Fleet of Foot

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And all over the map.

Okay, fair warning to everyone, this is just going to be even more complainy and irritable than usual.  Just FYI.  I just need to deal with what I need to deal with so I can take a breath.  The tempest in my teacup.

My hands feel stiff, after spending all day feeling 50% convinced that my mouth/jaw situation was getting better and mostly forgetting about it, I now am clenched and aching and zapping in pain and horrified and…then, fine, okay, bearable, distracted.

I am working on accepting that the causes I have identified have lead to the negative experience I am having rather than UGH, AH, I JUST FEEL NO GOOD.

These include:

  • Double my usual dose of soda today.
  • Eating nothing good for me whatsoever.
  • Stress beaming out of every orifice I got.
  • Hormones nailing me on the cross of bones that bear my flesh.
  • I haven’t found the mouthguard.
  • I haven’t looked.
  • It’s just Murphy’s Law.
  • I have not had the things I want to distract me around to distract me.
  • Just because the hard and dark places are identified around us, doesn’t mean we always are able to march into their doors with steel-toed boots.   Sometimes we have to crab-crawl backwards so we don’t know the moment we are in from the moment we are out.

I had another of yesterday’s illuminating boss conversations with my mentor.  I didn’t expect and I did not receive some super special job offer to just throw off my shackles and work at the shop in a descriptionless capacity for what I am making now.   Just, y’know, social media dilettante consultant to the stars who will just run the register but get this massive pay raise because we like her so much.

Despite how much easier it would make my life right now.

Even if there are specific reasons that she could not make long-term offers to me in the first place, even if she would be delighted to do that were it possible.  Even if…that did not happen.

Instead, we mostly talked about people I could talk to and what now that, I guess, I am officially calling it open-season on job hunting.

This includes her getting in touch with a high-powered mutual friend of ours who came from our small town and has worked her way up in the universe with no small dose of ambition (backed up, of course, by being very good at what she does.)

I do have this moment of wondering whether or not I want to do anything related to what field this woman works in – education, though not as a teacher – or if the idea of working someplace downtown is prohibitive or, or, or…but information gathering will not harm me.  Right now, having conversations feels a heck of a lot better than scurrying to pull up job search websites and throw mental darts at listings.  At any rate, I’m going to have my resume and we’ll all do lunch and it’ll be like adults do these things.

Biggles Berry Book: Day One Hundred Four

1342713_17641201Gragh.  I am…not so interested in writing any thing today.

I had this idea this morning about writing a piece for publication about the three trips I’m taking this summer/fall.  Minnesota for a family reunion, Atlanta to see my friends at DragonCon, and then, of course, to Italy where some portion of the trip will be solo.  I see a lot of triptychs that present themselves in this triad of adventures.  I see a lot of lessons to be had, a lot of different facets of myself that I think the going and seeing and doing will illuminate.

Because it’s me, surely a thread will be awkwardness.  Awkwardness and fear.

Not that I’m putting into stone what the meaning will be of these untraveled travels.  I’m wont to do that, as might be clear, to live something through writing and then find no real need to live it in reality.  To write it, to me, is to experience it, is to unite with it in a way I don’t seem to be able to when my thousand shields of awkwardness and over-resolved intentions make me think about thinking rather than being in the moment.    So I suppose, I shouldn’t try and pre-write too much here, but I am thinking about doing this and hopefully I will.

I only say it because I want to write something true.  Something that reviews the big picture rather than one day in its own context.  That perhaps I could get away from the grind and realize what is remarkable about me, because of a’sudden I feel quite at sea.  Bit sour and lonely and aggravated, at myself and at the world.

Spending a Saturday at work, locked up as though in a cupboard, I suppose, will do that.   I did many things, but still didn’t feel all that accomplished.  I was only intending to work 4 or 5 hours and ended up working seven.  New  boss said I could have overtime.  We didn’t have the thirty applications I hoped for – only 10 – and so I went to the grocery store and got a bunch of things I didn’t necessarily need, thinking somehow they were rewarding my focus.  Which I didn’t precisely have.

I don’t know how to get the thing I want that I am placating with food, but right now, it refuses to lay down and accept the old party line.  I just want to feel wanted rather than useful. So ennui ensues.

