It’s All That I Am


So, when in doubt, when you’ve eaten dinner at 10:35p.m. because you suddenly thought you were ravenous for polenta and roast beef stacks with carrots and you realize that maybe your body is not happy with that choice at about 11:19p.m. when you’re due to be well on your way into your daily post, you should blog, as ever, about love.

This group is interesting.  It’s strange.  It is pulling me towards my best and shittiest behaviors and inner thoughts.  It’s this Mst3k group for people who are looking to date, and I don’t know if I’m looking to date, but I know that I’m looking, I have eyeballs and such and occasionally a twinge roundabout that reminds me that I am a lady with the parts of a lady that into, in generalities, the parts of a man.  If I may be so coarse.  So, there’s more gents than ladies in this group.  There’s a few people in the state, but it’s just starting so, there aren’t more than you could count on one hand for me, men and women included.  And this, I think, is good for me, because there isn’t that instant feeling of needing to progress yourself towards a meeting so quickly.  The men and women of the group are all, in some manner, geeks and nerds.  We’re all into some Venn diagram of genre literature/video games/comic books, you know the stuff.  We’re all at least on that level tangentially related to one another.  It does provide for an easy place to start with saying, oh, hey there.  You like x, I like x, isn’t x great?  Aren’t we great for liking x?  There aren’t strait-laced jocks who want to barge in and look you up and down and put a price on you.  Even that’s an awful…ah.

But that isn’t to say there isn’t some curious shit that goes down when you dump a pile of random geeks of varying ages in a “room” and say…all of y’all (with the exception of the gay and lesbian members who are a bit starved for choice at the moment) are open to the idea of “it” if they can just be convinced that you can provide them with “it”…so there’s a lot of unearned compliments (it could just be that I have zero comfort with anyone telling me I’m beautiful, particularly if I haven’t formed any level of attachment to them) and near-flounces and “nice guy” shit.  Ladies owing dudes time, messages, forgiveness of problems and defects.  But I can’t for a minute call anyone up on that if I am just as image-focused and projecting all my body issues out there wildly on everyone else so that a bit of fairly clever back and forth with a guy gets a bit deflated in my head, not by the epic distance of states upon states between us, but because I have an image of what I’d like to be happening.

Basically, there’s another guy in the group I like – a couple, really – but one I had a dream about, one who reminds me, I’m sure, on a distant level of Mr. Rochester.  I dunno if he likes me, only, that like a giddy teenybopper, I noticed he liked a picture of me.  Which feels like something, despite not being anything. All these behaviors that I’m messing around with…I know how childish they are.  I know that teenagers do them and recognize that they make people feel like shit and grow up and stop.  Game playing.

It’s just pushing me to get clear about my business.  That  I don’t have to feel mad at myself that I have a preference.  It’s nobody’s fault.

I’m just…ugh.

One more day until we enter the Twilight Zone.

But It Doesn’t Have to Be That Way Anymore


My new favorite thing to say is “But it doesn’t have to be that way anymore.”

I want to say that all the time now.  About nearly everything.   I want it to be my new catchphrase.  Is the sky blue?  Yes….But it doesn’t have to be that way anymore.

Oh, we can’t go out for breakfast – we woke up too late and now life is blurry and I’m already exhausted.  True.  But it doesn’t have to be that way anymore! And it wasn’t! So now I am full of the Universal’s Cornbread Rancheros and

So, I’ve made a firm decision.

Tomorrow I am not starting a diet.  Everything says yes, gung ho, now, do it, 20 carbs, total comfort, 30 minutes on the bike, throw in a walk, strip all the sugar out of my meals, start doing yoga, start to the power of 20.  Because this is the window.

No.  I just am not going to play the three-weeks until my birthday game, then I throw myself on some chain restaurant food because I “deserve” it and then guiltily struggle through the next three months, have a another summer surge and then because of stress and life, spend fall and winter trying not to think about wasting time.  How many years has that happened?  Only every year since I became aware that dieting was a thing, more than that, “my thing” and high and low tides aside, it hasn’t worked out.  I am just one of the statistical masses.  Hate to say it, but it’s true.

So, it doesn’t have to be that way any more..

