With a Taste for the Melodramatic

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Dear Sugar didn’t really take me where I wanted to go this week.   Maybe.  Still spiky.  Still full of a headache.  Feeling really okay with being 7 calories over.  Not subtly adjusting things where maybe I over-estimated to make it “perfect.”  Today was just a seven calories over sort of day, but I feel full and not deranged.

….

A sort of written tapping.  I used to do this a lot with my first therapist and it helped me quite a bit.  I tend to stop doing things that work.

I just want to feel good right now.  In this time.  Without any glancing forward or backward, just now.  As I am.  In this body.  With this brain, these hands, this touch.I am going to take a breath and release some of these past few days’ negative emotions.   Some of it has a basis in reality, some of it is just self-punishment for imperfection.
I am going to stop dragging myself through the worst possible scenarios.  They almost never come to pass and even if they did, I can survive it.  I have survived things that have knotted me up for months.  I have been brave in so many ways so many times.
Nobody benefits from me hurting.  Nobody thinks more of me or more about me for taking on all the pain I can reach.  It doesn’t take it from anyone else, it doesn’t ease anyone else, it just hurts me.
I’m doing good things with my food and this means that I am not being run by it.  I’m learning and trying it out and I’m not afraid of getting to play around and fine tune and go over calories
I get to make art with my writing.  It doesn’t have to come to anything, to anyone’s attention, because it is real and of my heart and it’s going to happen anyway.  Regardless.  I think so many things are glorious and beautiful and worthy of elevation.   The way the sky looks in late January now that we’ve turned towards spring, seeing a new road and all the ticky-tacky houses all in a row, imagining what it is to live life as they must at that angle, what it would be to know that right turn on Meade St. would be the right turn towards home.
I have a small case of who knows what might happen.   Out of the shadows of insistence, someone flew a little flag that says you can’t count me out yet.  I might like you.  I don’t know you, but I might.
I like the stories I’m working on.  I like the characters I’m learning about.  I like getting chance to create everything they need.
I have a several larger mysteries I can soften into, that I don’t have to resolve, just explore.
I really love incidental music for self-help videos and public access tv shows.   I love birthday wishes from kind souls who couldn’t ever know what they mean to me.  I have chocolate oranges.
I have a future that I’m interested in seeing play out.  I have Tribe episodes to live tweet.

It is okay.

 

 

Spelunkery

Does this have to do with the mythical power of oak?  Oh, http://www.answermethispodcast.com, I love you wildly.

I’m dealing with an issue at work that I can’t explain here but is giving me a lot of stress.  Stress, you know is liable to make your hair fall out and and make you eat things you shouldn’t and in this case, there’s absolutely nothing to be done about it and I am doing all I can to set it aside and remember that I both need to and can write my words without, you know, dying?

Life is remarkable.  I’m trying to keep my peripheral vision open to strangeness and let it seek out new aesthetic terrain, let it feed on images and kindness and unexpected connection.  My boss has returned home from vacation and brought us little bud vases with blue glazing on the rim and that cobalt color, tripped a string of memories of the old house we used to live in – one I drive past most days – and the kitchen my father installed and the little island where they put in ceramic tiles.  They were mostly white except for a couple where this cobalt blue.  And then I think of that kitchen and running through it as a child, waiting for supper, flying in and heading outside and there were summer evenings there when school was out when the light would come in from the west so gold and gentle and light up the trellises and that little stage that was really the wooden coverings for the unused well and you’d turn the corner and there was the snowball bush beneath my parents’ window and then the crabapple tree by our window and the compost heap we’d put eggshells and coffee grounds and grass clippings in and we would stir every now and then stir it up and a big waft of steam would rise up from all the hot decay taking place at its center.  Everything breaking down into delicious, ripe, life that would break up the red clay that my mother had to fight through and roto-till to make the garden take root.  But she did and there were stargazer lilies and Nellie Moser clematises and nasturtiums for my grandmother and roses and California poppies and peaches and cream verbena and daffodils by the glass house and dianthus and grape hyacinth and little pansies with their faces that I would name and talk to quite importantly and make a part of all the stories I acted out when I thought no one was watching.

