Andromeda, Perseus, and the Sea Monster

I’ve been so distracted by media and the trappings of the modern world today that I looked up at the clock and almost was sick by the time.  It seemed to come very close today that I might not have posted and that just wouldn’t do, ladies and gents, not when we’re on the second year of this.  It would be an enormous letdown to have the day where I miss a post not be a day where I’ve been skydiving or falling in love with some tall, dark, and handsome cliche or becoming poet laureate.  It would be pretty lame to have it just be me not being on the ball.

So, I’ve settled the noises and the lights and I’ve opened the laptop and the little window into your world emerges, a bit greased and smog-rimmed, but there, nonetheless.  You and I are bound together by this quicksilver tether so thin as to seem invisible and when we take a breath and let all of the chaos that is a human life dissipate into the dusky, rainswept remains of a day, we connect.  For a brief time, while we concentrate and relax our muscles, warm our extremities, let sensation win over analysis, we are in one room and we are saying all that there is to say.

The sister is working an overnight shift, so the usual light is off, the usual feeling of not being alone with yourself is off, my shoulders are well and truly greeting my earlobes until I recognize the hunching and force them back down.  I did not exercise or eat particularly well today, thinking it was going to be another day of spelunking the bowels of the retail earth about here and we didn’t end up doing that.  So meals happened awkwardly and not with intention and time frittered away from me.  I played games and stared in the middle distances and took a long, luxurious bath without a book because I didn’t even want the bother of having to hold it open.  I was ridiculously, extravagantly, and wholly a creature of whim. 

Which is nice work if you can get it.

But they don’t employ you there for long before you’re back out on the streets.  I didn’t exercise today and that’s pretty frustrating since I genuinely like it.  Genuinely, not just saying that because it makes me sound like a better person than I actually am.  But it’s 10:52 now and I don’t see the sense in racing around on the bike.  I did try and get a walking game at the game store, but apparently it’s about 2 years too old to be available at a store, so I’ll probably order it right now and it’ll make me feel far less guilty.

If I seem to be talking in a somewhat verbose manner, it’s just the language rubbing off from watching Downton Abbey with my friends upon whom I am now afflicting all my British television passions and they are afflicting right back.

Love is admiring the passion in another while possibly being unmoved by the source of their passion.  When that source takes hold of you, too, well, then…how can you ever be parted?

Blonde Baby

I don’t know what it is, but sometimes I get myself into a state where I really want to clean and organize.  Trouble is, I usually get myself into this state just about 9:00pm or so when, for my own well-being, I should really be collecting myself and getting ready for bed.  Chilling out, really.  I should not be earnestly planning a massive house overhaul for tomorrow, either, since I’m already yawning my face off and there’s a whole twenty hours worth of sleep and work between here and there.  I give up when there’s  such a monumental task in front of me as fixing everything in two hours, getting every last corner shipshape and Bristol fashion, as if I’m a whirling dervish that could manage such a thing.  A whirling dervish Mary Poppins.

But, after watching another serving of Downton Abbey over with my mother, I have this terrible craving to commit myself to whatever it would take to get the house in truly proper order.  The show has sort of melted into me and despite the fact that they have a staff of over thirty to keep the house from falling to pieces and I have my sister and myself, it sounds sort of wonderful.  A chance to be as hardworking and invested in ordered purpose as the maids and footmen of that great house, completely blinding myself to the fact that those people were being paid next to nothing and held by threat of death to maintain those posts.  I just think if I pay the mortgage, I should probably be at least somewhat invested in the upkeep of my little Highclere (um, there really isn’t even one iota of adequate comparison between my condo and a giant fucking castle in England, but the mind can bridge even that great a distance).

So, we swabbed out the larder, or the refrigerator, as it were.  Definitely needed doing and I’m quite proud of the both of us for sticking in there and getting rid of the exploded soy sauce bottle and the molding broccoli.   And the sauerkraut.  And all other manner of breeding grounds for disgusting bacteria.  Now, it practically sparkles and it begs for me to go to the grocery store tomorrow night so that there’s something in it for me to eat besides some sprouts and a hopefully non-exploding bottle of soy sauce.  Something healthful, I hope.

My mother quite likes the blonde hair.  She was being cute, but she hugged me and said ‘Ohh, my blonde baby! You and your sister have been foisting this dark hair at me for years.”  (Yes, she said the word foist.)  I like it, too, and it certainly lightens me up.  I need to get off my own back and just get going.

Tomorrow should be a good day.  I’m planning it to be.  I’ve got the Wii to get my exercise in, I’ve got food to get, water to drink, I’ve got my hair to show off.  I’m willing it to be wonderful.