Time to give up the crutches and start learning to walk, mostly by learning to fall.   Oull out the board and hit the highlights instead of being frustrated at what I can’t have or do.  Listen to Sabine’s Letter.  These are words, though, this is not a video montage of me aging and smiling and drinking wine and kissing some man who seems to have a fondness for me.  This is not proof.  Just an inkling.  1500+ pages of inklings.

Still, I have Saturday night and all of Sunday for recuperation, fantasy, and escape.

 

 

 

Time for Rest

Oh, shit, now I have the hiccups.

That’s not a great omen.

But we’re holding our breath, forgoing the sugar, thinking we’re clever, and getting ready to post this thing.

Today was not a day I was able to effuse much love into the universe.  I certainly didn’t come across any options, even unavailable options, to effuse at.  Here is yet another piece of the puzzle.  Spend 14 hours a day with married people three times your age.  Not a great recipe for romantic success, or even romantic hi-jinx leading to failure.

I am now so tired I’m lapsing into college french on Facebook and unable to even respond to the realities of my friends on Twitter,  and am doing everything I can to avoid clicking one more link of Girl Code on youtube and instead, get this post written and set amongst the stars yet again.

Oh, mon dieu!

I think tonight it might be a good time, and I think in tandem with Calling in the One’s question about patterns in relationships, to talk about being the Word Girl.

This is also a promise, I think, that I’ve made to myself that no longer serves me, but it began as a pattern.  I have been, time after time, a Lady Cyrano de Bergerac.  I have been the scribe for other people to woo other people, some of those people whom I have felt for, as deeply as a Word Girl might know how to feel.  And it is a rancid, terrible feeling to be called on time after time as a conduit for others’ emotions, to bear out

I remember, perhaps oddly, a Christmas party for our French club to held at the beautiful home of the boy who once said something nice to me (about my writing, a story he glanced at over my shoulder) and who in such a tiny gesture won the fluttering palpitations of my teenage heart for eons.  I remember I drove there myself, a road I now drive past every day, and it had made my heart frantic.  I remember I had a copy of Return of the King and I was reading the Appendices because I arrived too early to dare ring the doorbell.   Much of the night is a faded blur, but I remember this gaggle of boys from French Club in which he figured prominently, sitting together and peering at a piece of paper.

They were trying to think of or remember a word.

“Lustrata, Lustrata, come here.  You’re a writer.  You tell us the answer.”

It was as if I was being conjured, it was almost irregardless of my will that I knew what they meant and gave them the word they sought.

They seemed so pleased and it gave my heart a little thrill that I had served this boy who mattered to me, that surely he would see…that I…my vocabulary had to be alluring, he had to…

Then they revealed that he was attempting, with the help of his fellow bourgeois square friends, to craft a note to request a girl go with him to a dance.  Or prom.  This I don’t remember, though I recall the girl and the furious shade of green my skin turned and could turn even now upon hearing it again.  I felt, incredibly embarrassed that instead of saying how I admired and adored his warmth, his wit, his high school-kid looking face, I helped in some small way make it possible for all of that to belong to someone who was in my classes, somehow worthy whereas I was not.

A tiny crack across the surface of my heart.  But, now I see how in my response I strangled all hope of altering the position I was in.  I’d felt so used, but couldn’t possibly envision saying the words that would express my own heart.

This was just one incident of many, perhaps more will come tomorrow, I just know how it felt.  And how it felt sucked the life out of my heart as a vampire siphons blood.

Elocutionary Babydom

Quick, quick, flee to the safety of the blog before you do something stupid.  Like be hungry and eat.

This is an observable fact: when the going gets tough, the tough still get hormonal and crabby and most of all hungry.

And I, for one, have never claimed any sort of toughness at all.

But I have yet to do anything terrible to myself to rectify the feelings.  As if it ever did or does or could do.  We are instead, awaiting, a zucchini cake with a minimal level of carbs which I will put the cheddar cheese on.  I have drunk an extra shake.  I have not fallen, but of course, I feel stressed enough where I feel as if I am not confessional, I will stop thinking and just start running on the bad tracks to Apathyville.  And I don’t like the view there.

