Go Fit Yourself: Day 18

I have injected the cat with her kitty medicine.  She was a tolerable patient, willing to lap up the gooeyness that didn’t quite make it into her mouth even though, quite reasonably, she hates it.   She’s doing what she has to do to stay well.  Would that I were as amenable to my own self-regard as Miss Priss next to me.

But if I am under the silvery halo of the feminine and the bloody scythe she harvests with each and every adult month thus far, if I am moved to eat every last unholy thing in sight, at least one can say that she is stuffed entirely with a delicious salad and rice cakes.  I’m holding onto that as I shift gears and possibly return to form.  To filling out paperwork and recognizing the evil fact that what happens is what happens.  Not what in all ideal versions of this would might occur.

It’s the weekend now, in case the calendar has evaded you, and the sister returns from Portland, and I am going to briefly stop worrying about this work trip that is not coming together as it should.  I am thinking about the snow that came out of nowhere today, socked us clean in the jaw and has seemingly wandered off to take out some other fellow when he’s least prepared.  I don’t know how it happened to be Friday when the parents were right nearby and could gather me up from work and take me back to their place in the middle of the day so I could work from home. No terrorized two-hour slide to try and stupidly take the wreckage of the sidestreets to back to my house.  I constantly feel granted access to the path of least resistance and I take it every time because I’ve come ignore the heaving sigh of disapproval I give myself.  It’s only me who minds, nobody else, and I’m tired of wearing myself over it.

Sleep.

Three hundred and twenty-nine words.

I am entirely out of words to complete the day.  I could talk about my parents’ terrible arguing, my mother’s anger spiking to another plane of existence, before completely evaporating and if you note the fact that it happened, you’re crazy.  I could note that being all jacked up on steroids might do something like that to you.  I could talk about how J and I hardly talk, it seems, except to lunge at each other and how unsustainable that feels lately.  How Okcupid keeps sending me messages that are all some combination of FWB?  How thrilling the idea a glass of cold water feels right now.  How pleased I was that neither the furnace nor water heater blew up while I was at work today. How I want to like Kahlua, but I don’t think it was meant to be.  How my birthday is coming up and I’m feeling like I might even forget it’s happening.   I could tell you that I’ve done alright this week all on my own.

Haven’t missed you at all.  Whoever you are.

 

 

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.

Perspicuous: Day 8

People have been, seemingly, checking this blog out.  That’s nice.    It’s all very pleasant to write something and have an idea that a handful of people and/or bots are going to run their eyes/code over it.

Wish I had anything worthy of reporting.

Reliably, at least we can say that nothing will happen until something does.  And for now, we’re on the side of the nothing that hasn’t happened.  I’ll certainly share if any late, breaking personal news comes over the wire today.  I’m growing quite wise and letting the bead in my brain that is fiendishly hopeful settle and simmer and shrink.  It won’t go away, how can it, but it can get very small and still while I go about my business.

The business needed to be busy and distracting.  There’s so much that is running and flying.  Spinning overhead, both the delicate crystalware, and the giant, cushy possibilities of doing something that will benefit you a year down the road.   Suddenly, I’m booking travel and making decisions and whirling here and there, making suggestions my boss approves of and I realize that there isn’t any time for thinking.  Just doing.  I thought I had another week somehow.  Isn’t that always the case?

I am going to end up, despite wishing entirely otherwise, doing everything tomorrow to prepare for this trip. I’m tired as hell from a hectic few days at work, have one more early start, and I still don’t know exactly how I’m managing the points A-B for Thursday.  There’s nobody around to make anything else work and I’m no longer willing to ask my father for things like this.

So, Trix, let’s get to it.  I have almost lost a pound in this first week of dieting.  Which I think is both heartening and disheartening.  Mostly the former, but I get, obviously that the reasoning for this is because in my busy-ness, the fundamentals so easily get lost.  I am tracking rapaciously, I read a book, I lost a pound.  A children’s book, but 100 pages of anything that I’m not required to read by my job is significant to me, and I know that what I’m doing will work supposing I prioritize it over everything else and thus far, I haven’t learned how to do that successfully.  But I did exercise once and even 10% enjoyed it.  I don’t know if that will continue, but I keep thinking I shouldn’t exercise after work because them I’m way too wide awake and don’t sleep.  But I’m so achey and tired I can hardly peel myself out of the covers to get to work on time so the idea of just shoe-horning in an extra hour to silently trot around my 10×10 bedroom, seems….implausible.

Alright. One task at a time.  Packing.  Read a page of the new Princess book.  Stop overpromising and under delivering.

Just get it in the mail.  Just get it out the door.  Don’t live in the pit forever.  Move on.  Move on.  Move on.

