June 5: Day 32

June 5 2025
Daily Pages
Day 32



I spent the train ride editing the "Aydane and Talia" fantasy story I wrote 12+ years ago. I'm really enjoying it. Even tho it still has copious problems I don't think I'm going to spend the time to solve them all, I'm glad I'm solving some.

I usually write daily pages on the train, and then spend my time in the trax editing. So I mixed it up today. In case there actually is anyone reading this, I want you to know I HAVE been writing nearly every weekday every morning. Nothing like fiction or poetry, basically just journaling. I think it's been helpful, and it's good to be past day 30 and still keeping up the habit.

I've stopped taking muscle relaxers at night, as I felt it was making me disproportionately weaker, and the cons were outweighing the pros. I was only taking 1/2 a small dose, but I hope this means my fitness goals will come easier to me. It WOULD explain why I've felt more difficulty doing pushups after taking pills than earlier. Duh.


I can't spend too much time on this, I have a freelance project I said I'd have done last night that I forgot because *gestures broadly at everything* life is exhausting. We live in a capitalist dystopian hellscape, and act like everything is fine. For years we tried struggling, hoping we could stop surviving and thrive a little bit. Now we're realigning our priorities/lowering our standards. Now survival seems like victory in itself.


I want to be a public speaker. I want to make a change, make a difference. I want to run for office, but no one will elect me, and people who understand the nuance of the law and how to manipulate it will likely humiliate and/or curbstomp me (figuratively, I hope.)


I want to point out the injustice. I don't know if it was the influence of medical marijana yesterday, but I really felt like everything is set up to keep the lower classes down and the upper classes up. From having to commute to a job to give them the opportunity to exploit you and steal the value of your labor, to the American Dream of owning a home, to having to spend energy and spoons I could have used to try to better my situation, I instead had to spend mowing a lawn I don't care about, growing grass I can't eat. Watching Andor, a show about rebellion and hope, and how people who fight against the empire, even if they "win," still die. And they're fictional, and in much better shape than I am.


And what's possibly worse, I see the exploitation and the abuse, and a large part of me doesn't want to try to "better" my situation. I'd rather be poor and bitter than wealthy and exploitative. I can hope against hope I can better my situation through internal focus, like therapy, meditation, buddhism, internal family systems, denial, entertainment, video games, etc. I can maybe one day sell my writing. I don't know if I'd pay to read any of it tho. And I'm unsure if it's because I wrote it, or because I think it's bad/mediocre. I'd rather be bad than mediocre. At least badness often brings humor, even if (especially if) unintentionally. Mediocrity is much worse. Even god hates mediocrity. As I mumble something about don't be lukewarm, be hot or cold or I'll spit you out. I'd prefer god spit rather than swallow.


Worried about job security, for myself and others. Another way they keep us in line. Wish George Carlin was still alive. But even if he was, it's not like people listened to him. I mean it's not like people did anything about our shitty situation. Born into a losing struggle, we all have a terminal illness called life, yadda yadda.


Still having this midlife crisis, y'all. I don't know what I want. Wanting anything feels criminal and unethical. It'd be cool if people wanted to buy a book I made, I'm hoping 10-20 friends will pay for Amazazing/Thalia (the spelling is different, so it's not named after the character, ok?) Shoot, now I'm referencing daily pages/journal entries that only I have read. Mwahaha. Maybe one day my biographer will see this and think "oh." Not laugh, not a great revelation, but an "oh." That's all I can hope for right now. The weather continues charming.

April 29 Daily Pages: Day 14

 2 weeks (well, the equivalent) of doing daily pages. Ugh I'm supposed to do it longhand, according to Julia Cameron. But, while I do have long hands, they get tired writing things out. And this way I don't have to remember a pen and notebook. Just an internet connection. And it's 2025 baby. Much easier to come by than a pen and paper. 

What do I want to talk about today? That's fit for being possibly read by strangers or worse, loved ones. My third IFS therapy session was yesterday. It was better than the first 2 combined. In retrospect I was harder on the therapist than I needed to be. I'm comparing my relationship with her to that of my last therapist, who I've known several years and spoken to weekly. 

My session was mostly a conversation between 2 diverging parts of my personality/self. One part I called the Capitalist, who wants to succeed, to have lots of money and security, to excel in my career and climb the ladder. He wants to give his family lots of material wealth and go on lots of vacations. The other part I called the Communist. He wants to sell all he has and give to the poor. To try to serve others as much as possible. He both wants to do good, but also be seen as good. 

