Go Quiet

Sometimes I am teased for my noises.

But it doesn’t matter, I have to make them anyway.

Another no good, very bad, what is going on with my juju these days? sort of workday.  I’m doubting everything including the color of the sky or if winter will ever, to coin the now ubiquitous phrase, come.  I feel wobbly and weak and there’s no place for wobbly and weak so out I will sweep it and draw in my wobbly and weak reserves of superpowered cojones and success tomorrow.

I don’t know that anything will do me any good.  You ever just know that things are in motion that are well beyond you and maybe it’s going to pick you up and carry you somewhere…maybe home, maybe hell, but you’re not going to expect to be there when you arrive.

I don’t know that they like me very much and today was a bad day with no J. in it and me just bobbing about after getting cracked up against the fact that you can call it a new start all you want, but if you still have the old poison in the barrel…it’s going to be hard to pull out a good apple.

I spent two hours working tonight and still have the sensation that somehow a knife is going to slide out of my screen and gouge me in the head.  Like today when I thought I had done well and I wrecked printers and forgot important meetings and tried and tried and tried and did not make it close to the summit.  I just get more curt emails that I have to swallow up all of my sentiment and smallness and attempts at being outsized and just reply to.  I want to be able to quit apologizing, but moving and not moving seem to be equally wrong.

So sometimes, when no one is around to hear, or I believe that no one is, I make a series of noises.

But what people don’t understand is that it is the sound of an idea running through me. The idea is sometimes one of venting the steam that seems to be about to burst my skull apart, ahisssssssssssh.

Sometimes the sound is one of delight, of giddy happiness to be thinking about something wonderful coming and it’s like a train, it has this plugging rhythm and I feel myself with it so it goes doo-chicka-doo-chicka-doo-chicka, like the soundtrack to an old black and white western, and my body will get real tight with excitement and my fingers will bend like weeping willow boughs, all twisted as I draw them skyward and contemplate while the sound goes how good it will be when whatever it is arrives full and intact.

Sometimes the sound is like it is tonight, sitting in bed with the fan on blast and the noise doesn’t have any rhythm or order and is both hsssssssssssssssssss and a series of intermittent clicks and it is the sound of me thinking about my mother’s cancer medicine working in her body, fighting against what is wrong and block-block-block-block-blocking it.

 

Williwaw

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A word lives two days in a row! For me, this is as if it lives two lives in quick succession.  I have not forgotten you, williwaw, despite my brain floating in a a cocktail engineered to keep things hazy and short-term.

Today, only more lyrically embossed: we did not drive to IKEA, this may have been because neither of us was mobile much before noon.  Myself, I had made the intelligent plan of staying up to 3a.m, convinced I was not tired.  Or convinced that it didn’t matter.  Or convinced that I could just take a nap at some point today regardless of the fact that I never take a nap.  I am always too keyed-up from caffeine to sleep, or maybe just the power of my massive brain as it works to plot out all the exhaustive ways it can both destroy and be utterly shamed by my waking behavior.  I am frankly astonished that a bath and some aspirin did bring me back to life.  At least enough that I didn’t want to commit hara-kari before receiving my delicious lunch at Hacienda Colorado.  It was delicious, and from there, more happy minutiae.  Shopping at Target for a chair that isn’t a black behemoth office chair – not finding one but being offered a free black behemoth to use by my parents while I shop around for something that makes a bit more design sense with the room.  It is important to give a shit about these issues, because otherwise, you find yourself in the terrible and familiar position of struggling to give a shit about anything.  Then, we walked two dogs further than I would have initially suggested we walk.

And now, back home where I am sitting at this desk…a dream of six months ago, when the first thoughts of bigger change was first dancing through my head. I am here rather than laying in my bed with the laptop atop my lap, slowly cooking my internal organs until they are gray and non-functioning.  It feels like a healthier choice just to be sitting here, rather than half-supine.  It is not perfect.  The desk probably could use a sanding in a few spots.  The chair I was given by my parents, an extra they were looking to get rid of, gets me close enough for comfort.   However, crossing my legs, as I am wont to do, seems not likely.  Maybe it does just need to be broken in as my sister suggests.  We’ll find another one, but for now, I am not sunk into myself.

