Will It Ever End?

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It will, of course, but crimeny cripsies, I am danging in the never neverland and my eyes are boiled grapes and I am entirely without the ability to breathe through the nose.  Still.  I had moments, moments of feeling.

Now, those moments feel like windows that close on your hand if you linger too long.  I haven’t eaten enough.  I don’t want to eat.  I made biscuits I have to put in a bag, but I’m here, in bed, typing this post and reading grand things and that thing with the eyes and the breathing is continuing to pinch and tickle and sweat and I know my nose is going to bleed it is so raw.

So. Yes.

There is a negative spiral spinning me now.  An irritation that tea will not warm.  It’s loose bra straps, it’s pulled blankets, it’s dry, raw lips, and unsneezed sneezes, it’s the number of e’s in a word.  It’s a dream that voids another dream.  It’s the grinding of teeth.  It’s being haunted by language.  It’s a drained battery.  It’s a blinking light.  It’s knowing better and doing worse.  It’s reinfecting a clean wound.  It’s not having the word count show up.  It’s not even knowing why I am here or what I am trying to say.

I used to have an idea.  Even just an end of the year, get your druthers, get your trotters moving, get your gumption sort of idea. Now, just gray white walls.  Symbolistic gray white walls, if you’re a Matt Good fan.

It’ll be okay, but if you don’t extend the vision out, you sit right here with me, oy, it is unfuckingpleasant right now.

Tomorrow, back to a half day of work, the last day…potentially, at the old office.  The current office, that will eventually be the old office, and then the new office will eventually, hopefully sooner rather than later, be the old office, too.

It is like a shark.  It has to keep swimming else it will die.

I have been short on words lately.  I have promised to return and fill these pages.  I do have some ideas about that, even in the midst of everything else, but I just want to be here with a clear head.  I just want to treat this place with reverence.  I want to treat a lot of things with more reverence than I am capable of right now.  I don’t want to just be braying and spraying and clattering around for the sake of saying I did it.  I…am sufficiently not on the mark these days to freak myself out and with my falling out hair in knots and my hands shaky from all of the bad ideas, I want to…perform the lustratio.

A ram, a pig, a bull.

A force to move and feed and break all that might have been poisoned, all the malefactors in this newborn year, all the went wrong.

Bleed them all and set loose the birds that can fly fast from this spot, angles of a new destiny we’ll invent for ourselves

Historical Footnote

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It is impossible for me to finish this post without first writing one hundred words.  It is impossible for me to call it done without first beginning it.  So I am here, ill and in bed, with a sore jaw and headache and a body that aches for succor of all stripes, writing to you.

I should get in the bath and try and sleep, but I don’t expect it to happen so easily as that.

Chinese Food Picnic…my coworkers sent me home early today, or my boss, I suppose at the shop.  I have caught the great whatever, a sickness that has worn me down, and I was so relieved to be able to drive home in the light of day and not the dark of night, but before all that my co-worker bought me egg drop soup and we ate at a table in the middle of the store, just for fun.  She also made me a jar of baileys and vodka and chocolate something and I forgot it in a mad rush to get home and cry on the couch.

The I Don’t Want A Christmas Tree I Can Trip On Christmas…my mother doesn’t want me to put up the big Christmas tree.  And if I love her, I will hear her and not do it.  But I do want to put up the big Christmas tree.  Not necessarily there, not necessarily the family one, but mine, dotted with ornaments that have the meaning of the life I would be celebrating.  My own stars and little birds and apples and stained glass Seven Swans a’Swimming and my own stories.  I wish I had an easy way to do that.

Crying in the dark…today, I sat on the couch and cried in the dark. The little kitten came up and swirled around on my lap, disturbed and restless about it.  I didn’t mind.

