Fluish

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When you’re sick, you can go a long ways with playacting being well, but eventually, the floor drops out and you are your modifier. We did get up bright and early, all three of us daughters, girl-things, with our plastic tubs and went to attack the basement in my parents’ house.  They’re thinking about moving in the next year and we, if it’s not obvious from these years of writing, are not much for sorting things out promptly.

When their house sold much faster than expected a dozen years ago, everything in our disorganized house was gathered up in disorganized boxes and stored down in the new, giant basement.  So there’s everything down there, every random sheet of paper with writing on it, old books, cassette tapes, toys, and dust and gunk.  And my little sister, looking for her own things since it looks like she’s going to be moving into her own house out of a small apartment, pushed for us to get down there and go through it.  And mostly out of curiosity, I agreed.

It actually went pretty smoothly, though we only really got to most of the boxes and saw what was in them and sorted a bunch of junk to recycle and toss out of there.  The dust and effluvium stirred up by the work, though, I think exacerbated my little throat/death problem and I’m weezing.  Apparently, my father is also sick in much the same way I am which is something of a relief that this just a weird brand of fluish.

….

As for the portentous meaning of going through old report cards and photos and coming home with tubs of old ephemera to sort and incorporate into my life as it is today, I have come to this conclusion: It has to be more than what it was.  It has to be different than the same circuitous paths and the same trains of thought that always let me out back at the starting point, woozy, disappointed, nauseous and uncertain if I want to go again.  It always seems like there’s only one way to go.  Only one choice.

And there isn’t just the choice to loop around again, ground zero everything, reset every clock, shut every door, drink down every one of Alice’s fizzy lifting drinks, and the long, harried wait for the half-life of hope to pass.

There’s also the, okay, change your sheets path.  Do that.  Don’t worry about anything other than getting the sheets washed and changed.  Because that is a concrete list item-checked off, an actual step forward towards being the sort of person who has a nicely made bed with clean sheets.  Rather than a whole internal monologue about the sorts of persons and people I once was or could be or might be if on I’d…I would be a revolution closer towards the modifiers I so desire to claim.

I came across this link and it struck a chord with me: http://darebee.com/motivation/why-motivation-stops-working.html

I just want real things today.

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