For a very long time I've felt stuck between the two. And while balance is probably the best foot forward, I haven't felt balanced. I've felt trapped. Like stuck in a dilemma, and instead of walking forward with both held hand in hand, I've felt like they're both pulling me their individual directions so much that I'm just frozen in place. Stagnant. 

I don't think I solved anything. But I did let them both talk which was helpful. It let me be more in my core self. Who I think is likely to progress me further than any of them. Instead of fighting over the steering wheel of Austin, they're agreeing to act as counselors/advisors. Because I've been afraid of listening to the Capitalist too much that I change as a person, becoming more selfish, greedy, narrow minded. As well as the common parable of the man who climbed to the top of the mountain, sacrificing everything in the process, only to discover how lonely and meaningless his achievement was. But the fear of listening to the Compassionate Communist is homelessness myself. Or no matter how much effort and energy I try to put into helping others, all the sorrow and pain and suffering on earth remain, and it amounts to precisely nothing overall.

So yeah, I think listening to/allowing my mind to stay in core self longer is the best solution. I will keep these 2 divergent parts as part of me. Not ignoring, shunning, or shaming them. But becoming unblended. More fruit salad than smoothie, I'm becoming increasingly fond of saying. 

We had our annual poetry retreat this weekend. I wrote about it extensively in my personal journal, but I want to mark it publicly as well. I've done it probably 7 or more times. It's one of my favorite days of the year. Unfortunately this was my least favorite stay there. I still got some really good (IMHO natch) poetry out of it. But in the past, it's been a joy to be in the creative act with people I love an entire day, in the Provo Canyon/Sundance. This year significantly less so. 

I am making a renewed effort to finish editing my complete works (1982-2022 edition) so I can move on to other things. Stay tuned. 

Day 11 4-23-25

 Figured I could try to daily page here again for today. Some is private, some is public, all is unread. Been doing this almost 2 weeks (not counting the weekend) which is nice. Yesterday I went to a taco eating contest for a friend who I've designed the logo and labels for their company. IDK if they want the publicity or if they want my site connected with them in anyway, so I'll refrain from naming names. 

I love tacos, it's one of my food groups. The contest was $20 to enter, winner take all. I managed to get to second place, even if I think I was cheated somewhat. I was told it would go until 8:07, but because the restaurant took long, they let my competition eat longer than the allotted hour. Which, on one hand, fair is fair. and they gave me the opportunity to also try to eat more while they were eating. But on the other hand, I should have won. But after 24 1/2 tacos, I decided that I'd rather spend $20 to not have to eat any more. Especially since he probably outweighed me by a significant margin, and I'd foolishly eaten cheesecake earlier that day. From cheesecake factory, so I was already at my suggested 2000 calories plus. 

Still full, still nauseous, still burps taste like tacos almost 24 hours later. But I didn't think it was worth it to push myself past 24 1/2, so no regrets. Just some bitterness, indigestions, and i don't wanna know what % of me is taco right now. 

Also had a work conference today that my team conveniently left without telling me, so that was fun. On the plus side I worked from home the rest of the day, so take that I guess. 

Terrified and pissed off at the govt coming from autistic people. I hope I don't regret this, but as the father of neurodivergent children, it makes me see red when people who don't know me or them act like they know what they are and aren't capable of. I'm ashamed to be american, ashamed of who represents me. 

I've said before one of the problems with democracy is getting the people we deserve. And we aren't led by people good at leading, we're led by people good at winning elections. I read a Tolkien quote the other day in praise of anarchy, saying something like (too lazy to look it up) "not one man in a million can lead justly. Least of all the people who seek to lead." or something. that's the price of the illusion of freedom, I guess. 

someone wrote an op ed piece recently that was "they want us to have a culture war so we don't band together for a class war" and I was like "I've been saying that for months!" but im' sure neither of us are alone in thinking that. and me saying a sentence aint the same as writing an op ed.

So I'm watching Dr. K. and trying to obtain peace and happiness, listening to Dr. Schwartz to understand my parts, and read Dr. Whatever so i don't feel pain. So far, so crazy. 