I was…and am…not sure how to convert Sunday energy into something better for Monday.  Some sort of radical ferocity, an eight-hour magic bullet I can load tonight.  But I have a few ideas after reading this Wil Wheaton article: http://wilwheaton.net/2015/10/seven-things-i-did-to-reboot-my-life/…and I wonder what this could look like for me.  How much of that is exactly what I am looking for, how much of it is what I need.  Reading, sleeping, giving a few things up.

You might see some struggle here soon.

Miz Louisa Bunch

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Ah, well,

The men that came to the rescue today.  Finally, after a hundred thousand attempts to figure it out ourselves and to ask others for help, a nice smelling chap came from the IT firm to fix our machines up.  I didn’t make eyes.  I was cheerful and professional, but I did think, rather than allow the usual flow of quashing thoughts that surge to swallow these sort of impulses that I liked him.  I did  not think “I feel nothing, I feel nothing, I feel nothing.”  I thought, even if it was worthless, nebulous and of no long duration, that I did feel something.  The sort of aimless thrill that people feel when making new acquaintance. I’m hoping to give up the security blanket of that phrase, to give up the immediate neutering of potent situations.  I do feel, friends, this heart still beats beneath these steel sheets. Later, there was the usual office comments on this nice, nerdy, hero and if, with amusement, one of us were going to do something about it.  I’m not, of course, but I would like to.  I can’t, but I would like to, and that, I have to think, is some sort of step.

The second man did not have any allure of a sexual nature, latent or dormant or half-felt on my part.  He was a hunk of something politically incorrect, with some sort of strain of a Highwayman, of gentleman, marbleized through the soul that perched right front and center and peered out through his leathery hermitage.   For some reason, some untold reason, that perhaps only had to do with the impossibly unfair irony that we tried to get the car serviced only moments before, but the car decided to stop working in the middle of the road.  It sputtered and seemed to have no power, no speedometer, just another soul exhausted by having to ferry us about even more more inch less one more mile.  So we, or I should specify, my sister, called the insurance and got the complimentary tow that isn’t so complimentary given that we pay for it year after year and never until now have had to use it.  I am grateful, however, that we did because the weather has been so miserable.  So we waited for the driver to arrive and he was hardly even comprehensible when he turned up, nearly forty-five minutes early, in the grocery store parking lot where we’d decided to pull off in case there was something happening that continued driving would exacerbate.  He just set to getting the car on the truck, talking about the cops he distrusted, pulling my sister into an odd and entirely unexpected promenade around to the car, which had a Mountain Dew can half falling out of it and eventually taking us the mile to our house.

Certainly not worth it, but a silver lining when you spend all day with particular people and particular worries, a few guest stars and plot twists don’t go amiss.

Time to soak a girl’s feet.

Tomorrow

No More Numbers: Day Two Hundred Seventy-Three

What’s on my mind, WordPress?  1371761_27213366ot much, actually.  I’ve done my damndest to just not have anything on the workbench in the fevered bellows of my brain today.   I am not despairing, just…coming to terms with a lot.  The fact that the kind gent from yesterday was just that and I, in all my foibles and best intentions, have no reason to pursue it further even if I knew how or when or where or why (aside from the persistent hum of my libido).  Looks are a dime a dozen for most and just because I find them precious doesn’t mean that anyone else would pay for the favor of mine.  I have not wanted to stew on this and so I actually, if you care to believe it, have not thought about it at all until right now when I turned off the games and wanted to be sure I hadn’t missed my deadline.

It’s worth ink, or pixels, and a curling up of the outside of my lips, but his long-term, eventually permanent absence will mean he will soon become as gilded as all the rest.  Love is a thing behind you, sepia-colored and curling up at its edges as well.  There is, in my experience, no present tense in it.