 

 

Echolalia

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So this is my forewarning.  I don’t know…really, how the posting is going to after Wednesday for at least ten days.  My laptop’s in no shape to travel and the phone is just really not comfortable to write something of that length.  So I don’t know if there will be a Saturday night post between Minnesota and Seattle’s trips.  I will absolutely try, I can offer you that much.

In Seattle, notes as best I can to remember the most crucial moments of laughing until I physically hurt.

….

It’s 10:30p.m.  I am not going to go get the leftover coffee I brought home and drink it.  Better to be exhausted and sleep than ratcheted up one or five more notches and crash.

It’s 11:24p.m. and I am still 400 words off the mark.  I do feel really grateful today.  I feel grateful that my feet and hands felt 50% less weird than yesterday and I’m puzzling out a few of the things I am doing to make my body so miserable.  Not all, but some.  I am really grateful that my cousin will come and have coffee for me and speak to me for an hour and 15 minutes about the broken record of my life.  She will listen and soak up every word and piece it back together and say it feels like this is all about safety for you or something else that makes perfect sense to me and makes me feel like I’m not a child.   Suddenly, I am capable of sitting still for that long and just listening and talking and not having any sort of panic or thought about anything but being a part of that symbiosis.  That was great.  I am grateful for the whole relaxed afternoon that followed.  I’m grateful for my thirst.  I’m grateful for other people’s lists so I don’t have to remember everything.  I’m grateful for extemporaneous wit.  I’m grateful for wheat being cut away from the chaff.  I’m grateful for the laugh.  I am grateful that she has bought S. and is asking me how to read it so that I can be grateful to have someone to talk to about it.

I’m grateful that I did not eat through the pavement today.  I am grateful I didn’t swallow a pinch of salt for all the salt that spilt.  I am grateful for the memories being bandied about on the mystical dream house my grandparents lived in.  I am grateful it might be allowed to stand.

I’m grateful for the distance on someone I need distance on.  I’m grateful that I don’t have to take the first beautiful that comes my way, nor the second.  I’m grateful for another old man to chase.  I’m grateful for my google-fu and my hunger for shadows, Swedish, younger than they were, and entirely ill.  I’m grateful for being able to push through when my brain wants to deny me my power.  I’m grateful that I can learn and know and be a part of these giant cultural touchstones in my own time, because they’re flying too fast and furious these days.

Scullery Mode

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It’s a curious thing how you don’t post personal stuff for a while, a need, an urgency builds.  You just want to reaffirm your humanity, your presence, you want to wipe away all doubts.  Both mine and yours.

The diet continues, but it needs me to have more money and focus.  I can give it the latter and pray for the former and just not eat so much. I’ve been under the line every day, doing more exercise than zero exercise, and yet, I know there’s a better way to go about this.  I just don’t think kicking my ass over the good I am doing is going to suddenly knock out the shitty parts – like having half a sandwich for lunch and the other for dinner because that sandwich is that calorific. Vegetables, come on.

I am meeting with my cousin/the business coach on Saturday.  I am hoping to figure out some sort of plan from there…if there even needs…well, it’s just hard to say what has to be done and what could be done and what is just this angst that OMG WHERE DO WE FIND $$$? (Don’t say the Dollar Store.)

I did read an excellent article on The School of Life about relating to your job and ways to contemplate where you should be and why it’s natural and okay to get het up about these things.   A cursory tour of Monster just depresses the hell out of me.  I don’t want to do anything, but write – or be a cog somewhere where everything is steady and I could just be invisible.  But I don’t want that either.  I need a bit of purpose, a bit of fame, a bit of support.  I want, perhaps, what my job was meant to be rather than holding a tiger by the tail.

Ah.   Tomorrow, we will dance about.  We will not sleep in.  We will get our roots bleached.   There will be a bit of magic growing in the middle distances. We will sip at it.  We will dance for it.  We will sing its praises.  We will take it with no regrets.

I had a dream about you the other day.  It doesn’t matter, you don’t matter (insofar that I am fixedly aware that you are far away, you don’t know me, you are surely attached elsewhere, and whatever heartbreak this gives me is no fresh fissure.  I’ll live, darling, no matter how deeply you stab me), and one dream matters little more than another.  However, this dream did involve us hunting down a topless, radioactive monster in the shape of Helen Mirren in a Beetlejuice suit.   She had that snake neck he had in the end.  We were in some sort of haunted mansion and were somehow coerced out of the one safe place, the bed…to protect it from her Stygian powers.  I believed you could do anything.  It was a warm one.  I could feel you through your t-shirt.  I could believe it further than is right for someone that matters not at all.

Come by again tonight.  I’ll turn down the covers, leave a mint, and set your wakeup call so you’ll be gone well before I open my eyes.

