I’m reaching for it even when I think I’m not. It’s not a singular one time event, like once I have reached it, that’s it, that’s all. And sometimes it’s already washing over me and only then do I realize i’ve gotten it, unbidden. I still get to wonder over it, and sometimes it makes me cry with the realization and the joy of it; the clear indication of something real surrounding, enfolding, infusing me with light and life.
I admit it. I don’t know what I am doing a lot of the time. It’s not that I don’t know things and stuff but rather that I don’t know how to put what I know into a useful and accessible format for consumption.
I have this blog on which I write things that cross my mind and I don’t know what to do with it. I want to do a number of things but when it comes to sitting down and doing the things, I can’t seem to grip on what the “things” are that I want to do. As a result, I end up doing nothing which is a self-perpetuating circle of nothing ness.
How do I make the leap from thinking about doing a thing to actually doing a thing?
That is all.
There are nights I cannot or will not sleep. I stay up; my mind a monster obsessively running like a mouse on a wheel. I want to get off, but I drink Coke instead and let the monster have it’s way.
The aftermath is not always predictable. Sometimes, I’ve gotten one step closer to understanding what ever it is that has been circulating in my head; usually a problem I want to solve or a thing I can’t understand but desperately need to in order to move on to the next step or the next thing or simply to lay an idea to rest.
And sometimes, like today, I end up looking like passing over into sleep is imminent. I crave a nap like I crave chocolate after a long time away from the treat. It becomes the one thing on my mind, the mouse wheel I climb on – nap nap nap nap nap. Around and around.
That is all.
This is not a new thing for me. I destroyed my first diary out of fear of discovery of several crushes I had going at the time. It was a little red, drug store diary with a tiny gold key. I filled the pages up with miscellaneous life of a 12 year old; I would give $10 to have it back today so I could revisit that 12 year old. (I’m currently fascinated with this personal story of mine).
In (what I hope) is the beginning of the middle of my life, I find I’ve forgotten so much of my younger self that doesn’t relate to fear, abandonment, or longing. I know there was more to my childhood than that. I don’t think I could have survived if there wasn’t more. I imagine these crushes, at least in the beginning, might have been something wonderful.
The subject arises as a result of stream of consciousness ruminations which began with my current crush. A very unlikely point of fixation that I won’t describe, but I’m smiling just thinking about the possibilities, impossible though they are.
The dictionary definition of “Crush is an interesting read. It is filled with pain and violence:
1.To press between opposing bodies so as to break or injure.
2. To break, pound, or grind (stone or ore, for example) into small fragments or powder.
3. To put down; subdue: crushed the rebellion.
4. To overwhelm or oppress severely: spirits that had been crushed by rejection and failure.
5. To crumple or rumple: crushed the freshly ironed shirt.
6. To hug, especially with great force.
7. To press upon, shove, or crowd.
8. To extract or obtain by pressing or squeezing
Then buried near the bottom is the informal meaning:
1. A usually temporary infatuation.
When I first read that I thought, wow I wonder how that word came to mean those two very different things. Then I remembered again, that little red diary and that as those crushes went on without reciprocation or acknowledgment, how I was crushed. I wasn’t popular, I wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t thin and I wasn’t very girlie which I thought others felt to be a more desirable way to be.
And yet here I am again, crushing. Still not particularly popular, charming but not pretty, definitely not thin, and only occasionally do I have moments which could be called anything close to girlie. What I have gained in the 31 years since 12 is experience, success, failures and wisdom. So I’m enjoying this crush and won’t be crushed when it passes.
That is all.
So far, I’m talking to myself. I’m okay with that. I’m trying to get used to the idea that I might write something that someone will read and have an opinion about. Right now I only feel comfortable with my own opinion of what I have written; subject, content, style, grammar. Plus the most interesting things in my life I’m not sure I should write about, which begs the question why write at all here?
I don’t know.
If I knew how to play guitar, write songs, and sing, that would be the name of my first Album.
I don’t know why I am so caught up in ‘Fat’ lately but i can’t seem to get it off my mind as a word or as a state of my body.
I woke up this morning, thinking that it would be nice to have a girlfriend.
Unusual only in that for the last 2 and 1/2 years I have been singing the refrain: no girlfriend, no partner, no wife. And up until the beginning of this year, I wouldn’t even consider a date. Only sex. Sex only. Because it was sex only (notice I didn’t say ‘just sex’) I could give myself a little leeway about my choices.
And I think the moment I started thinking about narrowing down my choices, I gave myself room to consider girlfriend material. If I’m considering gf material, it follows that I would be thinking gf. As soon as I realized that though, I had the urge to back off of those thoughts.
I’m still too scared.
There are some people who like to think that they are nice. They have a million little pass phrases to cover up the million little jabs they make to help themselves feel better when they imagine that they have made you feel just a little bit of their pain. Unintentional, of course.
Self effacing and overly modest, you’re golden until they imagine that you have done them harm. With them, passive/aggressive is an art form practiced daily, hourly even.
nothing prompts me to put up a wall faster than this type of meanness.
I hate my house. Hate it. It is a giant daily reminder of THE biggest, most heart wrenching, sphincter twisting, soul stomping, mind blowing failure of my life.
Except that I really do like my house. It’s the right size for me although I’d love a deck and a bigger bathtub. The yard is way too big and totally out of my control; but I have no desire to control a yard anyway so it and I are going to have to come to a compromise soon. I’m hoping the compromise involves a deck, a fence and zero-scaping.
It’s close to my mom, close to the highway, on a bus line, inside the perimeter and close to my job. On the surface all the things I would want if I picked a house.
Which brings me back around to another reason that I hate my house. I didn’t pick it. Just lined up to pay for it. Got stuck in it because I couldn’t abandon the financial responsibility. Although in hindsight, had I been thinking about more than escape, I could have let it go into foreclosure. Except I can’t convince myself of that being an option. What did happen might have been profitable for someone but it wasn’t me and it wasn’t, isn’t, fair by a long stretch; which brings us back around to that failure thing and another reason to hate my house.
I keep doing the positive thinking, rewording, reorganizing history, hoping to make it feel okay. Except the only thing that makes it feel okay is to admit that sometimes I hate my house. I hate the failure that left me with the house. I hate the circumstances under which I am left feeling that I chose a person, not a house; and without the person, I’m left hating the house even though I’m happy the person is gone.
I am trying to get to know the house all over again; pretending that I just met it. Had I just met the house I probably wouldn’t have looked at it twice. It’s the Charlie Brown Christmas tree of houses.
It’s a good house though. Roof, walls and foundation are sound; gutters are a little wrecked but they do the job of keeping water out. There are enough rooms for me, an office and a guest room. It still needs to recover from the mistreatment done to it. What was a nice looking yard was bulldozed into it’s current state of ugliness; the inside was left half painted, carpet yanked up and not replaced, subfloor exposed and tramped upon, baseboards chewed, peed on and left dirty too long. Too many projects started and left in a half finished state.
Maybe the house hates me a little in return.
This is not a happy poem,
although the dog didn’t die,
the hip dysplasia,
a result of carelessness and
homeless dogs and
and just plain bad luck means
the vet bills could possibly bankrupt me
but I love the dog
and she has to stay until the pain drives her
to need release
i hate to think of it that way
but it’s reality.
with another bankroll
would make it work differently
but could not love her like me.