Please accept this whine:
I have been trying so hard lately.   I’ve been trying to take advantage of the opportunities given to me, to not be a layabout at work, to handle my responsibilities while my boss was away, to draw boundaries.  And today sucked.  Today, everyone wanted me to redo my work so that they could understand it when a 2 year-old could understand it and they just didn’t want to bother and I felt myself sliding down into the muck and the papers were piling up and everyone just treated this as fine.  Normal.  I had seen the light and someone flicked the switch off and shut the door on me.  I felt like all that Saturday work didn’t count, I felt like FUCK this SHIT!

But, I have an idea that the therapist would say, okay.  So this was a bad day. We can wipe the slate clean and try again tomorrow.   We don’t have to have perfection.

And then someone posted a video about gratitude that sort of turned this sourness in my heart all around and put me in touch with that person whom I have missed getting to talk to.

And when a person in that vast field of space between acquaintance and friendship asked if I wanted to go to the Renaissance Faire this weekend, I didn’t think twice before messaging, count me in! Which is weird for me and possibly problematic, but social opportunities that I actually enjoy are rare.  It’s going to be fun, because I have no expectations for the Faire, I know what it is and she, and hopefully whomever else is rounded up to go, hasn’t been before and that’s what makes it exciting.

I just need to eat something tonight as described and get to the store tomorrow to get, a.) food (going to try and get a menu going for the next few days since they’re apt to be thrown all out of whack without a plan), whatever I need to freshen up ye olde RenFaire Dress.   A Hobby Lobby trek is probably in order.

It is possible to heal the abrasions of the day by use of words.

And a little application of bravery.

….

I believe that I can and will find love because:

Somebody could use my heart as much as I could use theirs.

The Victory Garden

We’ll see how Commander Shepard makes out in a minute.  I’ve played through to the end of the Extended Cut, avoided spoilers all day (with the help of the imperfect Tumblr Savior) and now, we see how that all goes.   In the meantime, Big Easy Express is downloading on ITunes and I feel incredibly connected to the great Tubes in the sky.   Everything at one’s fingertips.

I remember fifteen years ago when there were commercials for broadband.  It seemed so unbelievable at the time, that you could have this endless library of everything that you’d just click and type in its name and within moments, it’d be playing right in front of you.   And yet, here we are, in the state of ETEWAF as Mr. Patton Oswalt said.  Everything There Ever Was Available Forever.

Okay.  Not so easy, apparently, as the download didn’t take.  So I got to experience all the irritation and what the fuckery about that ending without any changes.  I had best have a save game is all I can say now that I’ve restarted the old box.   Sigh.  Re-downloading the beast seems to be the only solution and trying to find that answer runs you through the usual gauntlet of internet opinions that lunge out at your eyeballs and demand that you either raise or lower your expectations of whatever you’re trying to see.  Really, it would be nice to come across something without it being pre-mediated for you, pre-critically reviewed.  I suppose that’s why we hang onto books.  It’s fairly easy to ignore the advertising blurbs on the back and just dive in and make decisions.  In this modern era, you see most movies or albums ages before you could ever legally get them into your hands and the images come with language that tells you your feelings about it.  And you have to become this asshole, this hold-out, if you don’t want to go with consensus on the matter and hate or love what the mother bird is puking up for you.

Not that I mean to bemoan anything.    How could I bemoan ETEWAF when my life has constantly been moving in that direction since the day I was born?  This is Mike Teevee’s world – we just live in it.  No outsized purse to snap around us and haul us away from the future we’ve been promised.

There’s been rain today, and with that rain came lightning strikes that set more and more of my state ablaze.   Both in Fort Collins and Colorado Springs.   The rain helped cool us here, helped with some of the incredibly uncomfortable heat, but I don’t know if it got to the places that actually needed it – the sites of the fires.

In other news of the world, I ate my frozen lunch, and ate my leftovers and am in the process of drinking some water.  Small flecks of sanity.  I’ll finish up here and watch Big Easy Express while  the sluggish download proceeds and give my praises for what I have and indeed, what I have not.

 

Hair in the Drain

So I think I may be getting sick.

I am definitely out of whack.

So much so that I feel I must do something about it.  Like not gorge any more.  Like not eat everyday like it’s my damned last dying day.   Like calm down on every level I have access to right now.  Drink water and be quiet inside.

