Suivez Le Singe!

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 Why did you sell yourself to the illuminati, Ane?  Or didn’t you have any choice?

Had a curious thought today: what if instead of worrying that we never would get the room organized after pulling to all the summer clothes to pack, we just knew that eventually, we’d get it cleaned up?

If we just stopped hoping to be Mary Poppins and pulled down what we needed?  Trusted that we wouldn’t let the room be a mess forever, that things are going on now, and it’s not pass/fail question.

And a weight lifted.  We will get it packed.  I will keep on plugging with my diet.  I did my situps.  I will get on the bike for ten minutes.

2500

Lord.

Okay.  In case you missed the news, it was Sunday, all day.

I did some things like making a couple pancakes in the morning, and buying Chipotle (which I have to admit gave me a stomachache directly after I secretly rolled my eyes at the overzealous, smirky father in the line in front of me made a sly comment on their “issues.”) and I didn’t precisely track it.  I knew what it was, I thought about the calories.  I bought some cauliflower.  These things do not add up to weight loss.

I had half-decided that because of the trip, the nature of this dual trip…of grief and joy and me slingshotting around the map by both impulses, and the absolute absence of control regarding where my food will be coming from and what, precisely and exactly will be measured out and put into it, that I couldn’t do much in the way of dieting.  I also had these incredibly loose pants which one would think would make a girl excited as all hell, but just made me feel dread and peer in the mirror at myself as to how such a thing could occur and yet I would feel like such a lump.

But, I don’t know.  I am kind of into it today.  Now,  11:23p.m., the birthing hour, I am kind of into the idea of the fact that I’m trying to get my body a bit sharper, a bit more together.  I feel kind of like, okay, I can figure out that this is the loose pants OMG let’s eat burritos and die in a garbage fire moment.  This is a pre-set date on the calendar of my success.  This is a proscribed part of the way we get there.  If I turn back, I will see it again. I have seen it so many times before.  It’s the first boss fight, really, in this whole game I’m trying to play.  I will be here every time until I do something different about it.  There is no other script.

So. I am going to do more about it.  Better about it.  I am going to acknowledge this journey while I’m gone and not lock it up until I can perfectly handle it on my return home.  That will have its own vibes and stresses.  This is life.  So.  Yeah.

I have my reasons which I intended to elaborate on, but words got soaked up in the telling and so maybe tomorrow.  Maybe when there’s more to say because there’s not anything right now except pixie dust and a monkey to follow.

Think Harder

matriochkas-1-1421037-1920x1440I am learning.  It can never be a waste of my time.

How can I regret falling through Milton, Spenser, and good ol’ Shakespeare even if it is only in a self-gratifying attempt to increase my own cleverness?

Ah, progress.

I need to write-write and I want to play with yesterday’s stuff so instead, and the muscle feels atrophied and confused when  I ask it to do this for some reason, we’re talking about good ol’ me again.

I am good.  In that I am still frustrated with work.  A. will read this and understand this frustration so I don’t feel I either need to be vague or elaborate.  Suffice it to say, I feel as though I leave the house for four hours and be away and come home to the work…but that last bit is still as nebulous as ever, as nebulous as the former has become.  Really, I just walk around blank-facedly all the time.

But I do have that.  Not money, but there’s time.  Like today, after peeling out of the office at 1 – that meant time to go to eat at a restaurant which we shouldn’t do, but on some level need to do, and then we came home and did some house cleaning and then, there’s still hours to, basically, get on shit.  So I did, I got to researching and thinking up insane fanmixes and rode the bike and did other, less productive tasks.  I am now, just now, pretty primed to get back to my novel writing.

But, in the interests of cleansing my palate and not letting this drag forth for another day, I should confess.

I have had some thoughts lately that have held me back on my great, grand, weight losing, book writing, life defining journey of being (or whatever).  Mostly they center around loneliness – some of this is just mood, some of this is sparked by S. –  a story wherein two people are brought and bound together by the power of the written word.  In the book, they use text to court, to discover, to build trust in one another.  They have my ideal romance, one full of intrigue and compassion, and one literally created in print.  I have…well, I have a lot of time.  Or maybe I don’t.

