Chekov’s Vase: Day 17

Here’s the frog to swallow. Do this now and everything else will be easier. Not easy, mind. We can’t make that assumption these days. But easier to not despair so fully. That’s the benchmark we’re reaching for…to not maintain an overfull sense of despair about things we have zero control over.

I’ve bought my airfare to go to Seattle, see some dear friends, indulge in all the Critical Role my heart can endure (this is why you need less despair, so the bucket can tip and sway under the overfill of joy) and reliably, it’s nice to have something real and immediate on the horizon to look forward to. It’s a good reminder, of course, about the Grand Plan, to get myself into a bit better shape to not get overwhelmed by those hills once again. A reminder that you can’t get there by doing what you’ve done before.

Someone posts a meme: “You deserve someone who isn’t confused about their feelings for you.” Comments ensue. His feelings – all feelings in all forms – are confused is the public statement. Well. I think. Well, I nod to myself, pulling at my dry eyes. Well. I can be snide about it. Post back something charmingly sarcastic about how little confusion he seemed to exhibit last night. Maybe all of that is a lie. Who can say? But I know that would be painful, mortifying, frustrating, and would end with me apologizing and feeling as though I’d crossed some line in the sand.

And I would have. It’s not who we are to use the forum to have actual communication, to argue publicly, argue at all. But the forum exists and these parallel streams of experience flow through its conduits, currents that split and run for miles in opposite directions before they cross into the fog of Love and War and somehow end up pooling in the same ocean. I hear what he’s thinking as a vase in a room absorbs an actor’s monologue. I just get to know it, hold it. I don’t have any option to roll myself on the floor and crack over it. I’m not the audience. I’m a piece of set dressing in the long Pinter play that is his life. An upgrade from a handful of dust, tangible, photographable, but unless you put some significance in the narrative, the gun is just a gun, the vase is just a vase, a spade…

Not entirely true. But far less false than it should be.

No word from the honorable RP’er. That is as it should be, of course. He’s passed the test, refused the ring, and away he goes with a good and happy life.  Maybe.  Nobody can begrudge him that.

I am moving on?  Not really, but I’m enduring by building the small brand of power I claim.  Another day – 3 days running  – of facing the turn of terror.

A note, as a poet one must comment.  Mary Oliver passed away today.  You can kind of feel a chill in the air, a lacking that feels urgent, new, inexplicable.  Let’s not forget the work, the way the work can make a life just where it stands.

The Dull Blade Cuts


I’m sitting on the floor of my bedroom.  I am still at stage one of Japanese tidying, but I am not at stage zero.  I am getting everything in massive piles.  It was in massive piles before, but now they’ll be separated massive piles with tops, and pants, and skirts rather than a giant mishmash of everything everywhere.

This makes me feel better.  It is more than could ever hope to be accomplished in a single evening on a single whim, but, it is something more than nothing.  It’s non-zero progress.

Also, non-zero? Nail polish.  Been staring at my naked nails for ages, having done nothing about it, staring so long that the nail polish I intended to use was all dried out.  Which was depressing given it was a $13 bottle.  But I tried to fix it with the directives from the internet, adding a little nailpolish remover into it.  But it’s all pasty and dry and I think it might be a lost cause.

Instead, I’ve a matte red and found in the box of nail polish the bright matte red lipstick that would work well with it and that navy blue dress that’s in the wash and all of this makes me feel a bit more grown up than a girl who watched TV and ate 5-day old pad thai for dinner.

This is, I think, due in part to having watched Grav3yard Girl.  She’ll forgive me, I’m sure for not necessary spelling that perfectly.  She had a recent video talking about people who were commenting that they liked her better before and she essentially expounds on the value of youtubing, self-expression and change as positive elements to beating back her anxiety and depression.  Doing something you love can lead to all these other possibilities.  Just by walking the path.

