Ain’t No Gimmick: Day 16

Stitching in time, trying to save way more than nine.

It’s frustrating how the dreams one has at either end of the day never seem to make it through to the other half.  I wake up and am plotting how much power and juice I have tonight to whirlwind some house organization.  Not exactly KonMari it, but do something with the free time and I know I will get there all bleary and ravenous and distracted by the chemistry of my body and collapse into sleep far too late – just before thinking that somehow I will wake up early and be level-headed enough to pack my lunch and do my makeup and be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and hit work early and make something of myself.   Then I always wake up, holding on with my fists, digging nails into the last little segment of sleep as it tears itself free of my grasp…I stumble into work, late, distracted, with more caffeine in my system than I can properly absorb and the cycle begins anew.

I have things to do that help with this.  My plans for life help with this.  I am not, at this moment, following these plans. I need to fill out my daily paperwork.  I need to read the blogs.  I’d allotted for this grace, but dang, it feels wasteful to flagrantly spin about in it.    Let us have a moment of recognition that my suffering is entirely self-induced and can be resolved only through my own instigation.  No one else can stop this train, save me, and the cliff in front of me.

Lame. I thought it was all going to be that piece of proverbial cake.  Just goes to show the power of a little sugar on a plan of austerity.  You let someone remember their hedonism even for a moment and you loose the reins.

I wrote a whole post yesterday about my new, marvelous dentist.  Marvelous mostly for the fact that he didn’t leave me feeling elated just to have gotten out of there alive and having spent less than $200.00.  Boy o boy. High art.  I feel like that’s where the stories are right now for me.  In the extremely specific happenstances of my small and generally uneventful life.  It is in the looking that I will begin to see something and when I blot out my vision and clap shut my dictionary in favor of the blurry images inside my mind, a blindness reigns my spirit.  I forget all.  I find myself at those melted candle ends of day with nothing to show.   This year, I spose, we gotta pour the sugar there.  The energy, the thought, the images, the will.

Today, though, we are able to report that the one or two very specific things I was requested to do in her absence are done.  We traumatized the cat and gave her the medicine she requires.  We scooped her shit.  We’re shortly to wash our hair and selves and somehow find our way out of the Royal We.  We and I also drove the way I wanted to drive, no turning about for the longest long way.   Small, concrete, factual tasks.  Slow and steady.

 

 

Bird Luck

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What are your personal superstitions?

Hmm.  I feel like a superstition requires a certain amount of cognisance.  I don’t…I think I have a few tics and oddball repetitive behaviors, but I don’t think I do them out of a fear.   Well, I try and get out of the bathtub before all the water drains out and don’t have a belief about it, just this odd little story that it feels like it’s akin to spilling salt.  All your luck drains away with the bathwater and if you sit in an empty bathtub, you’re asking for bad luck.

Okay, so maybe I have some superstitions.

But I don’t believe them.  Like I don’t believe that, I just behave in accordance with it.  Does that make any sense?  It doesn’t really, to me.

I do believe in the power of a single person’s innocuous behaviors to fuck the fate of an entire sports team.  Sitting in the back row of the bleachers, watching the Cardinals get creamed, the few scattered fans in and amongst a sea of purple sigh and shift.  Just a few runs, it’s not fair for us to embarrass them so totally with our incredible skill at knocking the ball over the wall, at stealing bases, at destroying redbirds. At least not so early in the game, it’s only the third inning.  Just a few runs.  Suddenly, the Cardinals sense my weak heart reaching out to them, encouraging them, hoping them to erase some of the devastation of a six-run lead in the fourth.  And they perpetrate a grand slam.  No, I cry, they are the villains! This is villainy! How dare they raise a bat against our heroes?  I look about at the smug fans leaning forward in their chairs.  Look, look what I have done!  The home team being cruelly routed upon their own field! I must save them from their loathsome fate and allow my lovelies to eke out a slim, but serviceable victory over their canny lessers.  Luckily, their obedience to my magical will can only be demanded when I am free of distraction, so I have not properly driven them to the World Series, well, for some time.  When I am prepared to take the reins of the organization back, well, the universe had best watch out.

I also don’t step on cracks, not because I believe it will ruin my mother’s back, but because I like to count in French, how many squares and spaces it takes to get from wherever I am to wherever I’m going.  I don’t throw salt, because that’s silly.

I had this book of Irish superstitions, one of those slim, gift books (the sort of gift that seems odd to even consider giving but I was delighted to receive.  It mentioned such worries as if you get your shirt wet while you’re washing the dishes you will marry a drunk.  Or if you see three magpies on the road it is very unlucky, but if you see two of them on your right-hand side then it’s good luck.  Bird luck.  It also said that those who kill a Robin Redbreast will never have any luck again in their lives.  I don’t know if the Irish have Cardinals, so I think we’ll let the whole thing rest awhile.