I don’t know why I remember that just now, but it was a beautiful place.  We took care of it when we lived there – a far cry from its current owner’s take – and it’s sad to see it so overgrown and unkempt.  It feels like an absence of love.   So unfair a fate for a place that carried so many dreams for so long, that was so long a home.

All I can do is love what I do have, where I am now.

No One Wants to Kiss a Girl in Black

Oh, no.

I am so bereft of words.  I don’t mean to be, but I am.   We’ll have to go very slowly and speak to particulars so that we can eke this one out.  Currently, I’m watching Downton Abbey and adoring it.  Adoring every littlest bit of it.  It just blew my mind.  Maybe that’s why I’m having such trouble concentrating and finishing this up as I should. It’s every five minutes going, blowing my fucking mind out of my fucking ears.  For fuck’s sake.

There’s some famous line about obscenity being the lowest form of communication, somewhere I know this line exists, and it’s surely true, but it is also the most expedient.  And certainly, I am further sure, the most cathartic.

I’ve decided not to go on to the next episode until I finish this up.  So away we go and I’ll tell you first that today was not so terrible as it might have been considering yesterday was completely about me being too terrified to drive to work and not doing so and hanging about here at home  wringing my hands over how hideous and shitty a person I was for just up and choosing not to work because it suited me.  I worked very hard and got as much on top of the giant pile of crap that is my workspace as I possibly could.  This also meant hearing about my absence in a weird way, as though a whole alternate universe where I didn’t work where I work and where others have to manage things and thankfully, joyfully, they got by.  They could send an email with an attachment if they had to, they could! Sometimes I don’t believe this and I think this is why I feel so guilty leaving them alone with themselves, not just because there is a certain caregiving aspect of my office job which I never anticipated but has imbued itself into my work relationships, but because I think my presence often keeps them from trying what they should be able to try since they know they can just pass the work off to me and I can do it efficiently.  They don’t have to learn how to send an email when really, in this modern era, how can they expect NOT to know?  It actually is a good thing that I unexpectedly am not there because one day, I will plan it, and I will, unexpectedly for them, no longer be there.

So, last night I had a bit of a psychological tempest in a teapot and I watched Bridget Jones’ Diary and couldn’t get over how much I truly disliked Renee Zellweger and her whole 136 is disgusting and zaftig and how this kind of ridiculous, awkward, terrible person warrants a Mr. Darcy in her life and I felt like throwing punches out of the blue.  Now, it seems so obvious about the misdirection of my anger that I feel a little irritated that I was so petty.

But sometimes, we’re just petty, miserable, goddamned motherfuckers.  No two ways around it.

I realize now, that I’ve hit my quota, that there’s plenty else that could have been said and will now be pulled into the undertoad.  The potential new friend who doesn’t seem all that interested in being friends.  The new artwork for the project that I love.  The driving.  The food=bad.  The scale=WTF, the two stools each with a cat primly settled on top and observing the silent scene with equanimity.

 

Hardcore Gamer



one handed blogging is damn hard and not without a lot of backtracking. not to mention, the entailed innuendo.

Okay, okay, if I want to get this done and I do, I need to apply both hands and also my brain directly to the keyboard.

I am having one of those fasts where you only realize you’ve been fasting when you look at the computer screen with your eyeballs all bugging out and burning like you’ve been hit with a spritz of Satan’s Jock Itch and it’s 8:00pm and you’ve only had some peanuts and bread with butter all day.  Oh, and the leftover Chipotle from yesterday was your breakfast.   You haven’t eaten meals so it sort of qualifies as a fast and if you’re fasting then you don’t need to feel dumb about not running out to get something shitty to eat from a restaurant that’s going to sit on your gut and make you feel like an idiot for paying for the service.  So we’re fasting.

