Surviving the World I Live Near

There are a few things that I’m bad at. One of them is leaving for places. I always leave way too early and end up pacing back and forth in front of where I have to be an hour before I have to be there. I can’t stand waiting to leave for somewhere and feel like I’d rather be heading to where I have to be than waiting to leave from where I am. Never mind all the time I could have spent doing something useful where I am.

When I walked home from up the street through my new neighborhood, I noticed all these houses with lights on and I could see into their homes. I always wish I could sneak into the house and spy on the people and see how they live. I picture standing in their living room watching the people watch TV and having a conversation and I’ll finally know how people talk to each other.

I’ll find out Monday if I have to start taking testosterone. I started crying when I was listening to Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks.

I’ve been hanging out with a lot of people. I’ve been hanging out with people every night of the week. I still feel lonely.

It keeps being warm. It is still officially winter, and it keeps getting to seventy degrees. I smell the flowers and the mowed lawns and wonder if we are getting shorted our actual summer or will we start turning brown like California.

I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. I sleep a few hours a night and when I wake up I’m tired, but I can’t get back to sleep. The problem with sleeping problems is that I miss opiates the most.

I love my new neighborhood. I walked from 54^th to 66^th and everyone I passed smiled at me. People were riding their bikes leisurely around and walking while enjoying the gardens and sun. I have lived in a lot of different neighborhoods in this city and this has to be the most diverse neighborhood I’ve ever lived in.

Not everything I write ends up on here. I write all the time and some things I’ve written don’t belong here or I’m not sure if it’s ready for public consumption. I write these little things and I don’t mind letting you know about my pain or bowel movements, but gods forbid I publish poetry or fiction. I hope to change that really soon. Maybe. Maybe that isn’t what the readers want. Who knows?

Sometimes I read my old blogs and then I try writing a new one and realize that I write about the same shit all the time. Baseball, cancer, being lonely, can’t sleep, smoking, being mad at something or some kind of person, heartbreak, softball, getting old, love, fitting in, being sober & thirsty and maybe a few other topics I’m not remembering. I’m sorry if I seem like I’m repeating myself.

I don’t smoke, but goddamn I would love to smoke a cigarette.

I would like to fall in love and grow old with someone.

I would like to feel healthy again.

Softball is starting in a week and I won’t be able to play.

I see people that are running miles and miles and lifting weights and doing yoga and doing other physical activities and I can’t help but be jealous, but then I think all these people are going to die and even if they die in a crowded room, they’re going to die alone.

I keep over doing things and I hurt myself. I don’t feel pain, just uncomfortable. Then I try to rest, but I go out and over do it again. One of the things I hate is that I don’t look like I’m weak. I walk into AA meetings and there aren’t any chairs set up and I know that I’m not supposed to do that kind of shit, but I feel guilty because other people see me not setting up chairs, so I start setting up chairs and then my stomach hurts for the rest of the night.

I would like to not care what other people think of me.

I care less now than I did before cancer.

A few people have asked me if I think any different about life after surviving cancer. I do. Time is going three hundred times faster than before. I feel closer to death than I did before. I don’t filter my thoughts as much. While I have a yearning to live life more fully than I did before I have a huge distaste for the world around the people and me in it. I love my family and friends, but society as a whole seems wicked and evil. I have fantasies of slipping away in a camper van and just driving up and down Latin America camping in jungles and going mad. I want to grow a giant beard and write poetry and paint abstract and watch the sun rise along the equator over the Pacific and be lost.

Part of the changes I don’t even know yet. I have yet to go through some things. I’m just getting used to not being sick anymore. I’m still having to go to the Doctors and take tests and have blood drawn. I have yet to get a job. I’m still getting used to living where I live. I haven’t been living with any kind of structure, except the two weeks I did a temp job. I still feel like I’m a stranger among people I know.