The Thing Without A Name

Oh, there is so much to do that I am overwhelmed.  Last night’s sleep went very poorly.  Mainly in that I hardly slept at all.  Obviously, the right answer is to not have the phone with me when I sleep.  Is that going to happen?  I have no idea.

Speed bath.  Speed life.

I’m going to stop saying no to myself.  In particular when it’s absolutely reasonable…like asking myself to get up.  Asking myself to put those close away.  Asking myself to practice things that I actually want to get better at like, oh, say writing, or this musical impulse.  Eating when I’m hungry and not eating when I’m not.  Letting myself get on with it.

The fingernails that are typing this great, anonymous, 500+ word missive to the universe are in the color of East Village, which is to say they are a pale, one coat electric blue. They’re cut short so that I can strum and find chord placements that I don’t even begin to remember and I plan to turn them over and keep adding to the little scratch of callus that is frosting the fleshy pads of my fingertips.  I’m listening to music (the Weepies) and the noise of the downstairs folk who are not as loud as they might be and I have to pay attention to hear them shuffling in their patio.

Doing laundry, though I have two or three vast piles of it yet staring me in the face along with all the other bits and bobs (can you tell I’ve been watching a lot of British media lately?)  I need to find a spot for to keep this place in order.  But already it feels better.  Just the smallest areas of clean space feel like an auxiliary lung.

Yesterday I was trying to figure out what to do with myself in this dead week before we have a long weekend in Minnesota for my cousin’s wedding.  It seems so impossible to just straighten myself up and work on still losing weight.  The heat, the pressure, the compliments, the random emails, the consequences, the impressions of others that I will not screw up, the sense that I would never get there, anyway.  All of that seems to equal a very good time for throwing in the towel.

But today, I don’t think so.

It’s five days.  I can do anything for five days if I can do this for well over five hundred.

If I am extraordinary in any way that isn’t rather depressing and psychotic, it’s this: when I disbelieve in myself or see the terrifying pre-birth of a depression rearing its head, I often can say that I don’t want it and reject it outright.  I can put my heels into the earth and stand while the forces try dragging me into hell.

So, the nails get another coat and I get a bit of hunger until I resolve what it is that I own that is appropriate to eat.  Energize myself by doing more than I think is possible.