Just by starting.  I don’t know how to remagic myself into just always knowing when I get lost how to get found.  It is always the process of stepping towards rationality, of stepping towards organization, of stepping towards the visions I have for myself rather than a giving up of failed policies.  Eventually, that shit falls away, but you get so clingy for it that you get scared to pull away from it.

Old lessons, old messages, re-stated for these, our so very modern times.

I am wishing I had a day tomorrow to here, on my own, to cement these thoughts in my head. It’s odd to be stressed about the job, but to have this idea that there’s only eight hours of it to face tomorrow and then I’m not there.  I wonder…I just wonder on some levels if that messes me up in both places. I feel bound to both masters and yet, really, to neither.  Forgetful and focused on myself.  I suppose, that’s just what has to be right now.

So.  Yes.  The girl begins with herself yet again.  All the hopes and dreams for this year that seemed dashed when my granddad died, when my mom got her diagnosis, when the kitty had to be put down when my work hours and salary got slashed, when I didn’t hear the things I needed to hear.

Well, they didn’t splatter on the rocks, they floated there and waited for the water to rise.  And perhaps their patience is now rewarded.



Well, since it is apparently all anyone on the internet wants to know, kintsukuroi is when a thing, typically a piece of ceramic is broken and then put back together with an emphasis on making the repair obvious so that the having been brokenness itself is made beautiful and not forgotten.

I think, I’m sure, I found it apropos the day I used it for a post title.  I feel as though all the people desperately scanning blogs might feel hugely thwarted by the casual way I use it without definition when they are so in need of this information.  It’s not true that anyone is looking to me for pertinent information, but in case you actually did want to know, there you go.

It is Friday as it has often been in the past.  I’m working on trying to stop dwelling on a idyllic past or on an apocalyptic future and instead making the present as comfortable and liveable as I might.

I had a great day food-wise and now am just gathering myself up, and my quite full stomach, and the intangible that is gumption for some exercise.  Again yesterday I did the DVD which involved walking 3 miles (to some unfortunately selected indie rock – Pandora did me no favors) as well as some WiiFit noodling.  The scale said I was down a pound.  I am trying to be sagacious and let a little bit of time play its role because oh, so much of this is familiar and I have to figure out the rest of the formula.  The not giving up part which typically happens around the time of the meeting we have next week and the rolls into my birthday where I feel defeated and shit.

I am considering at this moment my motivation.

-I would like to be able to not feel completely downtrodden and defeated by whatever I’ll have to inevitably wear to my sister’s inevitable wedding (or, not so inevitably) my own.
-I would really like us all to go to Salida.  I want to go back and go through all the stores and not have to rush or have the odd, stray feelings I had the last time I was there.
-I would like the little seed of pretty I’ve put in my styrofoam cup to get a little sunlight, maybe a gro-lite, maybe a shot in life.
-I would like to shock and astonish.
-I would like to continue to not be beholden to eating out and to eating 1500  calorie meals at a shot and feeling sluggish and angry and pants not fitting and private hells and thinking this can’t be good on my heart or my whatever.
-I will just really be back here again next year, so I might as well, give up the bother and the struggle and just be here now.
-I would really like to be present in myself and see how much this discipline, not unlike the daily writing discipline, actually gives me real freedom.  That security gives me freedom.  That, as Mr. Tom Haverford says, sometimes you gotta work a little so you can ball a lot.

Club Scum

I have two stones about the size of tennis balls rolling about in my shirt today.  Causing me no small amount of pain.  Ah, it is the time of the month that brings on the rages and the stars, the belief and disbelief, the hunger and the feasting.  The center of all things, this center that cannot hold.  I have been up and down the street of human emotion today at the whim of chemicals pooling in my brain, dispersing in my body.

If it is the point, I have not eaten well today.  If it is not the point, I have not eaten well today.  That’s a fact that doesn’t change despite how I choose to approach it.  I’ve gone on a bit of a literal walkabout, running around town, stone tits and sour moods aside, and I’ve tried to use some of the time to think.   Though mostly, I have just gone blank in my head.  I’ve just tried to turn the worries down as opposed to adding in the difficult task of turning the good news and the affirmations up to eleven where they need to be.