That’s kind of a relief.  I may, in fact, drink an Atkins shake.  I am going to do some cleaning and some (10 mins+) time on the bike. Try and suss out some vegetables to eat.  Drink some water, write it all down as best as I can recall.  But that’s it.  There is no carb limit.  There is no step counter (yet). I might check my weight for the first time in six months.  I might not.  There is no perfection. It’s just a start to get a few good habits comfortable enough to take root.  There is nothing to flub up.  No promises made.  I just want to be elsewise, so I’m doing other things.  Goals are distant guideposts.  My focus is in here, on me.  On writing and reading and showing up and building up capacities to be open and ask people into my life and keep progress I’ve made over the past two years rolling and growing into something easier for me to show.  Validation is okay.  Wanting to have someone talk to you about your life and choices and your struggles and absences and tell you they see you is not shameful.  I want to be able to do some work and get it packaged up and sent out into the world.   The greek chorus only knows what it knows.  What I know.

Also, princess stories, Kate Beaton, Miranda, hot bath, talk of bummer moon wars, the delights of Mark Hamill’s twitter account, Regina Spektor (as is required), and so freely not sad about a goddamn thing.

The Greek Chorus


How hard do we want to look?  How hot do we want to burn?

Harder and hotter than before.  Even if we move by degrees, we are still moving.

Missing the M key tonight for some reason.  Feeling it in that particular fingertip.

Alright, the focus is that maybe the sky isn’t falling and maybe I’m not the worst of the worst and maybe my detachment this week is purposeful (of course it is) and maybe I don’t have to be written off yet.  One of the things I like best about going to therapy is eventually you say things that surprise you.  I think it’s just a token of developing a rapport with someone where you can reference your own isolation and hermitudery and there isn’t this backpedaling process of dialing it down so everything feels copacetic.  When it’s not.  I’m there because it’s not.  We don’t have to do that so I can say I feel like the fact that I’m so isolated in my day to day life has really caused me to generate this rich internal system of communication where everything gets batted around between these voices of self.  We talked about the Crone who has to be Mildred’s regretful mother or grandmother with this deeply aggressive passive-aggressive wisdom.  The oppressively sage voice that knows better whenever I make a proposal of any life consequence.  A voice that has not been lifted wholesale from my mother whose voice rattles around in there with the whole gang, too.  She’s her own thing, her own mythological archetype, she exists to keep tribes safe and not running off of cliffs and eating the wrong plant, but she also thinks she knows how much discomfort I can take or what I’m willing to do.  And that’s the Crone, there’s no surprising her.  If you fail, of course.  If you succeed, she knew it all along, but just couldn’t tell you and change your course.  There’s Mildred, of course, who is a bit like an overweight Samara from The Ring. Not Mass Effect’s blue-skinned Asari, I think I could clarify.  That would be a hilarious mashup.  She just moans and plots and bangs around and yipes with fear when you casually suggest you might want to have a kid or might want to go outside or might want, I don’t know, to not have to keep her in sugar water and stuffed animals the rest of your life.  Much better, much lovelier, but still insidious is the voice of the Femme Fatale.  If I could picture her, she’s in black and white, and she kind of looks like Paulette Goddard with Dorothy Parker’s wit.  Just sassy about everything I attempt.  Self-amused constantly.  A good friend to have when you need a laugh, less so when you need someone to take your earnest heart seriously.  She’s her own walking noir and where she spits, no grass grows ever.

And then, in its own category, the Faithful Light.  Who accepts the name I give her, accepts whatever femininity I assign her, but needs neither.  She so keenly understands me and is inherent in me that she ways for all the other voices to speak and waits a little longer, a little longer, until she knows that I am hearing her.  And then she says a true thing for me to take hold of and be helped by.

I was less detailed with her.  We only had an hour.  But there was good work done today.  I’m glad I went.

Bright as a Daisy


Have no fear, we’re here, we’re really here!  Bright as a daisy, sunny as a buttercup.  Sentences at a time, but present and accounted for.

Your little turn of energy becomes mine and mine becomes yours.  Winds beneath wings and all that.  It is as simple as having chosen to begin.  You can spiral down and out, but you can also go up and in.  Ahem.  You can.  It is just a change in direction.  It is just a willing, scullery maid’s spirit.  There’s work to be done, but here we are to do it.  Even if we mouth the words, we know the words so there’s a start.

The new year is coming.  It is unavoidably nigh.   You can choose other than you chose before.  No one will hold your evolution against you, not really, not I think, if you believe in its necessity far more than you believe in the heartsick that others throw up at you when they’re frightened.

