Potatoes Are Not What We Eat…Currently: Day 33

Take yourself to task.  There were far too many items in the washing machine and it damn near exploded.

The cat is slurping as she washes herself over and over again on the floor.  I am not sure how to make this post today.

I’ve been trying to be creative and limit social media today.  This has been not an altogether successful mission, but lately, I’ve been feeling the sense of doing such a thing.  I’m feeling bombarded, both in good ways and bad, by ideas.  Things to worry about.  Things to do.  Things I could think about and build into other things I’m trying to be creative and achieve.  And it has become more than the small dustpan of my mind can handle.  So I have taken a certain percentage of the day to do what I do best, and that is, fuck all.

This, when it doesn’t coincide with someone’s plans, can be…a touchy thing.  We so rarely have touchy things.  But he says nothing and I say, tell me if you’re tired and want to sleep and aren’t going to go to bed unless we speak.  Don’t wait around for me.  I’m not…as I’ve heard it said…your girlfriend.  I am bending over backwards as it is to be generally available, to be generally present and picking up the phone.  A few hours without having to drop my train of thought to get on yours is all I’m asking.  One night to not have to live the reality of this half-fulfilled existence, to take my ball and go home.

Ah, sigh.

Instead, writing projects.  Instead, some MST3K.   Some Sunless Skies once I worked that little bug out. Some not giving into sugar and carbs so I can say Day 2 of the low-carb till ECCC plan is actually happening.  Going into a few fugue states – metaphorical ones, in actuality, more of a Pinterest freefall for writing inspiration that is a really bad idea on a number of levels.  More of that digital overwhelm when I just need to rely on my own brain to think up the details rather than relying on constant predigested inspiration.  That’s the worst, least effective kind.

Tomorrow:  we cook.  We see my mother and I square how she sounded on the phone with how she looks.  Nobody’s called me so, I’m assuming it’s okay for now.   Like she said, what else can you do?  Like Prof. Brian Cox said, the forward motion of time is a constant: everybody’s going to tomorrow, there’s no getting around it.

I’m yawning.

Let’s wrap this up and emerge from our psychic chrysalis tomorrow, fresh and awake and ready for life.   I’ve picked my spells.  I know what I’m needing to do.  There’s some intent in the haze.  Time to give myself the sleep necessary to make some of that happen.  Sleep sounds really, aggressively, objectively wonderful right now.   I think I am going to close this laptop up just after I press post and try and make shit happen in the land of Nod.

 

 

Zombies Are Out, Furies Are In: Day 28

I report, you decide.  The scale is not budging even an ounce.  So.  What do we do?  We have to do more.  Not less.  Not give up or give in.  And most importantly, I need to get up a little spark of energy to set this flash-paper body on fire.

I’ll be bold as well as strong!

So I’ve been continuing to read Weight today because I have been so relentlessly exhausted.  I passed out during the last five minutes of Labyrinth last night, though I woke up shortly thereafter, just within enough time to bid my friends adieu without it being totally awkward (which could only happen, you know, if you’re watching movies together via the internet and not in person) and sort of hobbled and collected myself enough to go to actual, proper sleep in my not so proper, half-askew, messy as hell (until I shoved everything onto the floor) bed.   And I slept deeply. I know this because I dreamed.  And I dreamed some fairly hideous things including a random, almost cliche middle-aged sales associate from Staples showing up in my childhood home to save me from being raped after I wasn’t serious enough about the political causes of a zealot whose papers I knocked about in the hallway front of my old room.

I grabbed him and I kissed him all over his face, apologizing, but he was going to save me momentarily from a terrible fate and so this wasn’t all that untoward.  Then I woke up.  Attempted the scale.  Saw 157.4 which for three days running doesn’t seem right at all and in fact, pissed me the hell off if I don’t make my goal due to some kind of technicality, and then I waywardly went careening back into bed like a fleshy zombie returning to her sepulcher under the ceiling fan where I dreamed again.  This time, I dreamed of Mr. Rochester having another secret shop way off the beaten path of my usual haunts in town, and I went in, after much nerves, to find him and say hello or whatever it is I would say were I to ever speak with him again and obviously, I never found him and instead found a strange, Midwestern family setting down to a holiday meal which I awkwardly joined them in.

Then, I woke up, decided enough was enough and took a bath, read Weight a bit, drank my shake and cleaned up a bit and did my makeup and then wound up back in bed like some kind of overly taxed Blanche Dubois figure which is not…that cute.

Finally, I awoke and drew myself to you and to what I hope is a soon-to-be fulfilled prospect of food.  Which possibly will include sausage and egg since it is just up to me and I don’t know what else to do that is sensible and clearly I have no sense.

What I want for today:  more writing, more walking, more water, more Weight (literary Weight), more reason, more joy, more Mumford, more, more, more.

Today: 157.4
Goal: 155 by June 15