Keep Your Secrets Secret

Oh, I just had the most wonderful dinner.  Dramatically, fantastically, tremendously wonderful.  What the doctor ordered.  I tried to draw my line at lunch with my frozen dinner.  But I’d barely eaten anything for breakfast and it just wasn’t enough to sustain me so I ended up having some of last night’s meeting’s leftover pizza.  Not a great plan, but I started throwing up the usual psychic smoke screen of thoughts about re-starting tonight/tomorrow/very soon and I can’t right now and one indulgence and needing to be cossetted in fat right now because of some serious work drama involving flouncing and stress rashes and Star Wars characters (oh, I so wish I could explain in a public forum, but I am not ready to even walk into the room where they keep Pandora’s Box of Office Gossip, much less pick the lock.)  It felt like a really good idea to accept the fact that terrible food was going to get me through this hysteria, just like always.  Like alcohol seems like a good friend who isn’t going to judge and is going  to talk over all noise, keeping you safe.

It’s hilarious, but mostly sad, the way you can do this a thousand times and see that, of course, food is not going to really shut off the screaming in your life and the emotional maelstroms you’re being keelhauled into, that it’s going to have its effect no matter what headspace you’re, but the next time, the lie presented feels so warm and comforting that you let yourself believe it despite knowing the truth.

You just want to think that instead of making yourself stronger by facing it, you can opt out of the fighting and Switzerland your calorie count.

No go, though.  So, once work was done, off I went to the grocery store to make sure that if I was going to eat, I had the option to eat right, even if I was going to be a 10-gallon jerk about it and still eat garbage.  And I thought about all my reasons to keep exercising and drinking water and trying to enhealthen myself, how making sure that blood will keep flowing to my head and toes should probably be a priority and how I didn’t want to give up the new figure and how I really didn’t have to just up and throw it all away and right now, I’m cobbling together all of that and I’m getting myself back on the road.

I got some chai which I’m looking forward to having with my sugar free pudding post-WiiFlail whilst I enjoy the calming interlude which is sure to be Downton Abbey.  I got some asparagus to steam for tomorrow with my dinner.  I got bubble bath.  Not to eat, obviously, but I can read another chapter of A Game of Thrones in the bath and let my brain percolate.

There’s sun coming for this weekend’s forecast.  I have an earnest flame, a true heart.

Oh, and the dream!  I dreamed of Lady Grantham of Downton Abbey, that she was my mother, and she sang/recited this marvelous poem that I so wish I could remember as we were wandering outside and observing these amazing, immense carvings.  The one I can think of was of a lodgepole pine minotaur.  I sighed, so happily in my dream, so earnestly, and said, aloud so indelibly that it burned into my waking mind: “Oh, how could the world survive without poetry?  Why would it even want to try?”


No One Wants to Kiss a Girl in Black

Oh, no.

I am so bereft of words.  I don’t mean to be, but I am.   We’ll have to go very slowly and speak to particulars so that we can eke this one out.  Currently, I’m watching Downton Abbey and adoring it.  Adoring every littlest bit of it.  It just blew my mind.  Maybe that’s why I’m having such trouble concentrating and finishing this up as I should. It’s every five minutes going, blowing my fucking mind out of my fucking ears.  For fuck’s sake.

There’s some famous line about obscenity being the lowest form of communication, somewhere I know this line exists, and it’s surely true, but it is also the most expedient.  And certainly, I am further sure, the most cathartic.

I’ve decided not to go on to the next episode until I finish this up.  So away we go and I’ll tell you first that today was not so terrible as it might have been considering yesterday was completely about me being too terrified to drive to work and not doing so and hanging about here at home  wringing my hands over how hideous and shitty a person I was for just up and choosing not to work because it suited me.  I worked very hard and got as much on top of the giant pile of crap that is my workspace as I possibly could.  This also meant hearing about my absence in a weird way, as though a whole alternate universe where I didn’t work where I work and where others have to manage things and thankfully, joyfully, they got by.  They could send an email with an attachment if they had to, they could! Sometimes I don’t believe this and I think this is why I feel so guilty leaving them alone with themselves, not just because there is a certain caregiving aspect of my office job which I never anticipated but has imbued itself into my work relationships, but because I think my presence often keeps them from trying what they should be able to try since they know they can just pass the work off to me and I can do it efficiently.  They don’t have to learn how to send an email when really, in this modern era, how can they expect NOT to know?  It actually is a good thing that I unexpectedly am not there because one day, I will plan it, and I will, unexpectedly for them, no longer be there.

So, last night I had a bit of a psychological tempest in a teapot and I watched Bridget Jones’ Diary and couldn’t get over how much I truly disliked Renee Zellweger and her whole 136 is disgusting and zaftig and how this kind of ridiculous, awkward, terrible person warrants a Mr. Darcy in her life and I felt like throwing punches out of the blue.  Now, it seems so obvious about the misdirection of my anger that I feel a little irritated that I was so petty.

But sometimes, we’re just petty, miserable, goddamned motherfuckers.  No two ways around it.

I realize now, that I’ve hit my quota, that there’s plenty else that could have been said and will now be pulled into the undertoad.  The potential new friend who doesn’t seem all that interested in being friends.  The new artwork for the project that I love.  The driving.  The food=bad.  The scale=WTF, the two stools each with a cat primly settled on top and observing the silent scene with equanimity.