A Point In the Palm: Day Two Hundred Seventy-Five

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A new post typed gingerly as my left hand is quite sore for some reason.

For a half-second, a half of a half of a half, I’m allowing myself a glimpse of life without this yoke.  I’m thinking about a time when I won’t work from home, trying to just put in 4 focused hours, end up putting in 10, half-distracted ones and feel no further ahead than when I started – when I won’t plot to somehow get to work at 6am (that is a completely impossible pipe dream) every day from here to the end to get everything done.

I think my therapist would say that I can only do what I can do.  It’s true, but my opinion on how much that is seems to vary moment to moment.   My faith shrinks (and grows – from time to time, but mostly, I find that it shrinks) and I wonder if I’m moving closer or further away from anything I really care about.

Autumn seems to be the time, if I go back and glance at the archives, when things start to arrange themselves in my mind, when I start to see my pattern for what it is – something I can stop at any time, not an addiction to purge, just a habit to alter.  A groove, a rut that can be sidestepped.  Plans start to come together in autumn.  I got my final hotel room for Boston and was able to save just a tiny bit of money on it.  Not enough so that I feel really great about the fact that I will check in, wash myself off, get something to eat, and I expect collapse into six hours sleep before getting up and getting to the airport to fly home.  I am also thinking about possibly taking a day trip to Pompeii, but, well, I don’t know if I will get back to Italy or not. The Trevi fountain trick has yet to convert me, so maybe it’s worth the money to run off and do it while I’m there.  I’m waiting for my friend’s feedback on that one.  We may be too drunk to move.  I don’t know! That’s the joy of it, I don’t know!

This is just a note of reminder, but I will not be posting while in Italy.  There’s just no way to haul the computer around.

I really feel that for the first time once the new job begins I will have the time and mental capacity to take care of my health. You heard it here first and it’s only on me to hold my feet to the fire and do it, but it’s thrilling to imagine being able to be at home and concentrate wholly on that without flicking back every hour to the anchors awaiting me in the morning.

To say that the short-term solution will no longer be necessary.  To ply the liniments, to lay on thickly all the salves, to cocoon all winter and emerge in the spring a new sort of creature.

Lost a Poesy Ring: Day Thirty-Seven

Oh, the thoughts whirling in my head.  I am well-pleased, well-pleased.  The weather is changing from today’s treacherous -9, to tomorrow, they expect it to be almost 40.  Warm enough to melt away the few questionable patches on the road and warm enough to begin to think again of spring, of summer, of the future.

The boss was out more than in again, and as I have been empowered in so many ways, and am not chained to the copier to print out nearly anything any more, I felt like I accomplished quite a bit.  I felt like I was interested in actually crossing things off the to-do list rather than worrying about its completeness before beginning.  Getting to listen to music as I worked helped me to destress and keep focused.  I actually walked out of there feeling better than I had in an age…hopeful, that if I could work at this pace, with having these weights lifted off of me, I could find an exit strategy.  That maybe this was my exit strategy unfolding in front of me.   I didn’t worry that the new boss didn’t come back when she said she would.  I didn’t worry that old boss might be waiting for her.  Those things were out of my control and my workday was done.

Now, it’s time to be back on the low-carb ball.    This is more and more critical, in the light of the reading, in the light of the fact that I am not so crunched in to the fetal position (at least today) and I’m not so overwhelmed (at least today) and in the fact that I look on OKC and find guys that I could like and everything’s matchy matchy and wouldn’t we like one another, isn’t he cute, I could maybe tolerate this guys face, and then the question, can overweight people be attractive and they answer no and I go, okay, well, mark that one off the list.  They can’t even try to be, apparently, for this guy.  Fuck me, of course, I can’t just choose you because you won’t choose me and I’m not going to stand on the firing line when all I want is a toe in the water. And it’s not just that I think I need to accommodate that one particular guy’s tragic inability to see beauty in all its variant forms, but because I can’t see it, either.  Apparently not when it comes to me.  I have an evil, hard, unfair double standard.   Aside from the whole body security/probably help the vertigo/I want to fucking do it to strike it from the list/because I want to feel pretty when I go to Italy.

Because late October of this very year, I am going to Italy.  It’s pretty official now.  I keep thinking that someone would stop me and say, hey, this is kind of weird or dangerous or not acceptable or not allowed.  And then, I wonder why I need someone to talk me down from all my best darings.  And it doesn’t matter at this point if they do, because there are parts of me that are completely fearless when it comes to this.  When it comes to travel, and I need right now to identify those parts and places and be there for a while.

