Even in This

I don’t precisely know what’s up with me so I think it’s going to be one of those take two aspirin and check-in in the morning situations.

But in the meantime, since I feel okay except for the ways in which I feel like a boil-a-bag of steamed rice, I am going to draw from my deep internal reservoirs of strength and endurance and figure out something to post today.

One part of me wants to do a bit of a mea culpa because the posts of late have been shoddy at best.  Mostly because I get home and I’m tired and I just want to be done.  I just want to check this item off the list because it is far too ingrained in me not to do it, but it’s not demanding I use it as a framework to massively improve my work.  I’ve been on my feet or at the very least aggressively pleasant all day and despite recognizing how necessary this is to my mental comfort, my house is 88 degrees right now and I feel as though I’ve just come off of one of those failed hot coals Power walks…sheepish and impatient for me to come back to the sort of senses that would never allow me to do that sort of thing to begin with.

So the writing is dry, perfunctory, boring.  I am just…okay with that.  Maybe.  Right now, tonight, I am.  I just do not want to tear myself apart until I’m even moderately organized.

I also…I mean, I don’t really see the value in trying to post in a way that doesn’t reflect what I’m actually feeling today.  There’s no grandiloquence, there’s no hyperbole, there’s no stars crashing from the heavens to affix themselves in the firmament of my eyes.  There is heat and tired and nerves and the rest is just flotsam and jetsam around me.

I could try and distill and extract what I’m thinking about when it comes to my mom – who began her first cancer treatment today – I think if I spent a few moments with it, I could probably make myself unbearably sad.  It is unbearably sad.   But they texted and said it went well and it’s also…it’s also me noticing the things my father says to my mother.  That he wants her to watch Malcolm in the Middle so he can hear her laugh, no, not laugh, chortle.  Because when he hears her laugh he knows that she’s okay.  Or that she looked so beautiful he should have taken a picture (and she really, really did that day) and those things might have a sadness, but they’re also incredible to me.  They’re cheering and relaxing and good.

It’s like after watching that terrible convention full of hate and bile and vitriol for one another and thinking for half a second that there’s no way to fight such nasty rhetoric, you remember, wait, I like people and I believe in the goodness of others and I have no need for misery.

I can see the good even in this.

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