It's only Wednesday and I'm worried about spiraling Friday. It's become a tradition nobody wants. Like religion. JK. Sorry to be so edgy on a (I'm assuming) lovely Wed. 

Now to call someone to wish them happy birthday because I love them and it's their birthday. Then to swim and gym. Idk when I can make food. Oy vey. I've been in one place for nearly 7 hours i think. so healthy. much weight loss and attractiveness. i'll settle for health and happiness, and fear my children's safety. cuz murica. 

Day 7 - One Weekiversary of Daily Pages

So far I've done daily pages every day for a week. Go me. Sorry to my unaudience I kept the extra personal stuff personal, but I promise I wrote on those days as well. #accountability

Even if I don't think anyone is reading this, cuz 2025 and wtf are blogs, I still wanna keep my private life private. Plus when it involves other people I wanna respect their privacy too. And I'm realizing if I keep talking I'll negate the aforementioned privacy, so Imma stop now. Is Imma capitalized? Maybe when it's a name. idk. 

I don't remember what I've written publicly so far and what I haven't. Don't bother to forgive me if I'm repeating myself. But this is a journal I'm writing on a public blog, so there's gonna be some repetition. There's gonna be. Some repetition.

I'm realizing a lot of my life is dominated by fear. A lot. And after "Strictly Ballroom" was my favorite movie for so long. I'm ashamed of my fear and allowing it to make me live a half life.

I'm reading 2 books (well 2 1/2. Well 4. But let's focus on the two). One is "No Bad Parts," by Dick Schwartz (great p*rnstar name. I like that I bleeped p*rnstar. But I'm down with saying "fuck" when the situation calls for it. (also, "the situation" would be a cool nickname, if it wasn't already in use. I'm the situation, and I'm calling for it.))

No Bad Parts asserts we're all made of various parts and personalities, and most of them are formed in childhood during traumatic events when they get stuck, frozen, or burdened in one place. Through IFS, Internal Family Systems, we can talk to those parts and show compassion and love and understanding and gratitude (that's a lot, but it's good) to them to help them become unblended, unburdened, healthier and happier. It's changing my life. Our life. W/e. 

The other book is "The Way Out," which is about overcoming chronic pain. IDK if you know this, but I've had near constant pain for 27 ish years since the cancer in my teenage years. It's affected and poisoned and muted and colored and ruined my life. At least I've blamed a lot on it. 

Anyway, I'm realizing 1) so many of my parts are rooted in fear. Afraid of ridicule. Afraid of pain. Afraid of death. Afraid of abandonment. That's a big one I didn't realize affects me a lot. I mean I should have, cuz BPD. 
And 2) a lot of my chronic pain, if not most or all of it, also has a root in fear. Fear of pain returning. Fear of cancer returning. Fear of getting better. Because without pain, who am I? 

So my thought was to list out my fears today, in effort to face them and deal with them. It looks like I already started doing that, so that's fun. #efficiency. 

I'm afraid of a lot. I'm working on calming and comforting myself, as well as learning to be ok with the fear. It's going... ok. (Also, i'm running out of time to have daily pages AND list all my fears. Cuz I DO have a job I have to work on a little bit. Allegedly.) 

this is enough for my needs for today. Tho I will end on this thought: 

If my bday is on Sunday this year, can we call it "Auster?" or would that be sacrilegious? 

Because if so...



Even better

😈

Day 4 [redacted]

 [this is just to say i decided to write privately today, but so i know i wrote daily pages today. it was about my relationship and trying to grow from the therapy i'm doing. business as usual.] carry on.

Day 3

 I went to a non-denominational church today, to support a friend who got baptized there. The cool: there were a number of unhoused people inside and outside, who were being cared for and fed by many of the members. Which is upsetting and infuriating the number of Xtian organizations I've seen, inside and outside Utah, that instead find ways to send them away or reject them, rather than care for. 

There also was a LOT of praising Jesus. I'm no christian, and I think if I were anything like him, I'd prefer they focus on what I said rather than me me me me. But, again, I'm no christian, so maybe he wanted that. If I died for all mankind and suffered on a cross and was dead for a couple days, maybe I'd like the attention and praising. And like I said, not to poo poo them. They seemed to be doing what he said people should do more than most. Myself included. 