Gotta Get Down on Friday

pexels-photo (8)Well, hells bells, mes amis, we have made our way to Friday night.

I forewent a monk-made chocolate truffle at lunch, but have unfortunately helped myself to a second serving of ice cream.  I don’t know why I feel so confessional about it.  I just need a place to say it and the thought of maintaining a second blog just to write things about what I shouldn’t buy the ice cream, really, because it’s impossible to really see how much you are allowed to eat.  But I know that I have committed myself to two doses and this means I must get on the bike and bike…aggressively.

I wish I could just transcend the whole PMS, eat like a maniac and

Today was stressful, but not in any particular way significantly differently stressful, so I don’t know why I felt like I was on this vast expanse of pins and needles and strewn eggshells from the moment I woke up.  If I had to guess, yes, we had an important visitor reviewing files and documents and all sorts of things from our deeply, deeply, wholly not-great year.  But we had things accessible enough, explainable enough, logical enough to at least answer what needed to be answered (so far, they might not be done yet) that everyone seems okay.   I wish I could just chill about any of it.  I keep worrying over my responsibilities, things I’ve tried hard to keep up with all year, something I didn’t realize having been forgotten.  Especially with everything we’ve had to hold together to keep everything running.  I felt the whole body tension and felt no impulse to let go of it.  I was just freaked out and concerned and I am trying to say, it’s Friday, you’re home, you’re full of ice cream and about to go get on a bike/play a shitton of video games and forget about it.  But I still feel the vise grip of something somewhere is going wrong.

I just got the whole wallop of emotions.  You can bleed every month for decades, you can get a notification on your phone that says, “HEY, ABOUT NOW, YOU ARE GOING TO GO ALL OFF-SCRIPT AND WONKY! SO…LOOK OUT!” and still go, Jesus, I am an utter mess right now.

Which is not to say, never to say, there weren’t bright spots.  I spoke to my mentor and I’m going to the ol’ stomping grounds to see her either before or after the Galentine’s Day party.  It was great to hear her voice and I noticed the way I sounded much more relaxed and confident just talking to her.

It helps just to say that you feel out of control.  It’s only one day’s worth of out of controlness.  And the whirling is mainly 1/2 cup of ice cream and some bad ideas about what makes a lady a lady (hint: it’s being perfect, obviously) and a desire to eat tacos until I explode.  I have only caved to one of these absurdities.

It is FRIDAY.  COME ON NOW.

We Would Never Break the Chain

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What no feels like today:  a long walk in the snow to a car you know you have to dig out in shoes that aren’t waterproofed.  But I’ve said it once or twice.

Which is why 1/4 or so of that pizza I bought at the grocery store is now in a plastic bag in the fridge.  I got there, but be-fucking-grudingly.  And really, it’s only because I wanted to also have some popcorn and ice cream (and not the cauliflower or the apple I also bought) and wanted to be able to quasi-justify it under the new tracking regime.

I am, frankly, astonished given my mood that I was able to say no.  As the lady said once, it doesn’t always have to be like it was.  It’s a mood that’s based on things around the edges and not the meat of the day. The marginally attractive, but entirely earnest looking project guy who was in on Monday and for whom I, in some part, dressed up was not in today.  Probably tomorrow, but there was so much angst and worry about needing to be sharp and ready for today when I couldn’t be…that I possibly spent too much of today being relieved.   I did get a few things done for tomorrow – what I was asked to do, but that took most of the day.  It was just one little innocuous problem and my dealing of it as we were almost ready to leave that has rattled around in my mind.

I feel convulsively pissed.  Like nobody’s anywhere in sight and I just feel like shouting Don’t Touch Me, Don’t Touch Me, Don’t Touch Me!  There’s a Stevie Nicks song I’m thinking of that is perfectly illustrative of my mood.

 

Maybe it’s just that time of month…I can’t…I can’t be fucking bothered with this sort of shit every single day.  There isn’t enough time to get it all in and work myself over for crap that I didn’t know beforehand or managerial decisions I made on my own.  It was imperfect, but I did it the best I knew how.  Ca suffit.

Onward and upward.

I have to exercise.  I have to write.  I have to keep eating, only not the pizza in the fridge.  Pizza, you and me have got to take a little break from one another.  I’ve cooled it with Chipotle.  So I know I don’t NEED you.   Even in the short time it’s taken to write this, I feel as though I have a bit more sense in my head about how much power you have over me, pizza. I have got to stop anthropomorphizing my food vices.  I have to read.  I have to buy S. I have to write this dude back.  I have to lay very still and endure the usual reckoning that my anxiety requires.

Nah.

I don’t have to do any of this.  I certainly don’t have to be miserable in the same world as coffee ice cream and meta romantic mystery novels and boys who know how make plays on words.