Math Notes: "The coin has no memory."

I woke up on my back to my yoga teacher shaking me. I had been asleep for 20 minutes.

I ignored somebody, and then later somebody ignored me.

I stole coffee.

I played Scarborough Fair for a grade.

I told a girl I was bleeding from my groin and then "well, see you in hell".

I read the news.

I just started to drive. I didn't know where I was going, but I ended up at Barb's house, my mother's confidante. Their friendship never made sense to me. I was miserable looking. I think something terrible had happened before my recollection begins. Perhaps I was raped. It was something that I couldn't tell anybody, but my whole body felt twisted under the weight of it.
I saw Barb, she was with my sister's children in the garage. I hugged her, I wanted comfort, but she didn't want to hug me back. I had split awareness of events that had really occurred in contrast to events in the dream. Barb called you Rebecca at mom's funeral, she doesn't like you, I thought. I went and hung out in her neighbor's yard, a place I have real memory of loitering in my baby days. I didn't know where else to go.
I begin to have to have an orgasm. It's not convenient or even mentally desired, but my body was going to have it. I go to the car where I adjust the steering wheel (I drive a classic car) and prepare to exact the compulsory one touch and spasm of the orgasms I have in dreams, which are real, but there is no real touching except perhaps sometimes in the last few seconds. Noah comes to the car to offer me a shirt he would like me to repair. I take the shirt, tell him to leave me alone, he goes, but I have to go somewhere where I can't be disturbed. I go to a bedroom off the garage. I lock it. It's filled with uriney light, and the windows are covered with sheets. I sit on the edge of the bed, touch myself once under my skirt, and have an immensely painful and overwhelming spasm, crumpling of the body and I bend over towards the ground. I have had an orgasm, but I didn't want it. My body hurt. I think I had been raped before I started remembering the dream. I cried. My Mother was somewhere around, but I couldn't see her. Has made me sad(der). Who Cares. I do.

Laying supine on a sheet, copious blood was drawn from both hands and both feet at once. One doctor would take it. Another would come to do the same.

I am finally old (and sad) enough to play Chopin right.

Breathing Shit:
I am beginning to realize that any discomfort in my guts directly lends to respiratory inhibition.
Just now I was comfortably performing household work, when I suddenly have stopped taking real breaths (this I realize after becoming light headed). It's only after realizing that I am not breathing that I realize I am incredibly nauseous from my morning minerals, and this appears to be the reason I have stopped breathing deeply. As if I am protecting my guts by not taking breaths from the source of discomfort.
Nausea or gut tightness from emotional disturbance creates the same loop cycle.
& my breathing patterns become labored if I need to piss, and ridiculously, I realize I am not breathing before I realize I need to piss.
How do I get off this backwards body signal train? It's so stupid I want to punch my face off and stomp on it.

Had a vivid nightmare that I received negative feedback on Etsy. It woke me up and dragged me into the living room just to check. 5 AM.
Chill out, Rachael.
On another tip, an energy that I have really enjoyed basking in with my last two math professors comes in the moments when they conjure their romantic leanings to inform their logic base.
I swear Songer almost cried while waxing on about the Central limit theorem. He really talks like this:
"If you are like me, you will find this to be incredibly remarkable. You see, this means that nature is not just chaos..." Makes weighted roving eye contact with the class.
Yes, I really do see.

It's a bell curve.

Future Rachael, I challenge you to remember why tonight was the best night you've had in recent memory.
(Hint: Dying to an organ playing Someone to Watch Over Me. Noting sensations in your feet as you went faster or slower. 1st beer in over 3 weeks made you feel powerful, not weak.)

Something happens when you make eye contact with other eyes in a photograph.

If somebody had told me 5 years ago that I would be looking at an image of my once beloved father surrounded by 9 unfamiliar children and a humorless blonde on his arm, underneath which are several affirming comments from people I once considered my family, and one from a man who told my pregnant 17 year old sister that she could no longer attend church saying: "Beautiful family, Jens. The Lord's blessing you brother.",

I would not have believed you.

I looked at my bank account for the first time in two months and realized that I never go anywhere, and rarely spend money.
I haven't bought anything at school except two cups of coffee and one sandwich, and considering that I am there for almost 40 hours a week, I consider this an accomplishment that requires restraint and forethought- Two qualities that I wouldn't normally attribute to myself.
I have also all but given up alcohol for the last two weeks and the prospective future. I've been allowing myself to drink a little once a week, and so far this hasn't been a challenge, which is surprising to me, because I usually drink at least a little daily. I've discovered that I'm not addicted to it (as I feared), but I am an indentured servant to whatever pleasurable habits I fall into developing, which is something I suppose I've always known. I did go through physical withdrawal in the first 6 days, though. Waking up feeling hungover, like somebody who stops coffee might develop a headache.
Next stop in my moderate monasticism is to severely limit my internet usage. This is far more challenging, as I truly think I am addicted to it. Especially when I am avoiding doing homework, or thinking about something upsetting. I would turn it off completely if it weren't for my roommate who needs it more than I do.
I am beginning to hate my slavish dependence on Internet, it's of Devil.