I enjoyed going, despite running on 2-3 hours of sleep, and I'm not going back in a hurry. Another friend is separated and I'm sad for them but happy for them. The downside of writing on my blog is I have to vaguebook more than I would. But it feels more accountable, that it's THERE, rather than in the first few pages of a notebook before I abandon it. It feels more real than a word document saved on a computer. Plus I can write this on any computer or phone if I want. I use 3 different computers at different times, so it's useful. Anyway, what else. 

I've been making sourdough for about 4 months now, which is pretty fun and I've gotten a lot better. I'm considering making mozzarella next. idk if it's worth it or not, but i fucking love mozzarella, so maybe #shrug. 

This isn't three pages, but it's more than nothing, so I'm gonna do the cop out thing and say I'm just trying to get into the habit. Now I'm gonna watch White Lotus season 3 before bed. 

On a Roll: day 2

 

I’m writing in word today. Making me think of Creed’s blog back in the office. Probably shouldn’t post about sex on the blog. Even if no one reads it, enough people know whose blog this is, and it’s not hard to figure it out if you care to. I scrubbed all references of my name on it, but I’m sure there are still links and shit that can lead you to the conclusion of identity. Yay.

 

I hate the modern problem of authenticity. We can’t say how we feel without fear of firing, ostracization, cancellation, etc. I’ve been guilty multiple times of people I disagree with getting fired and having more than a bit of gleeful schadenfreude towards them. Even if they’re voicing agreement with fascist dictators and racist pieces of shit, IDK if they should’ve been fired. I feel so much guilt and fear it’s awful. I want to just say my truth, but I apparently live in a police state and watched it creep up around me and now it’s too powerful to take down. I’m grateful of all the people fighting, and ashamed I’m not fighting more.

I don’t really know why I’m so ashamed and afraid of why I should be responsible to fight. Who the fuck am I to challenge? What power do I have to make a difference? I don’t know if it was religious upbringing saying I was special and chosen by daddy god to make a difference and be alight to the world. (fuck typos, deal with it). I don’t know if it was because daddy god gave me cancer as a teenager, and I told myself the afflictions would be consecrated for my gain. Instead of weakening my body for my life, dragging me down, making me bitter and closed off. Thanks daddy. Fuck you daddy god.

 

I have so many problems I don’t know what to complain about first. So that’s cool. I AM really getting better in pretty much all of them, so that’s cool. I mean it’d be cooler if one of the problems wasn’t my country falling apart around me with nothing I can do but hunker down or consider fleeing. So that’s cool. Didn’t think all the times I sang the star spangled banner or repeat the pledge of allegiance that I’d be worried I have to run away because my country no longer has freedom. And I feel guilt that, for so many fellow americans, it hasn’t had freedom much longer.

There’s a poem about America being on fire, and the poet wants to let it burn to the ground. But then they remember “there are children inside.” I want to help, and when I ask what I can do, it’s call your politicians offices and leave a message with an intern who wishes you were dead or a slave. I hope a revolution is coming. I hope we can survive and that the enemy can learn to be the allies.

 

I want to fight with love. But I also want to fight with fire. And I’ll probably fight with clicktivism and self loathing.

 

One of my favorite shows is Steven Universe. One theme is throughout the show, most or all of the threats and enemies become understood with empathy and patience and become friends. I think that’s the best foot forward. But I also watch them tear us apart, and no one is talking to me about it. I know it’s because I’m scared and a nobody/peasant/serf. Oy vey. Is this helping me? I don’t fucking know.

 

I am overwhelmed. I am scared. I am multitudes. I am cute. I am broken. I am a survivor.

 

I have BPD and trauma/ptsd and other acronyms. Most things say the cure or the way to reduce the symptoms is to have a better sense of self. And I’m doing that I think. I am getting to know the pieces of myself and and working towards healing them. I’m working towards them. Healing them. Now I’m just writing filler trying to fill the pages faster. Ugh. I want to be better already. I want to heal. I want to be healthy and smarter and not freak out or spiral at the first chance I get.

 

BPD makes me terrified of abandonment. I think everyone has or will. I try to reassure myself and comfort those scared parts. They’re all so scared. It’s annoying in some ways that so much of my parts are based in fear. But better to work on it now than 20 years from now.