This is not necessarily the Sunday evening I would like to have or even planned to have.  When are my days the days I’d like to have?  Rarely, as I’m sure most people find, but at least in this case, I’m alright with it.  I’m fine with not really achieving the moon and having a perfect place to crash and find clarity.  Why?  Because I know I did do something.  I did make efforts today.  I didn’t overwhelm myself with THIS IS THE WEEKEND NOW YOU MUST METAMORPHOSE INTO SOME MIRACULOUS CREATURE OF LIGHT AND ACTION.   This is a thought I often have and I have to look at myself in the mirror when I wash my face on Sunday nights and realize that life is relatively what it is was when I woke up.   This deflation can deflate my whole spirit, my whole desire for change and purpose.  It can make me feel like the only thing that is possible is a repetition of the day before and hope is for cute vloggers who live in LA and who do not have to escape the belly of a whale to just get on the same footing as the rest of the world.  Not being perfect can be the rake that you circle around, stepping on the prongs and smacking yourself in the face every time.  Not being perfect and not recognizing that on a soul level can drive you nuts.

Today, I did play a lot of video games.  Like a lot.  But I also wiped down the counters in the bathroom like I planned, I also threw out a whole bunch of things, I put on the pedometer and pranced about until I realized it wasn’t working and then I shook the battery loose and fixed it and pranced about again, I am having a cup of water.

My face is hurting and I’m having a small hypochondriacal episode where I’m pretty sure a tiny orange worm has crawled into my eardrum and is causing the whole left side of my head to ache, but this is still a day where I didn’t die so A++ for me.

It’s a Transitional Day

Tikka tikka tikka.

Three words down, a lifetime’s worth to go.

I wouldn’t trust shrimp, either, little cats.

It’s sick either way you look at it.  (Insert your own wailing metal rocker here.)

You keep running until you forgive yourself or you plain run out of bullets.

I could drink anything if it you put a tray full of ice and a little umbrella in it.

I drove today, drove to a strip mall of sorts, a classy one, and it felt for a minute like I could drive to the moon.

You just have to trust yourself to come aright.  You have to trust your personal buoyancy otherwise you’ll imagine yourself sunk and before you have time to realize you could just stand up, you’ll have drowned in the bathtub.

This post is probably inspired by one favorite part of my job, getting to use epigrams and aphorisms in our advertising and trolling http://www.brainyquotes.com

It’s amazing the wake of debris and flotsam and jetsam you can discover you create  if you’ll bother to stop and look around.  We do not walk this life in bubbles, we move, we wreck, we build, we take and shape and shatter.  It matters.

Canned shrimp is on someone’s menu tonight.  Thankfully, I do not have to partake.  Worcestershire sauce, mayonnaise, and what other untold delights aside, I’m afraid I can’t handle such a thing as canned shrimp.

I walked at least thirty minutes today, I think, between time at the Farmers Market, walking about stores and the goose-stepping over electrical cords around here, I’m well pleased.

I have my meals all planned out for tomorrow.  Looking forward to eating them and not having to once get myself all scraped together and stitched together to drive for three minutes to some fast food joint and spend way too much on way too much food and then idly toss it out like I’m some Queen of Sheba when I’m gorged on it.  I’m looking forward to just doing this game and doing some exercise and this post and the rest of it being entirely domestic and boring and boring.

So, yes, I found out that I have a party to go to (on the topic of not so entirely domestic and boring-boring) that coincides with a birthday party for a friend’s kid who is pretty much impossible not to adore so I’m hoping that the timing will all go okay so that I can tart around in my emerald green dress for free with martinis and I will acknowledge that I don’t know yet how any of that jibes with Inductioning process and yet, it’s something fun to look forward to.  Green dress! Pretty hair.

People at the market were telling me it looked like I’d lost weight.  Hah! I told them, just was the power of a black shirt and decent jeans.  But they seemed to think so and I know I haven’t completely gone the other direction and thankfully, I don’t have to.

Don’t have to hit rock bottom to realize you’re falling.

It’s a transitional day.  I’m happy with that.