Comme Ci, Comme Ca

No rush.  No Fuss.  No alligator guts.
This aims to be a wildly enjoyable Friday.
I have maybe another couple of hours, but all the reasonable work is done and I am not going to start a massive project so here I am.  I have to leave early otherwise everyone shall be paying me for all my fun and games and I am ethically heartburned by that.  Even if I could use the money.  I’ve already spent 45 minutes working on my French again.  C’est un stylo! Le femme n’a pas de voiture.  Or something.
I think, perhaps, it is harder to come up with the words lately because the angst in me has somewhat dissipated.  And even the angst about what I am eating – at the moment – is taken away from me and replaced by this earnest idea that I am doing something to improve my lot.  It is not a perfect scenario where the pounds glide away like so much latex beneath a sharp exacto-knife.  It is just not doing the aggressively wrong things – blunting with food the freaked out emotions, the overwhelmed and anxious empathy, the confused spirit who is now in places where she never thought she’d be – more often than I’m doing the sincerely good things.  The attempts at having vegetables become a regular thought, a plan.  The earnest excitement I briefly experienced at the thought of being able to cook butternut squash soup.   The desire to get those extra steps in.  It takes up the gaps in my head where the listless rambling lived.  There’s direction and traction now.  The words are not gone, per se, just redirected.  A mason steadily taking them and putting the bricks and the mortar one next to another.
I have never been sturdy.  Whatever my weight or the morphology of my personage, I have never been steady on my feet.  There’s always been a Santa Ana, a side-eye, a turn on the river. Some distance between my thoughts and my being.  I’ve always wanted to be in the ether, looking down at everything all at once, out of time and out of context. Safe, in that way, but also powerful.
Now, there’s this power in walking inside my own flesh.  In putting things where they go.  In washing a cup.  In following a routine.  Know that once those items are actually secured, there is this massive IMAX screen of life rolling out around and in front of you.  A panorama view unobstructed by the minutiae that means you sleep in clean sheets, you lean down for a pan and like magic, the one you were thinking of awaits.  The butter and the steak sizzles, the dream is not interrupted by the idea that you are a failure because your dreams sometimes break mid-thought.  You make the soapy water part of the dream.  You take away the choice for it to be depressing, low, external to the magic.  You make the laundry churn and the warm heat of the just dried hand-towels part of the care, part of the aerie your thought dance in.  A place you flutter through because there’s no reason to avoid it.  No reason to turn away from this charming scene where your muscles are moving, just as they were made to, to work through the blossoms and the remains of all your day’s plans.

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