just finished reading missed connections on craigslist, like i do every morning as part of my ritual. been doing this for years. used to read them hoping there’d be something for me in there, but now i read them to indulge in the collective love story of humans…and if somebody writes something that speaks to my heart, i take it as a sign. missed connections: a little flame to warm chilly emotions upon waking. the sky is silky grey with hints of robin’s egg blue this morning, oddly…just like the background of the canvas i painted last night. feels like an under the sea sky. pluto went direct last night too. do i feel it? not sure yet. unusually groggy. and pms. which for me means, ultra sensitive, emotional, and impressionable. last night i went out alone, cause my friend had to cancel. though i go out alone a lot these days. anyhow, took myself to an asian noodle place, and read a collection of very depressing short stories written by a woman who grew up in the slums of chicago, allowing the pain of humanity to enter my blood through her quirky style of prose. then stopped at a pub i’ve never been to, before attending a free poetry reading night. the bartender was so kind to me, that i almost felt like crying with gratitude. this is pms. the kindness of strangers moves me. this pub though…there must have been twelve televisions all playing different sports games at once. no music. it was a real headache, and uncomfortable disorientation. made me keep looking from tv to tv, like a cat with a.d.d. i enjoy the sound of sports in the background, but twelve sounds of sports on tv’s the size of godzilla’s head? ouch. i read about an extremely poor black man having a tragic ending to his short life as well-to-doers sipped their fancy drinks and ate chicken wings, talking about their long work days at the office and such. contrast. found it refreshing to sit someplace not like me at all, unfamiliar and anonymous. that’s pms too. the poetry reading was alright. it was actually prose, to be exact. dollar beer and prose night. i sat in in the very back in case i needed to bolt due to feeling trapped. the first reader moved me. big time. he read about mundane life, being a bed sales man. felt attracted to him too. that always helps. if i saw him on the street i wouldn’t be though. attraction is not a looks thing for me. it’s a mind thing, an essence thing. pretty men are nothing more than pretty men. but a brilliant creative mind, and i hope you’ll take my hand. the woman who ran the event was funny and entertaining, and she wore handsome cowboy boots with embroidered flowers stitched into them. i had an ok time, but found myself feeling sorrowful underneath it all. pms. but it’a also more than that. yet i did not want a repeat of tuesday’s meltdown…too much for one week, tonight would need to be different. meanwhile my friend who canceled was emailing me about more chaos happening in her evening, and i reminded myself it’s not just me. suddenly a fortitude took over, like how cement goo holds bricks together. i sat in the fold out chair and listened to the readers, none of the rest moving me, but i didn’t bolt just yet. waited for the break between the reading and the open mic portion, deciding it was best to go before drinking the cheap beer due to its cheapness, later regretting it. walked through the park in the dark on my way home, committed to not worrying about trouble, trusting my instincts, but still putting the look on my face that says, “come near me and i will bite your head off with one chomp”. suddenly i was over taken with beauty as the earth quieted around me, as it does in nature, even the nature of a tiny city park. the many lights, shaped like full moons, lined the cement rectangle shaped ponds of shallow water. my eyes were bleary, making the light smear and diffuse, casting a milky glow around the globes and over the water. the air felt emollient on my cheeks and hands. yellow-white electric light caressing the brown-black magnetic night. nurturing my hunger inside. but soon as i walked into my silent apartment that felt like an ice box, the sorrow returned. i felt like bukowski for a moment, cynical, mercurial, and hardened. i wanted to turn pain into art by writing, but met zero success. pms. anything but bukowski. instead, i plopped on the couch and watched an episode of “sex and the city” before going to bed, having a shot of tears for a night cap. weird dreams all night about people liking me to my face, but talking crap about me behind my back, and this woman telling me to not give any importance to them. is this a metaphor for the way i can still be mean to myself, even when i am doing it behind my own back… like unconsciously? who knows. who cares. the analyst needs a vacation. protocol: write poems, paint, drink in the city, love hard every moment from chaos to nothingness. one day, this life will be gone.