Four black crows cut across between the black and grey expanse, beneath the white-yellow orb and the encroaching clouds.


The body is holding all that is mysterious to the mind. The truth is in your muscles’ memories. You know it in your bones. I know things that I do not know. I remember and then forget again. What I really want to say is, there is a poem I read recently by lucille clifton that says, “every day something had tried to kill me and has failed.” I’ve thought about that line all week.

Zines

I am making zines of my poetry every month!   Really happy with how this turned out! It’s gonna be really neat, I will mail you a physical copy each month. If you want to exchange zines let me know. The poems are about being a rural queer trans person and such. Check it out! http://patreon.com/elliottdeline

Also if you can’t afford to subscribe but want to get them, let me know! I mostly just want to share.

A good day.

Today was a good day. My elliptical arrived, and I exercised on that for about 15 minutes. Afterwards I felt like I wanted to do yoga, so I did that for another 10 minutes. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it completely changed my day. It brought me into my body. I’m going to try to do this short routine everyday.

I also practiced guitar. I’m getting a little better at finger picking. I feel encouraged. I have another lesson tomorrow.

In the earlyish morning, around maybe 8-9:30, Joey and I walked down to the pine grove and had a camp fire. We just talked and chilled and it was really lovely.

I set up these dresser things today for myself, which is actually a big deal because I usually suck at putting things together and need help. It’s giving me some hope that I’ll be able to help with building projects on the farm, and hopefully our little cabin we want to build.

Writing classes are going well. I got more positive feedback on my poetry from the teacher, who is a published poet. She really didn’t have any suggestions, she just said it was a very strong poem. Here, I’ll share it:

Two Selves

The child says he will not sleep

Until he writes the perfect poem.

The adult says, yes, he will

And turns out the light.

The child says he’s afraid of the dark.

He’s afraid to sleep.

He’s afraid of nightmares.

The adult says, “I love you.

You’re safe.

Hold my hand.”

I really do like it, but I thought other people might find it a little sappy. People in the class really loved in though. I decided to include it in the zine I’m making of my poetry. That’s another thing I’m working on.

So, zines. Ha. My printer/scanner/copier arrived Saturday and I got right to work on it. Worth mentioning I also set up my printer, which I’ve never done. It really shows that my focus and confidence are getting better (thanks ketamine treatments!). Anyway, I made a zine for the first time very manically. I’m not sure I should use that word, because it only lasted a few hours, but it felt like mania. I was working too fast and I’m lucky I didn’t cut myself with the scissors or something. I was just kind of pulling things viciously from sketchbooks and notebooks and slapping them onto pages with glue, making a but of a mess. It turned out pretty…meh. But I tried again when I was in a calmer state of mind, and I’m not doing it all in one setting. So it’s going better. I want to make it available to people soon.

I’m feeling pretty good, given the circumstances of things. I’m really fucking lucky to live in such an isolated and beautiful place. I’ve had the privilege to shut it all out often. The past few weeks I’ve still been struggling with really high anxiety. It manifests as worrying about what I’m doing with my day, but I know it’s really because of the state of things in this country. I’d say I’m a little depressed, but nothing severe like the past. Just a little lethargy and lack of motivation some days. But I’ve been doing a good job of filling up my time anyway

Oh, this is cool, I’m going to be teaching a peer led class at PROS (Personal Recovery Oreinted Services). I’m going to teach poetry.

The queer writer’s group I started on zoom went great yesterday. There were 6 of us, and 3 were nonbinary. We shared our work and we had a really good talk about isolation as queers and not being able to dress up and go out, and how it’s actually a big deal. That was like a breath of air for me, seriously. I’m pretty lonely and talking with other queers was so validating.

All the animals are well. Family is well. I guess that’s all I have to say for tonight. Thanks for reading.

Oh, I also added a page on this site for my art, so check that out if you’re interested. I’m posting more soon.

My second assignment for my writing class

I did the Pennebaker Paradigm for 2 days and decided I had done enough. I do believe I will keep doing free writing in 20 minute bursts every day, just not about bad memories. My experience was this: First, I tried to just write about the painful memory. This was sort of good, because it made it real…but it also made me pretty sad. I did a good job of stopping when it felt like too much, and grounding, using writing. For example, I wrote about what my bedroom looked like and what clothes I was wearing. Later, I switched to a different style, where I rewrote the trauma. In this version, a second, empowered “me” comes to my rescue. That felt very contrived at first, but I think it was a good exercise/ thought experiment. I’m glad I did it, because it inspired this poem that I rather like, even though it’s short and simple.