The Handmaid’s Tale…I am intrigued by the adaptation that Hulu’s putting out.  That book is, of course, a hugely relevant consideration of a dystopian direction that nobody can say we’re NOT pushing as a country right now.  I remember reading it in a Women’s Lit class (oh, you know damn well I took Women’s Lit classes, honestly) and I found it so striking, so blood-curdling, so horrific.  But also, naturally, just scifi.  Just out there in terms of anything that I believed the government would allow to happen.  Now, I don’t believe it will happen, but I don’t believe some aspects of it won’t subtly encroach further and deeper than any sane and rational person would allow if they knew they were coming down the pike.  I hope it is a conversation starter.  I hope it is so revolting and horrifying that people pay some sort of attention.

Pizza Terminator…oh, why couldn’t Sarah Connor and Kyle Reese had a few years together raising their crazy Skynet-destroying son together before he got hit, inexplicably and tragically by a car or a falling computer or something.  It would be so much more ironic.  But, alas, that’s probably not what they were going for.  It just makes sense to me.

That is postmodernism for you, though.

Fever…do I have one?  Can we tell if we touch our forehead with a feverish hand?  Probably not.   I did take the one baby aspirin so I do feel covered.  I just have to sleep.  I will, at some point, probably at gunpoint, make that happen.

Life…this is how it’s looking these days.

Back on the Circuit

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Ah, well, hi.  Happy day after Easter.

No real clue if today’s post will just be long and winding and somehow end up 1500 words long to make up for the past two days absences, or if I will just realize that nobody really needs that much of my pontification on my state of being regarding a brief, passing illness and move on.

I just have to get back into the groove.  Of everything.

So the gross details of my absence are thus: I think I haven’t thrown up in ten years.  So a total body evacuation was a bit of a surprise.  Ahem. Without converting this all into nightmare fuel, the whole terrible situation sort of went on all night and I didn’t sleep. And in the process of being sick, all of yesterday I did the common thing of just zoning out.  My brain went on a vacation I know not whence while the body ached and shivered and shook.

Today, I was on the edge of being able to make it into work and not and circumstances being what they are, it really doesn’t make a hill of beans’ difference right now whether or not I’m there, so I elected to text the boss.  More than anything the problem was the detached mentality floating five hundred miles to the west of my head.  And so I slept till noon, rolled around, and ended up finally forcing myself upright for some chicken noodle soup and ginger ale.  Oh, and laying back down on the couch and watching extremely an random 80’s movie (The Rachel Papers?) and then a couple reruns of Grace Under Fire.

Grace Under Fire was one of those shows that was in the repertoire of casual family viewing for us as kids.  Along with the Torkelsons, Roseanne, Nick at Night, all of those TGIF sitcoms, cartoons, it was an acceptable way to pass a half an hour when I was growing up.   The internet was just coming around in the form of America Online and participating in it – though eventually, it became my end-all, be-all form of entertainment – was work.  TV was reliable and we would all gather around in the living room with dinner to laugh at the same thing.

I didn’t and don’t know all that much about actress and comedian Brett Butler’s addiction and breakdown that lead to the show’s cancellation.  I’m probably not going to watch so much of it to care in anything more than a gently empathetic concern for my fellow human, but man, it does seem sad to me that her talents here aren’t still lauded.

When I was a girl, I didn’t understand how great parts of Grace Under Fire were. Really, I think Gilmore Girls might count it amongst its predecessors in terms of razor-sharp dialogue delivered in rapid-fire quip form.  And yet, there’s a sincerity to her performance that shows why you’d want to give this woman a show.  You want to see her succeed.  Beyond the fact that she talked about domestic violence, she addressed feminist issues, her single-momness is central to her reality, not set aside because it’s inconvenient, she has this underdog quality that you root for.   I mean, you just have to watch that opening credit sequence which is so incredibly 90’s to see what they want this show to be…about Grace and her vision of the world.  The kids aren’t even in it.

I just started watching on this scene where she ends up just slightly falling for the seemingly awkward (but rather cute and clearly well-matched in terms of wit) chemist played by William Fichtner, and you can really feel her loneliness and ache and fear about the potential new relationship.  Her ex-husband was physically abusive and only a year behind her and her kids, so this is a whole pile of problems that she can’t quite wrap her head around, but yet.  Yet.  I feel like the chemistry is…well, palpable.  And so, incredibly gingerly, she lets that romance begin.  Even though she comments several times that she feels like she’s risking too much, she lets herself go out there into the deeper waters.