The habits already decided on are 10 minutes of physical activity everyday + 10 situps.   Will I get to the point where I can do 20 or a 100 every day? Gee, I hope so, but for the moment, we’re thinking 1×1 inch picture frames (thank you, Anne Lamott) and doing 10.

Interrogating my thoughts.  This is rather huge.  It is a habit that needs building, though.  Saying yes things are possible so often that you lean towards the assumption that you can get up and tackle your life, thank you Cheryl Strayed, you can frigging murdilize it as needed.  Rather than acedia, plodding, exhaustion and accepting nothingness.  You can’t get out of bed ever now?  Not ever, ever, ever?  What if you have to pee? What if you need to eat?  Someone will come, someone will encourage me, someone will bring me food.  No.  No, they won’t.  And even if they did, you wouldn’t like what they brought you anyway.

This is the sort of internal dialogue fight we have to fight 24/7 until we get strong enough to avoid the fighting entirely.  Right now I’m just getting ambushed all the time by oddball freak-outs.

If there is some secret inner vault where we keep the beliefs we hold dearest, contrary to what we talk about or espouse or intend, it is time to crack it open and let it be awash with light.  What lives after the lustratio deserves to remain.  We will walk the long walk, we will give up the pig and the ram and the bull and drive the evil spirits out. Look to the birds, let the gods call it as they see it from their side of the fence.

Enough with the blather.  I got up, I got food (and coffee), I have therapy tomorrow, I checked my email and made sure of that.  Then, my friends have made genius plans for Seattle that I am delighted to turn up and experience.  Yes.  We have to get out of bed at some point because the only people they fly horizontally, at least for my ticket price, are corpses.

Autumn in December

pexels-photoIt’s a question and answer sort of post, but I have no questions to ask of you or myself that haven’t already been asked and no answers that match any of those questions so I suppose I can offer you lots of ands.

And I am doing alright for a Saturday night that is actually, I think, Tuesday.  I am not entirely sure.  Is it Tuesday or is Wednesday because it can’t be Monday anymore.  And I am aware that I should be, at bare minimum, aware of what day it is.  And it’s just fine and dandy that I don’t.  I’ll scrape together a bit of sense in the morning.  For now, we have words and trying harder.  And yesterday’s post, now that I recall, was about trying harder.  Trying harder when all you want to do is Alt-Tab the hell out of whatever situation you’re in.  Not great on days when the computer runs hot and slow.  Sometimes the image hangs and you are forced, however briefly it may happen, to acknowledge the things that bring you discomfort.

How I am spending this week is not one of those things.  Not yet.

I am on vacation.  The first in a long number of very stressful months and I am, I imagine, going to return to an equal amount of insane pressure.  I am thinking of an old hot iron that can smooth out the wrinkles, but can’t be left to set face down on anything but for a moment, or it will burn it.  My wrinkles will be smoothed, the whole of me burnt until you wouldn’t so much mind a wrinkle or two anymore.

It feels like I am failing on day two of thinking about not failing.  But I’m not.  Okay.  It’s late and I am trying to do better for myself, but today that better comes in the form of thinking my cute little quirks of language are cute and endearing and not, what they really are: wrong and obnoxious.  We are not out in the cold and the heater works and we have clean water to drink and nobody starves even if we are often too lazy to go hunt and gather our food.  When you beyond the face of it, we cannot call this life anything other than charmed. And I made up this bed, fresh sheets, blankets no longer akimbo.  Ah, mes amies! I made the bed!

So, yes, I’m cleaning and playing video games and watching sand in the hourglass fall.  I think I should put the hourglass on the end of a lathe and spin it so that time just reaches outward in all directions and we’re none of us being passed by.

Speaking of First World Problems (thank you, Mr. Good), the stock photography site I use was giving me grief so I found another, but all the pictures seem on the nose.  I haven’t used pictures of people, but these seem especially posed, especially generated to make you think you know what all of this is about.  I like to avoid that clarity.  Oh, well.  Rub your hands through your sandy hair and shake out all those grains of days gone by.

Life in the Fast Lane (Theabild)

coffee-laptop-notebook-workingThis song has been stuck in my head – just the first line of the chorus and the earwormiest notes.  The worst!  (It had gone away, but I came back and read this line and suddenly, it’s in my brain again!)