Two Selves

The child says he will not sleep

Until he writes the perfect poem

The adult says, yes, he will

And turns out the light

The child says he’s afraid of the dark

He’s afraid to sleep

He’s afraid of nightmares

The adult says, “I love you.

You’re safe.

Hold my hand.”

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From my writing circle

Here is something I wrote tonight during our ten minute writing sessions. I’ve italicized the prompt.

To find out who you are is perhaps an impossible task. Some find it comforting that we are everchanging and that the ego is an illusion. I still find that scary. I think about these questions when I do my treatments. It’s best if I can be outside, looking at the skyline.

I like living out here, away from the rushing world. There are political signs and flags that I find infuriating and frightening, but mostly we live under the radar. I’d like to keep it like that Though it makes me angry that we even have to think this way.

It feels almost silly. Denial is strong. I find myself thinking it’s all just too dramatic. Too cinematic. The pandemic, the political unrest….it’s truly unreal. I wonder what else is coming. I feel so removed. I barely consume news and get my headlines from Joey. He’s extremely on top of it.

Sometimes I feel guilty about this, but it’s vital I protect my mental health right now. Paranoia can be a problem. In 2016 I was hospitalized shortly after the election. One of the things I believed was that nazis would be coming for us in the night. This was among other wild ideas, and I was definitely unwell. But it’s not that paranoid of a thought now, if you ask me. I can’t even imagine what’s next.

I also would like to point out that for undocumented immigrants, this “being taken away” is already a reality. It’s happening. Also for people of color, with regard to the police. I guess my sense of “unrealness” is my white privilege showing.

Anyway, I started with the idea of “finding out who you are.” I guess now is really the time for that, huh?

The opposite of self-care sea slug

Ugh, today was not great. It’s amazing how all my insight can just go out the window. I’m really grateful to have a partner that helps me keep things in perspective though. Here is the very logical, admittedly humorous breakdown of what I did today. Paraphrased.

Writing course prompt gives option: write about happy or sad time. Obviously sad is the deeper choice. Plus, my poems last night were positive, and I have to show my range. I will write a poem about the most traumatic moment of my adult life and something I am still really struggling with. That will really move ’em! Aren’t I winning at this Writing to Heal Course? Open up old wounds and heal those motherfuckers!

Uh oh, I’m crying. For some reason I now feel really depressed.

Knock knock.

Joey: what?

Me: *sobbing* I wrote a sad poem about when we broke up and now I’m sad.

Joey: -_-

Me: Can we hug?

Joey: Of course.

*Hug*

Joey: Maybe you need to focus on grounding yourself in the present moment.

Me: I think I should do ketamine right now. I think that would be a great idea for me.

Joey: That is the worst idea ever.

Me: I think I should burn the poem!

Joey: Are you sure that’s dramatic enough?

Me: I will at least rip it up and delete it from the submission page for my class. Oh no, it won’t let me do that! I’m gonna freak out now!

Joey: ….

Me: Are you annoyed?

Joey: It’s a little frustrating.

Me: I’m sorryyyyyyy

Joey: Stop licking your wounds! Do you need a cone of shame?

Shortly after: lot’s of laughter, albeit somewhat strained.

I’ve exhausted myself emotionally today and probably need to sleep. Why am I sometimes like this? Well, I know, I just don’t want to get into it. I’m just going to laugh at it because the alternative is crying and I’m all cried out.

This probably goes without saying, but I need to stick with a healthier approach to being an artist. My health as a human depends on it.

After this I felt all pouty and needy and nothing was good enough. Blah.

Here’s a really good quote from a book I’m reading. I’m just gonna put this here.

“Our fundamental longing to belong and feel loved becomes an insistent craving for substitutes …Our longing for sex and affection can become an anguished dependency on another human being to define and please us…. If we have been acutely frustrated or deprived, our fixated desire becomes desperate and unquenchable, and our entire life is hijacked by the force of this energy. We feel like a wanting self in all situations, with all people, throughout the day…This kind of thirst contracts our body and mind into a profound trance…The color of autumn leaves or a passage of poetry merely amplifies the feeling that there is a gaping hole in our life. …In bringing a clear comprehensive awareness to our situation, we begin to accept our wanting self with compassion. This frees us to move forward, to break out of old patterns.” -Tara Brach, Radical Acceptance.

Alright, g’night.