I do not want to post today.  At all.  I want to just slip into a trance and wake up on the other side of this.  No such doing and I don’t want to break the amazing streak, and I won’t, but damn, I feel drained and gross and self-loathing and dark and depressive and

My co-worker asked me if I was sick yesterday and I didn’t quite hear her and so, as I do in those cases, I stupidly automatically played along as if I said yes.  I realized later what she actually said and wondered why I responded like that as I felt perfectly fine and now, lo and behold, post-nasal drip, my body’s running hot as if my whole epidermal layer is trying to work out a complicated math equation.  It’s not built for the work and it’s not sure why it’s trying, but it’s running every last cell as hard as it can to get the job done.

I went to the market this morning.  Mr. Dr. Darcy was a pretty giant goose egg, leaving very shortly after I arrived and not before flexing his muscles in my general vicinity (not, I must be perfectly clear, at me or for my benefit.  I don’t think so anyway, I suppose I don’t know him well enough to gauge why he does what he does.)  My cute headband french braid and plum shirt of overwhelming and almost shameless cleavage had no effect on him.  I don’t want to be despondent, but it’s apparent to anyone that it obviously affects me.  Deeply, even if it’s against my will to hope impossibly and when things don’t work out as they never could have, to rail against the unfairness of the universe.

So I sat around, smiling at the grandbabies and grandpuppies that surrounded me, feeling like some seminary novitiate.  Somehow on some other track where I can be the same age as these girls, but no one expects any children to come spilling out of me.  No one expects me to emotionally respond.  It is as if I have already been spoken for by some other purpose that everyone else sees plainly except for me.

It is past frustration.  It is, perhaps, past all possibility of ever being permanently resolved.

I am overheated and down on myself and bloated and all kinds of really unfortunate adjectives that I will spare you here.

The resolution I can find tonight is only a bath and a prayer for morning resurrection.  This morning resurrection, another unlikely and overhoped-for event, will involve Hoarders, water, one master list, a confessional post here, aspirin, my book, and not leaving the house for any purpose but to escape the fire of my own productivity.

 

The Dead of Summer

Can we blame it all on the sun?

The heat?

The tilting axis?  Atlas shrugging?

Not that I’ve failed.  No.  I just haven’t succeeded perfectly today which is a shame because it would have been an absolutely perfect day to be perfect.  And instead, I had a good start, an expensive car repair, a wavering in the heat like the steam that seems to come off a dry road in the dead of summer, and am now considering whether or not a walk will kill me.

I slept on the balcony last night, with blankets over the fencing like I was making my own private gypsy caravan.  It was, despite being awkward with lumpy and thin pillows and a dying ipod that couldn’t play my sweet dreamsy music, pretty wonderful.  Sleeping outside in the open air always does me good even if a cat woke me up who shouldn’t have been on the balcony and even if I was told to remove my blankets forthwith in case someone should pass by and see they broke the HOA code.   You dream better outdoors, I don’t care what anyone says.

So I did wake up in case you weren’t sure how that turned out and once I was awake, we did a number of important cleaning things and emptied out a linen closet of some old and easily forgotten sheets including some polka dotted, early eighties jungle print cotton linens that probably do awaken some memories in me if I concentrate.  At this moment, though, they’re just old sheets and in a fell swoop, they were donated off to Goodwill where I hope they make an excellent birdcage lining or cover or whatever happened to the last set of sheets we donated.  Somehow these very ugly sheets missed that firing line.  I guess it’s true that you never really know when your number is up.

So, sheets off.  Damn, this reminds me, I washed my bedding and am going to have to go some effort in this very hot, sweaty house to put them back together.  A test of will.  We’ll consider it as such and conquer it.   Unfortunately, I’m concerned about sleeping outside if there’s a thunderstorm tonight.  Seems possible.  It’s not that I’m afraid.  I just don’t want to wake up at 8:00 tomorrow morning and be late for work after indulging in all that chilly, electric air.  Also, I’d have to do up the bed again (and so it’s really a matter of fire or frying pan at this point.)

Got the brakes fixed.  More expensive than I’d liked but now that worry’s gone.   I thought it was needed so, it’s repaired and I don’t have to spend another drive distracted by that.  Not when I have stories and banjo players who can speak French to distract me.  Mon dieu.

Alright, task at hand.  I have begun to eat a little better today.  I am, critically, not crying over spilt banana chocolate milkshake.  I am oversalted and under-vegetated, but I am bravely sailing out and away from myself