So today, I was thinking that now is the time to know – if I know about 10 minutes of physical activity + 10 situps + tracking, what do I know about the needs of this blog in the coming year?

If I relieved myself of this “burden,” what would be improved?  I would not experience those brief, but real mental wrinkles I have every single day when I wonder about how I need to stop everything and Summarize! I would not have to stop everything and gather my brain into one spot.  I would not need to pull myself out of games and reverie, where I have spent another day idling, pleasurably, but yet, idling.  I would not be able to say that this, this daily blogging thing, is a thing that I do and have committed myself to.  I’d have to say, if I was asked, that I stopped because I found those fifteen to sixty minutes tiresome and I prefered to think of myself as a successfully non-writing writer (which is still the very edge of the qualifications I can affix myself with.)  I would have to, I assume, find a more haphazard schedule with which to approach the page – any page – and relieve the writing bug, jones, need, addiction.  I would have to assume I would even if I know, five years ago – nearly six – this habit was started because I was failing to do just that.

I don’t want to give it up.  I don’t need to.  No one is making me.  I just find myself keenly aware after having written posts beyond counting about this keen awareness that I can spit words like nobody’s business.  Just words. Not well-curated, elegantly crafted, viciously pertinent language.  Without editing and a trajectory, this becomes just like anyone’s life – not that there’s anything wrong with good ol’ Anyone’s life, but it isn’t my dream.  It doesn’t feed me and make me a stronger, more able writer.  It is sugar.  You can live on it, but only just, you goddamned humming bird.

Do better, you say?  That should be the answer.  And in it lies a greater truth than perhaps we either of us realize.  I am willing to step forward and write puff and fluff and call it good day after day.  Because it takes nothing of me.  In all of these areas, success is about me not accepting bare minimums anymore.   More not less, forward and not away, not giving up because the way has greater resistance than we first envisioned.  I need the pumping up, I need the daily reminders, I need this, but better.  I need this, and more.

So next year.  500 words, but I need to incorporate the diet side.  A real check-in, every day as to what I’m doing with my goals.  And the other writing on top, beyond, more.

Sounds plannish.

Already Remembered


Like the cat says, I need to think.

Diet/weight loss.  All of these pieces feel like they carry the weight of a year’s worth of focus and devotion.  That they deserve that much of my attention – I should apply each one as a diadem on my forehead and march about, tattooed and slavishly attempting to make my resolution fall within its boundary.  They are all interconnected.  Each issue joins arms and leans on the others to make the walls of my Fortress of Lady Solitude, one so tall and so precariously built that no King Kong and no gallant have ever dared to scale them. But the concepts and ideas I’ve used to motivate myself towards weight loss have never worked and for the first time, I’m starting to allow myself to recognize the serious implications that will arise if I don’t change my ways.  It’s a real Scrooge getting the three spirits situation.  Or it’s not, but eventually, that’s what it will come to.  My body is just wildly unhappy right now,  even as my mind hushes and shushes it. Things aren’t fitting as well or at all from top to bottom on me, things like my feet feel weird from time to time, I find myself avoiding standing upright for long periods and find I really have rare reason to.  That’s all insane and unpleasing and a bad path to be marching so gaily down.  Plus, it aggravates my brain’s power to be reasonable which I need nowadays.  I need badly to fight my daily fight with my own stupid anxieties and illogical insistences (not a word, but might be.)  AND you can do OKCupid until you’re blue in the face (or green as my case may be) but if you feel shitty and shifty and untouchable, well, the rare soul who turns up with something that isn’t asinine to say to you, all he’ll find is those same glacial walls.

I don’t want to be pickaxed open.  I want to lower the drawbridge, send down the braid of hair, run out of the castle and start looking myself.

This means that things I don’t want to do with daily exercise are going to be of equal importance to doing this page.  Every single day.  10 minutes of real physical activity and 10 situps to cap it off.  Every day for a whole year.  More being better, more will be done, but the line has been burnt into the sand before you.  There will also be as much food tracking as can possibly done.  Imperfect tracking is better than zero tracking.   These are the tactics that will change my life and haven’t been done in the past for just this reason.  I will have a body that is different to this one.  One that will register differently with people and that has frightened me into submission before.  But that is what is new about 2016, I know what I will suffer to get hands laid on me, to get eyes in my head, to get another’s words breathed into my neck and it’s a hell I don’t mind.