I’ve been considering motivation.

I was very irritated yesterday when I went over to my mother’s house, ostensibly to cook a pizza since our oven hasn’t worked in months, and also, seemingly ostensibly to me but apparently not to her, to be settled by her motherly presence.  She mentioned wagon-ing, dieting, being back at the helm of this great ship Progress, and I threw and internal psychic tantrum.  No! No! I will not be told what to do! I will not be made to eat what you say I must.  No! No! No! It is not time to put away childish things and I want chocolate and pizza and everything that will stultify the nerves and the sadness and the things I was feeling but didn’t and don’t have a way to release.

Petulance is, generally, the path of least resistance.  Nobody wants to deal with a petulant person.  I know I don’t.  I just feel very aware right now of the vicious cycle.  I feel very aware of the way the week works and how decimated I leave myself on a Friday night so that recovery is necessary and I spend the weekend salving wounds and bolstering my confidence and denying myself nothing I want as though that will give me strength for a week where I am not confident and where I am both the battering ram and the door for all my problems.

So me sitting here, considering the Reese’s Peanut Butter cup on my table, and what is in the refrigerator and me considering the future and the past, I feel very adrift from both being free in my indulgence and determined in my spartan and austere attempt to better myself.   Neither of these things seem likely.  Instead, a guilty middle way.

Time, I think, to go back to the beginning and see what it is I want.

Color of Fire, Scent of an Orange Peel

As I was sitting by the radiator in this bed and breakfast that was built in 1863, I was thinking about how I am rather blessed.   Blessed with any eye that can see the bright, playful allium lining this cheerful street on this beautiful day where things are green and juicy and absent of judgment of me.  There were a hundred thousand miracles and my Pollyanna was showing.   It comes in waves, and my weight this morning helped, down another pound or so.  I did less perfectly after that and my stomach has revolted from my brain’s mutiny and suddenly there’s a reenactment of the Irish Civil War going on in my intestines and want simply to use this weekend to bolster my resolve.

I was going to tell you yesterday about how the co-workers were talking all about weddings and bridal showers and etiquette and how they would throw me mine and it could either be some kind of Victoriananarama replete with giant hats that require hat pins or it would be an eighties-throwback retro extravaganza.   As with so many things, I said if those are my options, I respectfully decline.  Maybe less than respectfully.   One of the circles we circle about in contains a girl who is making her own wedding dress which is apparently the height of thrift.  And thrift is the most precious of virtues in an elegant guttersnipe pulled from the torpor and slop of singledom.  That dread state.   Then, one of my co-workers mentioned, finally, out loud after years of doing bizarre things like repeating my name and telling my college major two him every time he visited and telling him I should be the one to help him, how much she thought my friend who is now far and away in Texas should have gotten together with me.  Then my other co-worker mentioned that she thought I wouldn’t have minded that either.  Us nerdy people.  And I didn’t say anything because there’s surely no need to add grist to a mill that’s never going to have enough grain to make bread (sorry, terrible and failing extended metaphor) but also because that’s patently fact.  I wouldn’t have minded that one bit.

Now I find myself feeling creepy about desiring to bring the topic up again even if the well is completely dry because I find it a thousand times creepier to just always sit on the edge of that topic.  Oscar Wilde surely was right , as I paraphrase ignobly, that the only thing worse than being gossiped about was not being talked about at all.

Listening to Al Pacino motivate me.  His speech from Any Given Sunday (not Sudan, that’s…not right) is making me pretend I’m a football player.

I wonder how at the beginning of May it is already too hot to sit here with the laptop a’lap and my window open. It doesn’t bode well for the summer.  I, however, am hoping to continue boding better.  One day at a time.  Just got to sweat it out.