Except for you Diaryland.

Over the last two months I've developed a coping method in the form of a game. It's purpose is to curb bitterness. It doesn't have a name, but I just ask myself the question-
what is beautiful about it.
The subject, it, varies depending upon when and at what the gloom strikes. And I have to find one thing, or at least try very valiantly.
Today I noticed that this game has woven it's weft into my internal dialog. My lexicon of "shiny" synonyms is tapped as I'm trying to observe light on/into the dread of the impending season, the dark at 4, the endless rain. Today,
It's like I'm walking on mirrors. (To the sidewalk glazed with rain.)
The windows glitter when I walk quickly.
The gray makes the green brighter.
Anyways, you like the dark better.

"It didn't have to be this way."
A thought I have often, that could be applied to most outcomes.

Fate en fur.

Are "firsts" good even if they're bad?
I think a willful "first", even if bad, is at least exhilarating.
Then just prepare for the fall out.

Bomb Bed.

I rode my bike to the post office at 9 PM yesterday after telling a perilously invested customer that their jacket would be shipped out the next day.
I live in the paranoid fear of wronging an imbalanced consumer.
After I post the package and trot down the steps, I realize the air is nice and I stop in the middle of the side walk.
I seer into the foreground, I'm transfixed by a green light. This has been happening a lot lately. The traffic lights blur-beam straight into my retina and I just stop what I'm doing and leave town for a minute.
My minutes up and I settle my gaze on a drooping tree branch that acts like a marionette, dead, lively, controlled by god. I'm bored.
I have a thermos filled with coffee in my bike basket. It's leaking, and I know the coffee wants to be drunk, but it's 9 PM, too late. I don't want it to leak, but I also don't want it in my body. "But I paid for it", I actually said that.
So I drank it in shallow droughts and spit every sip into a bush.
I thought it might be funny, but I didn't laugh, instead I thought about how I hadn't really laughed for a while.

It's funny that people don't like it when you're so bitter, that to taste you makes them spit.
On the other hand, when you're that bitter it keeps you from tasting yourself.

To claim something you care about is a difficult task.

Unrelated, I woke up to a chant from the remnants of a dream, "A group of bowed men named you, a group of bowed men named you."
What does it mean.

I'm staying at my grandparent's house this holiday, as I did last, because every other family abode has become inhospitable in some way.
This home is the polar opposite of inhospitable. My temperature, hunger, and temperament are constantly being gauged by my grandmother. My grandfather hates it when I leave to go any elsewhere, and he has started calling me "my girl". "My girl can't leave."
Since my mother died he has latched onto me more than he used to. Sometimes I think he wants to believe I am her, for just a moment. He called me Itty Bitty Fritty on accident. But he also calls me the name of my second cousin, Greer, occasionally.
Today we shoveled the driveway in a joint effort, but typically all he wants to do is sit and watch closed caption TV together. I am happy to do this.
They go to bed fairly early, and as I must be quiet, I have difficulty wearing myself into a state of weariness at night.
So, scouring their pantry for sedating fluids just now, I found only dessert sherry and suddenly realized they don't really drink. And I rarely see them drunk, BUT I don't forget a dinner last year, when a cousin said, "At least she's in a better place." And my grandfather, who had been drinking, said brashly, broken,
"No, she's not. This is the better place. She's supposed to be here." And let out a bellow in the decibel of the near deaf, that I now know he makes in his sleep, followed by sobbing. The torrential sobbing of the occasionally drunk.
That's I how feel lately. A little bit sometimes more.

4 different environments, 4 different kinds of actual love, yet 4 different kinds of actual loneliness. I am confused by this, to the extent of fascination.
I end up actually alone, eventually, and crying in the closet off the garage that I haven't seen since I was too young to remember. But I don't feel lonely.
This is worth recalling, that the way I feel tonight is,
I B Long No Wear,
but by myself,
and I belong to no 1, but myself.

My cat, Wee Bay, could be a contender for the Sweetest Spirit award.
This is an awards ceremony that I just thought up that awards sweetness of spirit, in cats.

He's got a good shot.