I thought I’d be immune from a mid life crisis. Or that I already had it. If I can get a ponytail and a convertible I’d do it if it meant I got through this faster. I feel like so much of my life has been wasted. I only have one life and how much of it is spent doing what I want to do instead of what I should do or have to do? How much mediocre conversations or forced work, undesired by myself or others, has these 42 years been spent on? How much more mediocrity and menial mundanity will I meander through without meaning? (only partially intentional alliteration). I want to write poetry that moves people, art that makes them cry at the beauty of it. I want to kiss to change the world and I want to dance like everyone’s watching. I want to tell jokes and make the world better with comedy.

 

Can’t you tell? I’m fucking hilarious. I want to work harder on my artistic endeavors. Not for the world but for me. For the transformative power of art. For the Proustian moments that make life bearable/enriched. Instead I’m gonna spend my Saturday cleaning a house that will probably look like I didn’t spend all my hours and spoons on it the next fucking day.

 

If anyone wants to give me a genius grant so I can hire a staff to manage all the shit I don’t wanna do so I can focus on making mediocre art and sexist poetry.

 

I thought I was a good feminist ally. But I just finished two poems that made me feel like an asshole. One was about the medusa myth, and my anger at athena for cursing her priestess (did I write about this yesterday? Who gives a fuck I guess) but I didn’t realize I had little or no anger directed at Poseidon, Medusa’s assaulter, or Perseus, her murderer. I think I already wrote about this. Anyway, it made me feel douchey and problematic. I hate being male. But I’m not female. I think I’d know by now. Maybe I’m nonbinary. Or is it just another mask I wear than the real me? Gender is stupid. Labels are limiting. The world is ending and I’m whining to the ether instead of fighting until it’s impossible to do even that.

 

I’m probably done for today. This was much less cathartic than yesterday. But I’m gonna keep at it as I think overall writing muscles flexing. Flexing writing muscles. It’s also hard because apparently my family can’t clean unless the disable dad with mental illness is also cleaning. But it’s an infinite number of the times dear old disabled dad cleans when no one else is.

Now I’m bitching about the people I love most in the world. Healthy and smart. Post it online. It’s not like a journal post online almost ruined my relationship with the love of my life before it began. Watch me go insane. It won’t be meaningful, it won’t be seen, but at least it won’t be boring. Or maybe it will. I’m not a fucking psychic.

We went on a date for the first time in a long time, meaning we went to dinner ½ an hour before closing. We brought baggage of the week and the world because of course we did. It was still a nice time. My chicken was raw inside so they comped it free and gave me a replacement to take home that I’m a bit scared to eat. I’d like to go on a date tonight, but she complains about money because she handles the finances because I’m a terrified little kid who goes insane when he get it pointed out to him that we’re barely scraping by with the effort of me giving 100%. And then I feel like the 100% I give is not enough. My spouse and my therapist and my friends and dead gurus all say your 100% is good enough. But capitalism disagrees. The world disagrees. I’m never enough.

Enough is an addicting target, because it’s unspecified so it’s very easy for my frightened protectors to tell me you’ll never be enough. Because there is no enough. I know that, they know that. But it’s still fulfilling in a twisted way to have that reminder. I am not enough. No one is enough. But that’s ok. We can still try to enjoy friends and wine however forms those take. Grape juice and ward members. Vino more expensive than a car and servants. Conversation, art, laughter, maybe fucking, make life not wasted. It’s just a pity we have to carry so many capitalist leeches on our backs in the meantime. 1/3 of life spent sleeping, 1/3 spent working. 1/3 spent trying to cope with not enough of the first and too much of the second. Coping. That’s why I survived cancer. So I could try to cope with the planet and my failings and how it sucks and whether America dies first or I do, there’s nothing I can do about either.

I was trying to end on a positive note. Maybe tomorrow. Today I’m off to push a rock up a hill until it rolls back down again I mean clean my house and fold laundry. Maybe I can get laid, maybe I can be reminded of my failings by my loved ones and my body. Imma talk to my parts now because I’m sane and see if I can get some energy to face the world even if it’s a losing struggle I can still agitate and struggle. Agitation makes pearls, I think Scott Adams said that or at least quoted it. Is he a fascist/fascist fanboy? Probably. Everyone lets you down. Everyone fails. But we keep trying, and I think there’s something positive in that. The stupidity of the human condition. Born in a losing struggle and trying to make meaning in a meaningless world, while those who found or follow worse meanings work to end your struggle faster. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.