There’s more to watch (and you can on Hulu), but obviously, this romance doesn’t last until the show’s over so I’m watching these scenes as a shipper who knows her ship’s the Titanic.  This is obviously a healing situation for Grace, and somehow, on some level, I see the lessons in it for me.  It’s stupid, it’s selfish, it’s risky, but there’s something real and emotional and alive that needs to be seen.  That needs to connect and feel love. Something that all her shame and frustration and fury and wit can’t talk its way around.

She deserves the light, the open space, the parts of herself that he seems to illuminate.

I’ll be sad for her when she breaks up with him for good (or he with her as will inevitably occur) and wish that somehow they could have pulled a Parks and Rec and just seen what they had was good and found a way to write it into the show.  I suppose in the first season that her single-momness was seen to be of primary importance and a dude who loved her and gave her cassettes he taped of Aaron Copland music wasn’t going to make for good TV.

Still.

…not sure I was intending to write so long about that. I suppose it could be worse and I could have rifled off a few hundred words about Barabbas which I endured on Sunday for the first time.  I just need to make my brain work by generating words.  By experiencing and connecting to tangible things because living half in outer space frankly scares me a bit, someone might come along with scissors and I won’t be able to come back.

Steps: making an omelet out of the Easter ham I was too sick to have yesterday.  Putting on some Aaron Copland music.  Loading the dishwasher. Having my fill of gerund-centered sentence fragments.  Another hot bath.  Glaring inwardly at the fist my stomach has made.  Realizing that I’ve lost 2.6 pounds – so about 12 pounds in total thus far (I’ll take it however that comes even if losing 2 days on the planet seems a rough way to mark those numbers off.)  Worrying about my grandfather in the hospital with pneumonia again, though it seems he’s already progressing.  Thinking maybe that’s just wishful thinking.  Watching more Grace Under Fire.

 

 

The Bathmobile

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Feeling a bit of a mess.    The feet reaaallly bothered me today and my legs are sore from the exercise I have done for reasons that are not entirely clear to me.   They are feeling marginally better now with my legs up and extended, but mostly, I just feel off and weird and all my hypochondriacal tendencies are asking to be let loose and I simply CANNOT allow this.  Not for three more weeks when everything insurancewise is re-situated.  SO.   As long as I can feel “better” – I am letting myself relax about it.

Feeling a bit zing-y all over. Maybe I’m just getting sick.  I feel like that could be the case.  I did get really sick after this happened in Italy.  That would be excessively NOT ON if that’s the case.  Flying over the Atlantic Ocean with an open faucet coming out of your face.  Ah, well.  Hot bath, that’ll fix it.

What else?  What am I ready for?  Nothing.  Okay.  Well, we are going to have to work around you, asshole voice in my head, because life is happening regardless of whether or not you feel safe and or happy.

I have no real reason to complain…well, yes, but I have a lot of reasons to be pleased as well.   We went to dinner, the sister and I, and I found something I think was dietarily acceptable even at a Mexican restaurant.  I continue to be aware that I need to clean it up more, to look more closely at more than just the calorie count, but for now, for today, I know I ate less than I might have if I weren’t doing this.

After last night’s post which reflected it, I spent some time working on the novel.  If I have the tiniest of tiny frames to focus on, this helps.  It’s a bit hard to have a co-writer on one thing when you’re used to figuring everything out on your own.  To be so full up with someone else’s ideas, to just incorporate them as your own – they don’t cling to me in the same way.  Even when we talk or I read the new plans, I have to exert focus and effort.  It feels ridiculously good when I do, but this, too, I find easy to forget.  Too much time spent inventorying twinges.

I have another assignment now on a couple fronts, but I know a bit of what I’m doing and aim to start from there.

