It’s hard for me to accept life just ain’t perfect. I want everything to be just so. I want the perfect space for me to recuperate from all of this madness to pop into my life, in the magical price range. I want another freelance gig that I can work around my existing library schedule to magically drop out of the air. I want to not have to ask people for help buying food or putting gas in my car.

We get through life on patchwork solutions. Nothing is perfect. Sure, you can clean the hell out of your house every week until it sparkle shines and call it perfect, but people are not, will never be, perfect. The perfect man does not exist. The perfect house doesn’t exist. The perfect life doesn’t exist. We cobble together gigs and places to live and friendships and people we date, marry or divorce throughout our lives.

Some people will say the things they cobbled together led them to the things they have now and for this they are grateful. I want to be one of those people, some day. I keep getting a lot of platitudes from people like, “Let go. Be Willing. It will all turn out better.” Blablablah.

What I really want to hear is, “I’m sorry this sucks. I went through it once. It was a roller coaster ride. I felt like a mess, like a crazy person. I got through on the scraps I was thrown and somehow I put together a life for myself that made sense but it took time.”

Wait, did I just say what I needed to hear to myself? Were the answers right here all along? I know what I need to do. I know what I need to hear.

Life is made up of patchwork solutions. We gotta use what we have, eat the scraps we’re thrown. I could learn to let go more…I have to. But…it’s hard to fall into something you don’t believe, when you think you don’t deserve better, when you feel you don’t deserve to be taken care of…or even deeper than that, that nobody can or will take care of you and you really need a full community of people giving you little things here and there to get through.

Life is hard. That’s all I know…

Still trying to find my artistic space where I can create and use those creations to process this unfortunate turn of events…to find out what I really think and feel. I’ve been given some stepping stones. For that, I’m grateful. I’m packing my stuff up this week, going to store it until I find a place I can afford that will not make me have to work more than I have to on things that aren’t leading me towards my goals. Life is short. Too short to put all my money into useless accoutrements.

It’s a fight, all of it is a fight. I looked at a room in my price range the other day in West Oakland and at least a dozen people were competing for it. By the time I arrived, about 5 people had already been interviewed for the tiny room…it was a small room. But I would take it.

I’m letting go of the outcome. I can only do what I can do. People around me don’t have much, they give what they can. I don’t have much, I do what I can. I’m picking up extra hours here and there at the library, trying to get through it without worrying about losing my soul.

I keep checking my email and my phone every five minutes. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. What am I looking for? A magical answer to all of my problems. Someone to figure it all out for me. A sign from above. The signs and answers are within this ransacked house of my soul.

Sometimes, things are just very, very hard. Hard not to look back and think man, I did have it pretty good, even in this suburban motel-looking, tiny-spider-infested apartment by the BART in the middle of a suburb with wackadoodle neighbors. I had space…I could afford food, mostly. I could focus on my art and my gigs. Someone had my back. I had my special someone. It was two against the world. Now that someone doesn’t, or can’t have my back. I have to cover my own back. I’m not used to it…not in a way that isn’t messy and grungy and not normal. But here I go…back down that road. I’m exhausted, and I’ve not even begun the journey yet. All I know is some damn good songs come from heartbreak…once you have a place to create them.

****

I know you really love me
but you see my hands are tied
I know it must have hurt you
it must have hurt your pride
to have to stand beneath my window
with your bugle and your drum
and me, I’m up there waiting
for the miracle
for the miracle to come… 

No I don’t believe you’d like it
you wouldn’t like it here
there ain’t no entertainment
and the judgements are severe
the maestro says it’s mozart
but it sounds like bubble gum
when you’re waiting
for the miracle
for the miracle to come…

Nothing left to do 
when you know that you’ve been taken. 
Nothing left to do 
when you’re begging for a crumb 
Nothing left to do 
when you’ve got to go on waiting 
waiting for the miracle to come. 

Ah baby, let’s get married, 
we’ve been alone too long. 
Let’s be alone together. 
Let’s see if we’re that strong. 
Yeah let’s do something crazy, 
something absolutely wrong 
while we’re waiting 
for the miracle, for the miracle to come. 

Nothing left to do … 

-L. Cohen