Deep breath. Deep, deep, deep breath. When you can’t breathe deep, that’s when it starts. Air and water keep you feeling okay. It’s funny how reticent I am to let myself feel okay.
I don’t like listening to the self-hypnosis mp3 – I think – because it involves detaching myself from this flow of information, that I shadow broker about, send to my friends, process and pass on. It’s a shitty little purpose, but you don’t feel so alone when you’re letting people know about something. Even if it is just a cat video. You can’t take pride in it, but you can find some kind of purpose. And the alternative is you languishing in ignorance, the chance that you are just as viral as the links you share and once you’ve been seen and made purple with a click, you’re as good as gone. It’s an addiction, the hunter/gatherer instinct, the always-on, always searching, always indexing and approving or disapproving functions of our personalities. Honed until we dismiss or approve people with our fingertips.
I don’t lack for purpose, I suppose, and I crave not needing to be present, so it’s strange that this calming voice that could help me change the thoughts that limit and provoke me has to be fought for. I could have it on right now, but I’m telling myself that I need to be able to focus. Not a lot of time, yet again, having spent the evening listening to WTFPod with Conan O’Brien and Amy Schumer and then an hour of her standup. Maybe it’s a ginger thing I’ve picked up since turning into Annie. Or grown-up Annie and Ms. Hannigan’s drunk-ass ginger baby. My hair is sort of, possibly, kind of an abomination. Or maybe we can blame it all on the humidity. Tomorrow, surely, I will have it beaten back into submission and it will be merely sexy Mrs. Frizzle hair once again.
I wanted tonight’s post to be just a writing post, because I have been working on the book fairly intensely (at least in terms of my hummingbird attention deficit), but mostly I’ve just been transferring the outline into ywriter which is helping me quite a bit with the flow of these intertwining subplots. I can see better where I’ve let things dangle and drop. Where I can infuse some poetic interjections. What, as in most of it, just sucks. It can be made better though, because it exists. It has a shape that can be refined rather than just floating around in the cauldron of my brain. That’s progress, definitive progress.
We called my grandfather tonight. He sounds completely with it, on the edge of something I know I will never see him process. His wife and son having died within a year. His son having died holding his hand at the hospital. He was almost making a joke. Just like my father. Tomorrow’s the visitation, Friday the funeral. I feel both tethered to it and floating very far away from it.
Tomorrow, anxiety group! Oy.