Also spent a bit of time today reading this article by the excellent and erudite Caissie St. Onge: http://www.vox.com/2016/2/15/10980830/oprah-winfrey-weight-watchers reflecting on her weight loss experience and what it means if someone with all the money and means and mettle in the world like Oprah is still struggling, like we’re ALL still struggling, to lose weight. I know that I can do more than I’m doing.  I have a lot of body image issues, but I haven’t really put in the time and effort to see about just eating better, just taking care instead of treating my body as a garbage dump for the physical manifestations of my feelings.   So it doesn’t make me want to stop, per se, but it does make me think about the mental side of this.

Suppose I can make all of this happen and get sleek and svelte and great and then I fuck it up.  Because I will.  Be it one pound or every last one of those I’ve lost in this drive.  I mean, who will I be on the other side of this if there’s only one successful outcome?

That’s why I am trying to adjust my thinking.

…more on this.  I am really starting to feel achy all over.  To the bathmobile!

 

Sick Meta

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Okay, since things are suddenly spiralling in a really shit way, here’s the plan.  I am, for some damn reason, feeling really awful.  Like sick.  I don’t know if it’s from listening to people at the office talk about strep throat, but I have something going on.  I’ve got a headache, feel like puking and my throat is starting to feel sore.  This sucks and frankly, I’m not all that happy about having to sit upright and compose anything for the universe to read.

I want to lay down here in this bed and die.

….

So I didn’t post.  Nor die.  Sorry.  The devil on my shoulder justified not doing it and I didn’t.  Mainly because my plan was just to try and write five hundred random words and press post.  That doesn’t seem to help anything for anyone.  It just is petulance and drama at that point.  As I was staring at the porcelain fount and considering making an, ahem, offering, I said what the hell does anyone care?  They don’t.  But they do.  But they don’t care so much that I can’t do two posts today and live much the same as if I’d posted some crap last night when my head was about to explode.  I don’t have the old guy who stopped in every now and again at my desk and asked me if I did my 500 words anymore.  And fuck him, if he won’t forgive me a day of inactivity.  Having slept I actually remember the word inactivity.  Self-care trumped everyone’s esteem of me which…if it’s based totally on whether or not I press post everyday, that’s too depressing to think about.

Obviously, I do feel much better, stomach-wise and mostly headache-wise.  Throat a little scratchier and more desperate than before, but what the heck…I guess I feel talky in my fingertips rather than my mouth.  I feel well enough to urgently rush online and explain the happenings with my body (and play Dragon Age, but never mind that) so I must feel better.  That’s my measurement, I guess.

Not that I suddenly have the Great American Blog Post rattling around in my brain to give you today, either.  Not here and probably not when I post again tonight.  Mostly, I’ve been playing my video game, avoiding my friends because I don’t want to get spoilers for the game, feeling fretful and nervous towards generalized nothingness I can’t articulate, thinking about boys on the internet, eating this, that or the other, successfully surviving what may have been a ranch-dressing based food poisoning, and refusing to leave the house.  Today may have a bit more cleaning and laying in bed staring at the ceiling in it, but I expect today to be much the same.

Successful Cat Lady Score: +5

It’s what I wanted, the antidote, the reversal of all those weekends where I rush to work and feel my blood pressure skyrocket and feel lonely as hell that way.  Here, we have the internet, we have music as loud as we want, we have the ability to just close our eyes and lay down when it gets to be too much.

This is a blessing.  It has its downside, but it is a blessing.

Brosser Les Dents: Day Thirty-Nine

I found the image first, so I am afraid that I am going to attempt to match its tone (not that I have ever hoped or required that of the myself and the header image) but today has been so less than bubbly rainbows, that I don’t want to lose the verisimilitude.

But you might wish I’d lose it.