It forces me to think of Mr. Confusion – who would have, on nearly every level, been the ideal person to share this book with.  He had the mind for it, unless I’m wrong and he’d find it dreck.  I don’t think he would, but who can say now?  Not I.  And to think myself past him at the chance, some day, that there would be somebody else who I could feel the same way about.

It’s also rough because I want a fandom,  I want to be able to share this ultimately solitary experience and there just isn’t one.  What there is is a bunch of people who may have been active two years ago and a lot of opportunity to play…but only if you don’t mind playing with yourself and therefore making a bit of a spectacle to try and re-engage folks who have since moved on.  That is a lot of energy and conviction and  I feel a bit isolated.  The dear friends are quiet and going through their own shit – some of which I wish was possible to wish away for them.  I just feel like…I was a voyeur into a breath of a completely fictional piece of truth and I turned the final page and feel the emptiness of everything.  The winds of solitude roaring at the edge of infinity.  Really:  I feel…sad. At the same time I feel fine?

Oh, to write something so powerful one day.  To knock about with somebody’s soul like this!

I am writing.  I am reading, too.   This is keeping me of general good cheer.  I just…there’s so much time now and the perfectionist is getting in the way of the good of it.  I am grateful as hell that I’ve got what I’ve got.

Within the Armament Works

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I woke up this morning, unaware in any active way of Daylight Savings Time, and my first thought was “Yes! I can get back to my book!”

This is a rather thrilling development – as thrilling as any the book itself contains.  Since last night I’ve read 200 pages and have pried myself away to do a few things I need to do.  Eating, laundry, exercise, otherwise I am tempted to say, they will not get done until I finish.

And as I am reading, I am stopping to google the definitions of words I don’t recognize.  Perhaps I knew atavistic once, but coming across it now and relearning its meaning: “being related to something ancient or ancestral” puts butterflies in my belly.  It feels like being handed a weapon that can fire further with greater accuracy than the clumsy, scattershot “old.”  It is, in many ways, building up your arsenal.  It is gathering your power to you, able to unleash such words as macadam or lateen at a clip.

I used to, in college, pin up notecards to my dorm room wall of words that were new to me.  Words I found that little flutter of discovery when I scanned my eyes over them.

Since then, with all of this anxiety and worry that I’ve nurtured and claimed, one idea that’s silverfished its way into the book of my brain is that I don’t have the hunger anymore.  I don’t have the focus, the skill, the desire to engage with the written world.  Really, what this is about is being afraid I can’t get to the quiet, restorative, contemplative peace that was my domain as a child.  The girl who wandered about the gardens telling stories, who was constantly checking books out of the library to live in, who feasted on the possibilities she could invent and knit together in her own mind.  It was scary to speculate that maybe I am locked out of something beautiful and personal about myself.  Like so many things, I imagined that I don’t have to feel the shame of that being true if I never rattle the door handle and see.   It’s Schrodinger’s Self-Awareness.

And partially, I understand, I needed to get out of that place so that I could figure out how to be in a social, person-focused job.  How I had to give up that extensive private time reading so I could hang out online with friends and clue into pop culture, so I could consider being a grown-up.  I needed to get some other skills.  I also had to learn to scan rather than read to get through college and reading I really didn’t want to do.

It wasn’t the same when I came back to a book, hoping to lay there and spend a weekend in another world.  So much anxiety that I couldn’t focus for even five minutes, so much to do, so much I should be dealing with but couldn’t because all I wanted to do was lay somewhere and read.  But it didn’t mean I was broken.  Not permanently.

I just needed the right book and the realization that I don’t have to worry about reading perfectly, with a cape around me, the rain at the window, the sea foaming around my tower.  I just have to let it be as it is and the book will reach me if it wants me.

This one truly has.