It’s All That I Am

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So, when in doubt, when you’ve eaten dinner at 10:35p.m. because you suddenly thought you were ravenous for polenta and roast beef stacks with carrots and you realize that maybe your body is not happy with that choice at about 11:19p.m. when you’re due to be well on your way into your daily post, you should blog, as ever, about love.

This group is interesting.  It’s strange.  It is pulling me towards my best and shittiest behaviors and inner thoughts.  It’s this Mst3k group for people who are looking to date, and I don’t know if I’m looking to date, but I know that I’m looking, I have eyeballs and such and occasionally a twinge roundabout that reminds me that I am a lady with the parts of a lady that into, in generalities, the parts of a man.  If I may be so coarse.  So, there’s more gents than ladies in this group.  There’s a few people in the state, but it’s just starting so, there aren’t more than you could count on one hand for me, men and women included.  And this, I think, is good for me, because there isn’t that instant feeling of needing to progress yourself towards a meeting so quickly.  The men and women of the group are all, in some manner, geeks and nerds.  We’re all into some Venn diagram of genre literature/video games/comic books, you know the stuff.  We’re all at least on that level tangentially related to one another.  It does provide for an easy place to start with saying, oh, hey there.  You like x, I like x, isn’t x great?  Aren’t we great for liking x?  There aren’t strait-laced jocks who want to barge in and look you up and down and put a price on you.  Even that’s an awful…ah.

But that isn’t to say there isn’t some curious shit that goes down when you dump a pile of random geeks of varying ages in a “room” and say…all of y’all (with the exception of the gay and lesbian members who are a bit starved for choice at the moment) are open to the idea of “it” if they can just be convinced that you can provide them with “it”…so there’s a lot of unearned compliments (it could just be that I have zero comfort with anyone telling me I’m beautiful, particularly if I haven’t formed any level of attachment to them) and near-flounces and “nice guy” shit.  Ladies owing dudes time, messages, forgiveness of problems and defects.  But I can’t for a minute call anyone up on that if I am just as image-focused and projecting all my body issues out there wildly on everyone else so that a bit of fairly clever back and forth with a guy gets a bit deflated in my head, not by the epic distance of states upon states between us, but because I have an image of what I’d like to be happening.

Basically, there’s another guy in the group I like – a couple, really – but one I had a dream about, one who reminds me, I’m sure, on a distant level of Mr. Rochester.  I dunno if he likes me, only, that like a giddy teenybopper, I noticed he liked a picture of me.  Which feels like something, despite not being anything. All these behaviors that I’m messing around with…I know how childish they are.  I know that teenagers do them and recognize that they make people feel like shit and grow up and stop.  Game playing.

It’s just pushing me to get clear about my business.  That  I don’t have to feel mad at myself that I have a preference.  It’s nobody’s fault.

I’m just…ugh.

One more day until we enter the Twilight Zone.

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.

Staying Fed

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Enough with the Civilization V.  Enough with the Sims and the Dragon Age.  There’s other things on the docket.

I don’t think I lost any weight this week and there is a portion of this country of mine that has lost its mind over it.  However, I know, in that heart of hearts place where I keep all my best knowings the reasons.  I’ve tracked the reasons on MFP.  I just wanted reality to not win out when I stepped on the scale about a thousand times in a thousand different places this morning.

I need to buy a food scale and actually control the portions.  There was a lot of eating out and best guestimating and weak-ass exercising and body equilibrium out of whack due to hormones.  That’s, you know, what happened.  It isn’t some celestial, glowing hand descending from the heavens and thwacking me on the top of the head and saying “No.  You will go no further!”  It is Mildred, bloated, gummy, disconsolate.  She sees me striving and her only response is to slowly back away from the basement door, muttering and moaning, and calculating the heuristics of how best to coerce me back inside.

And it’s a beautiful day.  It’s 70 degrees and we’ve not reached the Ides of March.  I have no interest, real or imagined, in hanging out with Mildred today.  It is hard to picture, darling, hanging out with you again at all.  So start thinking! Start plotting it out, little Caesar Augustus of the Spineless, how do we turn this little frustrating moment of plateau into a cascade of self-loathing and self-doubt?  How do we say that there is no more potential or possibility or days for improvement?  How do we beggar her belief?

…..

Later, still…

I am happiest of all, after an insane drop-off in mood, a Mildred pile-on, not going to take me alive, copper type angst situation, that I am starting to find an even keel again.  I hadn’t eaten, I ate my meal late but fast and whammo.  Listless staring, feeling exhausted, depressed, lonely, disconnected, quintessentially Mildred.

But…not forever.  I listened to the whole beautiful Tori Amos album Little Earthquakes, I got on the bike for a whole half an hour which felt like nothing with good music on.  Even, most remarkably, I cracked open the copy of S. I ordered perhaps a month ago.  I haven’t read it because if you know anything about S., you know it’s not just a book to read and I had got it in my head that it would creep me out or that I’d not be able to give myself the full absorption that I’d want to experience it.  That’d I’d be scattered and nervous and struggle, like I sometimes do when you load the idea of reading with the need to do it perfectly.