Last night is where the story of today’s sourness actually began when I tried to go to bed around 1:00a.m.-ish.  This is not atypical on a Friday night.  However, as I tried to relax and breathe and do whatever dope-on-a-rope trick I have to finagle to get my overactive mind to go into hibernation mode, I realized I felt a bit off.  I ignored it, as you do, because it’s late and the offness wasn’t centered anywhere or to do with anything.  Again, not so very atypical.  I feel I’m already adding too much tension to what is only a scatologically-focused bit of puff.  I woke up with a start and felt it must be morning with the quite classic, but very atypical for me, worrying feeling in my colon.  Quite worrying.  So off I went to deal with the…ahem…matter and put myself back in bed as a good girl should.  I woke up again.  It was only 2:30a.m., but equally indisposed.  And again at 4:00a.m.   I popped an antacid in sheer desperation.  And then 8:30a.m. when I finally said I’d rather not play the old game again and made myself get up for the day.  Now, I’m not sure if it’s my beloved shakes, or what, because I had one for breakfast and felt not great so I decided to just not eat ever again.  And in the interim thought about cleaning or moving about, though didn’t, really.  Mostly just played more Bioshock Infinite, thinking I could follow the walkthrough and breeze through it, but it’s certainly taken it’s fair share of time today.  And somewhere in the midst of all that, I got some appetite back and thought I’d do a proper low-carb frittata and bake it in the oven with sausage and cheese, and I baked it and it was good, until around 2:00p.m. my poor little stomach started the gurgles once again and away we went.  And at 7:00p.m, and now 10:30 or so, after a strong dose of Pepto, it continues, though I suppose, I would call it abated.

Insofar as I call preponderance of shit anything at all.

So I hope to feel better tomorrow, to be more active and organized and answer the schlub who deigned to message me on OKC with nothing really to recommend himself (I’m equally mediocre and disinterested, so this should be smashing.) as well as the girl who wants to order me about with the writing group.

I really want to not be laid up again and waste another beautiful day waiting for something to get better.

I suppose I should apologize for this post, but there will be another one tomorrow, like it or no.

The Rocket Book: Day Seventeen

It may be time for some midnight – or at least late night – oatmeal.  Or maybe not.  It might just be a better idea to leave that for the morning when all the excitement returns.  We’re going to see a friend and her new baby tomorrow so rest and avoiding making a mess of myself just for the sake of impulse  tonight so close to bedtime is probably inadvisable.

It is Friday night and I am calmer than I have been in a good while, ironic, after a Starbucks-related run of anxiety marring an otherwise peaceful day.

It is a day with a bit of a lip, a bit of an overlook, an aerie from which we have a small sense of perspective.

I am going to be okay.    I hope and think it’s actually pretty likely that you will be okay, too.

I decided to wear high heels today.  I did this because they were a perfect brown to wear with the skirt that I decided to take off the hanger and try despite the fact that it’s a size too small and still bears its tags from when my mother bought it for me more than a year ago.   For some reason, I try it today and find it fits just fine.  I also had a green sweater and tights and may or may not have looked like hipster G.I. Jane, the college years.   This is of note because I am terrible about wearing high heels.  My gait becomes like a newborn giraffe’s, all tentative and akimbo.  So loaded on Starbucks, I drive the three minute trek to one of committee members’ house, and clomp across the street in these mostly kitten heels.  Here,amongst the shotguns mounted on the wall and the wood paneling (the home was quite beautiful, just very indicative of the owners’ political persuasions) we discussed business pretty heavily, the needs of the market and our plans for discussing with new boss.  Then, there was wine I could only sip after realizing how terrible wine tastes as chaser for a frappuccino, with notes of battery acid and cumin, and some actually delicious pozole that my stomach also turned on halfway through.   As all of that settled, and some sort of frosting stuffed bundt cake appeared that I didn’t not even begin to contemplate, discussion turned to light, comfortable venting and I spoke my mind, graciously, and found them all supportive and understanding of my lot.  It was nice, even as the caffeine about ruined my ability to handle sitting still and breathing, to feel so liked and social and a part of something.  To have a role that I understood.  Finally, we said goodnight and I made my foolish, awkward way back to my car and while the nerves ran and caterwauled through me, I think it’s a bit obvious that I made it home in one piece.

So, my bed and my sense is calling me.  Time to give Queen Mab her due, and submit to Somnus.