Things! Surely, there must be some things to mention.
Okay, so we did some housecleaning. I contributed towards some house cleaning and now we have a passable front living area.
I don’t really want to do this tonight. Shit. I don’t. I read somewhere that when you’re trying to generate creativity, when you’re trying to contact the muse and you just can’t, then, you just write to your quota about how much you hate it and you can’t and you let it go. Because the muse will be back so long as you show up for it and that’s what I am trying to do right now.
Be present for some wild hair of creativity, some zany tail of cleverness I can grab hold of and be dragged out of these doldrums. It’s just a one day, right now sort of doldrums.
Diet is awful, and unhelpful, looking forward to Wednesday, my goal is to start back up and add in 15 minutes of activity every day in April. I don’t feel so feverish, just now it’s revert to being more throat-centric. Seriously, it’s weird as hell.
The Lady Eve was great if the premise suddenly got weak in the second half where Peter Fonda has to be the sort of dope who would fall in love with the same woman twice and buy the most ridiculous bullshit twin story as though she were a completely different woman and fall in love and marry her. I did realize that I love Barbara Stanwyck. She’s gorgeous, but her wit and power in that movie was something to behold. Of course, she falls for his naive charm so fast and that’s hard to believe, but nevertheless, I like a fast dame pulling a fast one or trying, too. Even if the whole thing turns on her falling back in love with her mark, but it’s not meant to be a gritty, realistic film, just sweet with a bit of an acidic lady at the center of it.
I’d watch it again sometime.
We’ve talked (”talked”) about the gendering of our poetry, mine, feminine, yours abrupt and masculine, mine cakes and clouds, Palladia, yours guns, sunburn, sand. You insisted mine was better, I realized it wasn’t.
We have talked about the coincidences which seem constant in our monologues, the ways we may already be intertwined, twinned, predestined or prepared. The incremental shift of tides, time zones, celestial pull that has bent our beds and bones to one shared set of coordinates.
We have talked about the selfishness of kindness, this gift we can give one another, serve as a soak for all the bothersome souls who don’t, can’t, won’t know the scrawl on the bottom of the vessel we hold aloft.
And still, I hedge to feel your stranger’s hand
linger on my thigh. For the disparaging eye
is the conquering worm.
And I’d rather hoard your words,
than risk the bet that you are not a liar
and I am not a wolf.
Thursday: we go to the therapist. Still mentally working that one out. The driving has gotten really bad lately. Too much nerves to do little, simple things. The one thing I do miss about the old job is that it at least forced me to be in the car an hour a day five days a week. I have to make myself just sit in the driver’s seat and right now, there’s no requirement of life to do that. There should be a requirement of my life going forward to that. Right now I think about getting up and just walking outside for five minutes before we go to work, and immediately, there’s such mental pushback about the idea of fresh, outside air and muscles working against the pavement and a schedule bending just slightly off-course that I want to throw up my hands and shout, SO I AM JUST MEANT TO SIT HERE, IN THIS BED, FOR FOREVER, UNTIL DEATH?! To which Mildred responds, without any irony, with utter delight: “Now you’re starting to get the picture!”
How to put Mildred into some sort of coma so I can get things done I want done.
Driving. Yes. Being a grownup about life tasks, house organizing amongst them.
The email situation. The writing person thing that continues until the moment it doesn’t. How to proceed/deal/not fail it or him or myself.
Other things I will…figure out some other place to write down because I feel a bit uncomfortable just spilling them here.
I think I might be feeling better. I, at least, have forgotten about feeling unwell. Not so ruddy feverish or whatever it is. One more half dose of something, knock it out or down another peg. If the threat of feeling really unwell is what it takes to feel better, I’ll wirrah, wirrah, wirrah my way to salubriousness. My mother today didn’t think as though I was the strawberry version of Violet Beauregard. No one thinks my tongue is particularly outsized. I wasn’t in a good mood, listless, but I think that’s been this past two weeks of less than great eating. It makes me just very icky-feeling regardless of any tacked-on illness.
My plan is to finish this post, write a few words on a few projects that are crying out for them, watch The Lady Eve because I’m all inspired to watch an old movie and this looks just up my alley after continuing to read, get some clothes together for the morning, take that shot of medicine, check maybe once or twice for an email, maybe read a few more pages of the book, actually get ready for bed and not just pass out here and be a bit UNFYH about life.
April 1st is a restart day. A day of focus on the body. It is also a day that we’ll be visiting my aunt, I think. Trying to get my head back up to the level of the water.
So I am, maybe, just maybe considering going to the doctor. I don’t want to. I’m petrified, really, and it’s not a petrifaction borne out of anything but the belief that someone will tell me something is wrong and suddenly, these river of worries will engulf me. But I’m not comfortable and now my throat is sore again and I still feel warm, prickled about the face, and nothing seems to break it. If there’s some prescription that would fix it, I wish someone would just give it to me. I just try and think about filling out a medical form and my mind goes completely white, completely blank.