It doesn’t need me to be perfect, it just need me to read it.  And in doing that, I’ve briefly felt the most intense surge of love for the written word that I’ve felt in a long time.

Optimal vs. perfection.  One lets you read books that instantly transport you to another world, another lets you buy books and dread reading.

I will tell you how that goes.

Ah, my friends, it will be okay.  Today, for some reason, has been all over every map, but I’ll find a new tether soon enough and in the meantime, I’m not so afraid to fly.

 

Little Kitty

pexels-photo-28347We are here.   Time is so damnably fluid these days.   Are we coming or going at any given moment?  I thought we were going at the morning time after an announcement last night so I am up and dressed, but we’re actually not leaving for another half an hour.  I also have the option to drive in on my lonesome three hours from now. But I’m up and ready for action so I might as well get this slice of effort knocked out of the way.  I would like this to be one of those days – despite it being a Friday – where I think up things I need to do, like clear off my desk, and then actually do them instead of sighing longingly as though I had asked myself to pole vault over the moon.

So, yes, my list of bad ideas I actually knew were bad ideas and have confirmed via experimental testing multiple times but am trying out once again has expanded to include: drinking coffee at 11pm and then watching some scary Let’s Play videos on YouTube.
Saying aloud that it seemed that there was light at the end of the work-related tunnel.  That was definitely just an oncoming train.  Sigh.  Big, handwringing sigh.  Well, I refuse to let it get under my skin.  Too many other mysteries are hanging out there for me to write over them with upsets I have no facility to alter or remove.
Getting Timehop.  It essentially allows you to relive every hope and excitement that is now converted to a pain or a regret in a convenient digital package.  Oh, he uses modifiers like Aristotelian and he thinks I’m swell?  It must be love…or not, it might just be a really awkward and heartbreaking bit of nothing.

Ah.  That place between the teeth and the inner ear is just full of these things.

That said.  I am still in a decent mood that memory cannot tear asunder.

Good ideas: for whatever reason, the self-esteem muscle is flexing today and I feel alright about the whole being alive in the world problem I have.  Maybe we can blame it on the seductive powers of a workable pair of pantyhose, but whatever’s the cause, I like it.  I need it.  I want some more of it.
Going to Writers Group where even if they don’t necessarily help you and you struggle to understand the goals and experiences of writing that others strap themselves down to, you can come away wanting to write.  And that’s all I need in the end.

Last night, after not being able to sleep,  I had a dream about Mr. Rochester.  He was running a food cart in the middle of a big open field which is probably metaphorical for his last venture.  Pleasure and satiation and nobody to stroll by and buy it.  I strolled by, though, because that’s my metaphor and recognized him beneath his hat.  He was happy to see me, but not so happy as I was to see him, hugging him as if his good opinion of me was my lost pair of lungs.  I wanted to get close enough to it to get some air.

I really wish I didn’t wake up.

Melting Down the Broomstick

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I am writing to you now over my plate of roasted chicken thigh and a stewy wine and carrot and cherry tomato concoction (leftovers, I might add) and this is something of an achievement.  In that, I chose this of my own free will after leaving the house for writers’ group and having a fair amount of calories to allot for dinner.

I’ve felt a bit Lucy McGoose lately about the diet.  Still doing it, still tracking, still exercising, but my heart and brain have been slowly melting down the broomstick of intention.  The fact that I have all of this extra time, but not really any extra money, and in fact will have less money than ever…none of that seems to have sunk in yet.  I feel as though I am floating, unable to affect even so much as a detectable increase in friction.   In part.  Sort of.

I have to qualify that because today was good insofar as I made choices that reflected my participation in the diet, lifestyle change, whatever.  I did things and refused offers and drank water and thought about it without shoving it out of my mind.  Without lingering regrets about not getting another teaspoon of ice cream or being given leave to go fall apart some fast food.  It was just too many calories, it was just factual that the food equated to more calories than I had to give, so it wasn’t possible.

It was nice to feel it so clear in my mind.  So straightforward to stop when you are supposed to stop.

So, yes, hello.  How are you?  I am well.  It feels like I need to make introductions despite having been here every day – the writing has been fruitful and I knocked out another section for group.  Perhaps this has been part of the disconnected sensation.  So here’s the news:

  1. Getting pretty excited for Seattle.  After picking the parents up at the airport, I’m ready to take another flight.  To feel those hundred thousand little things that travelling provides – the alertness, the expectations, the freedom, the vulnerability, the newness, and of course, getting to see my friends.  Taking off all the encumbrances of who I am here, and being who I am – but there.  I know what I mean.
  2. The working 4 hour days has really thrown me.  It all comes down to habit.  So the plan tomorrow is to get up at the usual time, not linger in bed, and work out and clean up for a bit.  Then get ready and write.  Build the right muscles, Popeye.
  3. Tomorrow, too, I plan to put some makeup on my face.  I have missed doing that.  My morning routine has evolved out of taking enough time to even be alive to the degree in the morning where I would recognize missing it.  I do miss it, though.
  4. Put on some pants.  Same size as the jeans I’ve got on which are getting really loose on the legs and NOPE.  Closer, but a big ol’ NOPE.  But I didn’t find that painful, but instead, a target.  When those work, we’ll have done something concrete.  So shooting for that.
  5. UH.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow!