You Will Be Dead Soon Enough

I have less than an hour to provide us all with some entertainment and given that there are two screens between us and perhaps hundreds of thousands of miles both literal and metaphorical, that’s something of an undertaking.

We were going to get some gas on the way back from trivia, which we did not win but came in fifth at which we feel is decent considering there are only three of us and none of us know anything about sports and none of us care to, but there were three cop cars in the gas station’s immediate area so we decided it would be best for me to get my gas in the morning.

If I could just see my way clear through to Saturday, I will be one hundred percent better, I think.  Today was stressful and even being here in my room with the darkness and the electronic candles, I can’t quite remove myself from its presence.  It comes to me yet again that the only way for me to calm down at the deep, root level that I need to for my health is to quit my job.  It has started to make me so twitchy and so out of my depth and so just plain done up by its travails that something has to happen.  So I keep thinking about my birthday present to myself.   It’ll be two things: one to pay this thing off that is sitting over my chest and if I work very hard and live somewhat spartanly (spartanly is not a word, but it’s 11:12pm and I am not going to lose a single mass of letters to some grammar nazi when you know what I mean) I can have that.  And in the same fell swoop, I can write my letter of resignation.  It has to be very carefully crafted in that I need to be able to continue to help  – I want to be able to continue to help, at least on some levels, I’d love to still be able to have a hand in the festival and the market – but there would be a firm date onto which I would no longer be an employee and someone else would be glad to have my troubles and would handle them much better without going gray in the process.  I’m not going gray but my soul is.  And I think that matters more than the discomfort my leaving will bring.  And that’s still 8 months away.  And I don’t know if I should look for the job first, I mean, I know I need to have something lined up that will pay the same – only it’ll have benefits – and it will keep me out of this level of stomach-knotting responsibility.  I don’t need to be a manager.  I just want to be a head-down sort of doer.   I mean, I have the idea of once I write this birthday exodus letter that I’d stay on for up to even a year to get everything arranged.  But I don’t know if that’s a crazy idea or not because I feel like I’d not easily be able to get away.

I think I need some kind of advisor in this regard.

“The most solid advice for a writer is this, I think: Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.”

ernest hemingway

Tempo

I have dinner cooking.  I need to get eatin’.

Another day of frenzy.  I am getting to really appreciate this darn blog.   It’s like being able to think and breathe for a little bit every day after rushing around, feeling like nothing’s being accomplished or really, nothing’s being done right.

Forgiveness about all of this is what I want to talk about tonight.  Self-battery is not going to change one minutes, one pound, one breath.  It can make the future seem less certain because it’s bound up in this imperfect past.  The track record is admittedly shitty, but change, deep change, I think can’t come from negative reinforcement.  I’m terribly sorry, universe, muscles, pancreas,  tummy, soul, for the tubs of frosting.  For the snuck cookies.  For the extra slices, pieces, pinches, slabs, plates, and pans that added up to the extra 30 pounds on me right now.  I apologize for all of that self-medication that mattered more to me than this future, this moment in which I exist and now have to make challenging and critical changes.

But.  What.  It happened.   I can own it and own all the attendant feelings of shame and self-loathing and anger and regret at lost opportunities and anguish and emotional turmoil and feeling vulnerable and just EVERYTHING that I impacted my eating choices or seeming lack thereof, but I still want to change.  I don’t have to be that person forever just because I have been that person for as long as I’ve known.  Very Camus, I know.  The absurdity.  Men merely players and all that jazz.

So speaking of vlogs (which we weren’t, but it fits well enough) that touch on this issue: I love this.  I kind of feel like I’m trying to get a do-over on everything post-Junior High.  I’m trying to find a skinny sixteen year old floating around in my head and say, here, here’s the body you were meant to have.  And that’s 10 years of my life gone in a snap for what?  A reality I can never grab hold of, that will always be fantasy, untouchable.  I am here.  Today. With thoughts and feelings and opinions and a life that sometimes takes too much of me but is also making me into someone who cares about community and place and has purpose.

Yesterday, I talked about the unfair exchange of one unmeasured “naughty” food for 1 pound of regained weight.  About how in certain stressful moments, that can seem like easiest damn thing, taking a known pleasure for one piece of this unknown body.  But I’ve been making that trade forever and I’ve never found the point of satiety. So, we concern ourselves with the future.  With not trading a future for a past just because it’s safer, or instantly though imaginarily satisfying.

The future has this goal completed, but it has new goals, too.  New struggles.  Publishing some of my writing.  Traveling to Ireland.  Falling in love.  Spending time with my friends.  Being there for my family.  Organizing my house.

The past is just prologue, and a scale or a line or a graph or a chart of progress doesn’t keep a new day from being new.