I’ve also been avoiding the fact that tomorrow I do not work – and really, I should only put in the four hours I’m to be paid for, but I have something like 20 days left, 20 or twenty-three days, and although that may not be the clean break I’m really desiring, it’s a hell of a short time to cram all the good girl stipulations into so that I can hand off the mess of my position to someone enrobed in wax paper and tied with a blue ribbon.  I don’t go into the office, but I should work excessively while here especially since I took today and went into my own personal quiet lands.

A few things were done, a good portion of the laundry was hauled over and washed and I’ve made a sizeable giveaway pile because the crux of the mess really is the absence of storage for a lot of really weird conglomerations of thread and faded cotton.  Finding things I love rather than what I ought to fit or love or take care of because someone gave it to me thinking I would look better in it than I did.  My other aunt, another of mother’s sisters, gave me 50 euros to add to my stack.  We took a walk and she is sharp as the sharpest whip you have with a memory that is hard to believe if you aren’t related and have a similar one.  I ate poorly, I listened to my father as he showed me the oldest stamp he had in his collection, I played and will play a game that takes away all thought and worry.  I am counting on some sort of logic to kick in in the morning because time is running out!

O2 Cool

I haven’t done this before –  I don’t think –  writing out the day’s post on paper before taking it and typing it up.  I figured I could write while I listen to the Mass Effect dialogue and not lug that frying pan of a laptop out here to cook my internal organs while I play.

There is something wrong with Shepard’s nose this time around, but we’re too far ito the game to fix it.  Oh well, we all have some bad angles – even Commander Shepard.

For my part – my face is also whatever it is – at the moment, newly washed and my teeth are brushed, flossed, and mouth swished out.  I’ve got my pajamas – mostly just a Matthew Good Band t-shirt) and my clothes picked out for tomorrow.  I’ve needed to inject some sort of order into the proceedings today if only just here at the end of it.  I’ve had an excessive case of the Sundays – my one day off this week and probably, really, my only day off until the Saturday after next.  The mild heat strokes I’ve been having lately (avoiding water and sunscreen has added to the impact) have taken their toll and today I found myself scarily lethargic.  I managed to make myself lunch, have a horrible fast food dinner and feel like shit as I ate both of them like a ravenous maniac.  With speed and without pleasure.  So fast I have these painful, rib-racking hiccups now.  You’d think that if I was allowed to eat whatever I wanted whenever I wanted that I would feel something as I swallowed it?  Something other than this cascade of shame for not being on the diet and not working towards goals and not somehow able to be progressing.

Sigh.  It feels extra odd now that I’m a little bit back in control of my body and mind to have confessed all this on paper – but I think today, that’s where my head needs to be.  It needs to say that this is how it is right now instead of saying it’s fine and watching it spiral further and further into crazytown.

Mildred – Gollum of my diet/becoming an adult human journey – has done a subtle and terrifyingly good job of distracting and re-orienting my brain back to her cause.  She wants inertia to succeed.  And I keep saying, soon, soon, soon I’ll fight back.  Soon I’ll get up early and walk in the mornings.  Soon I’ll re-commit to eating on a plan.  Soon I’ll think really hard about the concert, or Italy, or the very idea of anyone finding me physically attractive and I’ll be motivated to do better.  At every juncture I think that – once the food fugue dissipates – and at every juncture I kick the can down the road because the need of the moment doesn’t allow for any sense of future.

It’s so untrue.  It’s so the lies that mania brings to your life clamping down.  It’s Mildred cackling in the corner and miming pouring herself another cup of tea.

She thinks she’s winning.

Only I’m Trapped In Here

What have I learned?

That whenever you think you’ve screwed up, you haven’t.  The screwing up comes when you decide that you would rather work on perfecting, deepening, buffing and polishing your screw up than fixing it.  The old adage about falling down and getting back up again is really the only thing that matters.