 

 

Devil’s Resting Bitchface

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Okay.

I woke up fine.  Wrestled with the scale.  Is it the same or did I lose .8 lbs?   I got both answers and only one is really acceptable right now (no, it’s fine, I have a year, I have a lifetime, but you know, fuck) so I went back to bed so I didn’t have to think about anything and ended up sliding in and out of weird climbing dreams where I was clearly thinking way too hard.   A climbing pit inside a mall that was shutting down and I accidentally ended up getting left behind there and having to climb these odd manufactured mountains with these grips that just looked like regular drawer handles and it was, in some ways, easier than I feared.

Still, I woke up mad.  It might have been the email from my sister about needing to pay my part of the bills and being pretty sure that if I gave her any money I couldn’t pay my student loan payment and suddenly, last night’s exercise – a bit more intense than usual – had a delayed impact.

This is PMS.  Full throttle, son of a bitch, give me a drink and stay away from me or I will light you on goddamned motherfucking fire PMS plus, as it turned out, an odd explosion of anxiety and panic.  Even though got the go-ahead from the boss so I technically got paid, or will be on Monday and so did the sister, I think even the relief threw on the other side of Whack.  Wherein I decided, like a crazy person, that I couldn’t feel my cheek properly and then silently wugged over that.  And then basically proceeded to attempt the grocery story and doing the welfare check on the animals while my parents were away and eating and exercising over there and just…finding myself thinking bizarre and unhelpful things.

Nevertheless – I did buy food.  90% of it healthy, plus a miniature pizza aggressively encrusted with sodium.   Everything I ate I tracked and we’re under given that I did exercise…doing the 3 mile walk in the aggressively silent parents house with my music playing on my phone like some sort of funeral march.

I know this will pass, but grah, and shit, and ugh, and it isn’t stopping me.  It isn’t debilitating me.  It is just unnerving me and wasting my time.  Like, my dad texted us this picture of himself by a giant ceramic shark hung upside down on some pier somewhere in Florida where they are vacationing and, to my great relief, having a great time, clearly.  He makes a dad joke about having caught it after going sponge diving.  And I had a thought too morbid to post here and it’s like, great, thanks, that’s incredibly unhelpful brain.

And right now my brain is just cackling at me.  It feels as though it can see how desperately I’m working on myself, how I am really making an effort to exercise and how I am digging in, and it wants to upset the apple cart.  It wants to upset me into being afraid that my positive change is the trigger for the panic…and maybe it is, but only in the sense that this is a protective barrier around the security of the status quo.  It’s a test I have to pass this time.

 

Tony Danza

weird-statues-2-1507518Typing away.  So, yeah, last night I kind of fucked up and in trying to gather quotations for this writing project idea thing…I ended up reading the whole sequence of posts around Mr. Confusion and last year.  You know, that time when I wrote my heart out to this guy or at least a very literary and clever facsimile of my heart and things were weird.  We had this very intense back and forth for a while, then he disappeared for a while, and then he was back for a second but told me that he needed like…a real girl…or whatever and this motivated me to say, hey, you want to meet – let’s meet.  And that seemed like a good thing and then we had this nice, not excessively or problematically awkward date where I kinda thought he was kind of cute and and then…we never talked again.

That was a fun time to relive.  Fuck. Progress? Is there any progress in my heart whatsoever on that front?  I don’t…honestly think so.

Today might require bullets.

  • Having gone over to my parents when my sister did – she’s staying over to drive them to the airport tomorrow morning – like at 3:30a.m.  I basically went there because I wanted to raid the larder and I was 99% sure that they had a frozen pizza in their freezer and I sort of walked my arse off so that I could go.  Walked a ways beforehand around the subdivision listening to music mostly with that pizza in mind.  I’d basically had like rice and broth earlier and coffee to keep all those calories controlled and nope.  No pizza available to poor little me.  So instead, ate some chips and guac (very nearly too much) but was able to cut it just below the quota with that walking and call it good.  I don’t feel hungry, but I would, I think, like some wine.  I kind of feel like I am going to buy a bottle tomorrow for all that writing I want to do.
  • Watched an episode of Monarch of the Glen because my mother has decided it is the best show ever and I was briefly into it.  It’s a BBC dramedy and that’s my catnip.  I will probably try and watch more, but maybe just from the episode I saw – so the start of season 3, I guess.
  • Finished this Dragon Age: Inquisition run.  I have feelings.   Still.  Again.  More.  Oh, darling babby Solas. I want to keep writing fanfic that is not useful to anyone but me with my very specific tastes.  Not planning to restart another playthrough, but I want to find whatever what I can to extend my mental holiday in Orlais.
  • Also got to have some house of solitary pleasures time – watching the Oscars and bleating happily with the lovely friends on Skype about it all.  Golly, they make me so happy.

Also: because we want it written down, immortalized in script forever, Fuck Sam Smith.