The boss mentioned her mother went to the doctor twice in her whole life and she lived to be quite an old age and I thought, yes, that is my goal. I want that.
I wonder how it is I have the time to allow myself to just feel to uncomfortable to enjoy a free spring day when we pay so much at work for me to have a cheap way to feel better. That it’s likely something incredibly simple.
This is what we were talking about around the time I stopped going to my last therapist, my feeling that I needed to go to the doctor, to be a sensible, grown-up woman. My voice quavered and said I would consider talking about it, that I felt it was the next barrier. I said I would think about it and then, well, someone was in the room, taking my spot the next time I showed up and it was just easy to never go back. So often in my life, I just never go back.
I think again, and nope, can’t. Can’t even play at imagining it. Even if my arm fell off. I’d just let it go.
I’ve spent the day writing one of the emails I ought to write, interspersed with video games and youtube videos about video games and now actual reading. Actual, godforsaken reading. I’ve been fangirling recently over Mrs. Victoria Coren-Mitchell, admiring her wit on QI and then, hearing one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard: her husband, the quite clever David Mitchell in his own memoirs, talking about falling in love with her. I find her to be sort of a role model. Somehow today I wanted to think of something new to read that I wanted to read and ended up getting her book on Kindle and I’m really enjoying her writing. Can you imagine? Me! Reading, of all things.
He says in the whole of his life he’s only seen nine youtube videos, but one of the random selections I had made to cheer him up (the literal music video of Total Eclipse of the Heart) was one of them, and yet, he didn’t boggle at the odds of that at all.
And now I want to read Anne of Green Gables. I need some of that Anne Shirley spirit encouraging me forward. And they’re in the public domain, even. What a comfort those books were and might be again.
Another day, another new opinion on the state of my face and what’s going on. Now, I’m pretty sure I have some allergies. That’s it. Resolved. Or something, I don’t know.
Like so many things, I feel a bit better once I stopped worrying about it. I’m drinking some water now in case that will help. It can’t hurt anything.
The past few days I’ve been able to write my bit at work, but now, the day is mostly spent and I am sitting here without a plan or a topic and only sincerely mild interest, knowing I have to write you five hundred words.
I may run away and spend these words in a letter to Mr. Let’s Not Fuck This Up with Cutesy Nicknames Yet since I forgot that is an option.
I have options.
PBANDJAX! This message is for you. This Saturday, I’m going to sit down and properly email you back. Oh my word and oh my goodness.
So. Hah, well, this just goes to show you, well, me, that I have no idea whatsoever what I am doing. I’m home now, it’s 3pm, as we’ve had a board meeting for to attend and we were allowed to go home afterwards and that’s definitely helped with today’s frustration and anxiety over driving as well as the fact that my face, exclusive to anything else, feels as though someone’s pressing a hot iron against it. It’s just weeks after weeks of overgrown mental messaging about not being able to handle it, not being able to deal with it, that I’m going to panic again and I have to earnestly fight against that and that’s the part that I suck at.
I need to make a checklist for the new therapist. A to-do list. Not that it needs to happen in five sessions or less (even trying to put a number on it seems to make it draw itself back, ever more elusive to name and attack), but I want to know what we’re doing. I’m not in the same place where I just needed help dealing with the stress. Now I have these tapping techniques, and visualizations, and self-hypnosis mp3s but none of that matters if I’m still way too ashamed or nervous or worried to use them. There’s barriers there that keep me from taking this stuff on board. There’s a big, glaring, Andre the Giant-sized Mildred and her kennel of three-headed dogs all guarding the way to self-reliant, satisfied existence and I lay out on the chaise longue, pasty, under and umbrella and listlessly gesture for some lemonade.
Not that I am entirely void of motivation. After all of yesterday’s hullabaloo and resigned sighing over what looked to be an extended absence from said writerly person, there was an email. Like a bird on the sill, just turned up. I don’t even know, I suppose the best way to continue is to be in constant shock that this is carrying on at all. To just be blown away at every instance of reply because I don’t seem to be able to just grasp his intentions or that this thing isn’t as fragile as if it was made of rice paper. I think we can all agree that this thing (not that we need to be involved at all [we meaning whatever the audience is for this record] in my decision making processes) has thrown me for a loop-de-loop. Like, how is that without the verbal cues, the tics, the things that will ultimately take their place if I ever became a real girl and stood up and did something about this, I still feel…something? And that despite the fact that every inch of this, at the moment, is based in language, that something feels, ultimately, wordless? A silent sort of communion of spirit.