We’ll see.  I am trying to think about this productively because it’s obvious to me that I have some sort of block.   Why year after year I try and lose weight and then year after year, some reason, some lack of will, some mental affliction crops up and I can’t, or won’t, or don’t until my weight rises back up to where I’m uncomfortable and frustrated as hell and I lose that little bit off the top that makes me understand how to do it.

It’s like tomorrow…the snow will have melted back down to manageable levels for travel and so I have options.  We can go to a restaurant.  We can go to the grocery store.  And at either place I can go back to eating low carb  or I can extend this moratorium yet again and eat something that will not serve anything but the weird feeling inside that I can’t handle my life right now.

I’m not tapping.  I’m not drinking water.  I’m adding more fake sugar to things.  I’m not following the plan.  I’m only exercising out of negativity, and minimally, and without real intent.  Because I know all of that will start to put me back in the spotlight, in the driver’s seat, in the front of whatever metaphor you want.  And right now, Mildred, that’s a pretty scary proposition.  It means change and I’ve started to have a little taste of clarity and intent and change and adulthood.  And all that entails, good and bad.  And it seems like my subconscious is trying to psych me out.  And the nutrition or lack thereof is just playing into it.

What I’m trying to say is here it is.  I am aware.  I know that I want to see if this date is…I want to be dateable.  I’m afraid to be dateable.  I want to open up my life to the Correspondent.  I’m petrified to open up an eyelid to the Correspondent.  I’m sure that it’s not going to result in anything.  I’m devastated that it’s not going to result in anything.  I want to think positively, but I can’t figure out one reason to be hopeful about it.  I feel like I’m walking into a trap where no matter if it goes poorly or well, my brain is going to self-destruct.

So, I have my choices.  Forward or back?  Why is it not obvious?

I know what I want.  But I let fear push me, confuse me.  Let Mildred tell me I’m not good enough.  Let me fear my own power.

I want to show up tomorrow and tell you I made good.  I kinda maybe have a week to get my head on straight.

 

 

 

Frisson Fricassee

I am suddenly reminded that there is cheese in my purse.

Great.

Well, it is a remnant of a day of digging in.  I didn’t have to go into the office, but I did, just because there were so many emails that needed to be sent, so many checks to be organized, so many applications to process, so much to just preside over that even though I worked from 10:30am-4:00pm, I don’t feel I made much of a dent.  So much so I grabbed a box of paperwork and brought it home with me.    I don’t know if I’ll touch it tomorrow.  I know I should.  But I kind of feel like I beat back the dragon with all my might today so tomorrow it can serve me up in a fricassee.

I also did not do Mildred’s bidding.  Mildred, who is, in essence rather a Gollum-like character, rubbed her hands together and thought that she could convince me in some roundabout way to get really screwed up on the diet.  I was in the office with the door shut all by my lonesome.   It could easily have been an opportunity to get a big yeasty, carby something and get it down my gullet.  But.  I kept thinking about how maybe the way to stop getting the same results was to do the exact opposite of what I’d usually do in these situations and instead of going through the drive-through, I went back to the grocery store and got the said cheese and peanuts and some water.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t sufficient to sustain me all day so when I finally released myself from my administrative bonds, I went and got some chicken wings and inhaled them as though they’d been molded from ambrosia.  Mildred was alright with that.  And I thought it was a decent enough compromise instead of all the other options I had been contemplating.  I was sort of astonished at my own willpower because it seems like every day I need a fresh convincing that I’m at all interested in doing this.

And maybe the email had something to do with it.  It had just one line that made you wonder and that wonder was enough to make me smile and rather ignore the ambivalence the dog whoso do list to hunt inspires in me.  I feel a bit a’tangled about it.  It feels like marching across a marsh without a map and at this point I can still see the steps I took in, but the swamp is filling them in quickly and soon there’s just getting lost whether you go forward or backward.  So we just slosh and squeal as we feel the water seep in through boots that were never waterproofed.  For we always planned to go places where roads run.

And there’s another email from someone else.  Honestly, universe, you can chuck them at me all you want, someday the right one will stick.

And I thank you for moving that dog out of the way of my car.