So, two days of not sculpting, or rather, not eviscerating and knocking some other parts out of the ballpark on this guy. It is not so much that I do not want to do it, I think that I do, but it has been a very long time since I made any noise here. I am kind of shocked by that realization. I guess that habits are called habits because we just do them without noticing that we are being habitual.
Oh, sure, I walk around and even run the microwave once in a while. I open the taps and let the water gush whilst I brush my teeth and wash my face. I do laundry once a week and sometimes use the dryer, as well. But, I know better than to play music without using headphones or have the television turned up too loud when I am watching a DVD on it, which is not often, except when I bring DVDs home from the library and there is never television programs played because I do not have any connections for that.
Gosh, I want to live where I could walk in the house and make noise if I wanted, not even always because what I was doing was noisy, but sometimes just to make some sounds, you know. I want a place where I can move the furniture if I like or regulate the heating and cooling once in a damn while. I want to be able to paint or sew or do something that is not absolutely silent when I want to and not have to wait until I am alone in the joint, because I would always be alone in my own place. I want to sit and listen to music and burn incense and just groove because I am feeling cool and groovy. I want a place where I can wash the dishes any old time I feel like it, or cook smelly stuff or burn a damn soufflé, like not on purpose or anything like that, but if it happened I would not have to worry about the crap that would follow.
Instead of starting to gut this guy (the mannequin), I have been out looking for another place to live, and I am fucking doomed. I cannot find any place within my budget. Not even close. I have given up hoping to find an apartment where I could keep my cats and am now searching for any location, just a damn room or something that will allow me enough money left over for food, bus fare and meds, but nothing extra,not even a telephone.
I came home today and thought that I could find a way to stay here and just manage with everything. If I stay here I do not have to pay rent or utilities. I get to keep my cats and my art studio. I get to keep my kiln and loom and all the rest. I get to use a car so that I can go to work and trek out to see my daughter and her family, and I get help with paying for the groceries. I get to cook what I like along with the other stuff that I do not like. Well, at least as long as I do not burn anything. The only cost to being here is to be compliant. Always. Without comment. And quiet, too. I have to be quiet. In this exact moment, with no other resources, that does not seem like such a big deal, no real sacrifice. I have done it for decades, so what is a few more years. Right?
I mean, women have been making this bargain for, gosh, for most of human history, I am guessing. You do what you have to do in order to have shelter and food and health care. Anything else, you just find a way to have it. You just do. I have a friend who knows something about what being here is like and she tells me to just find a place and get out. I like that idea, but the practicality of being a senior with mobility and visual disabilities and my inability to find another paying job pretty much means that to be on my own is to live in poverty.
I know, lots of people live just wonderful lives on the kind of money that I get from my SS. I know that. I know that if I were divorced that I would qualify for financial assistance, particularly with rent and food. Maybe even health care, but the social service people with whom I have talked are not all that certain. So, yeah, I could do it just like all of the other people with limited resources do it.
And, then I sit down here at my computer and check my e-mail and I remember that when I leave I will no longer have a computer, much less Internet access. And, then there are my cats and I do not think that I could bear to be without them in my life although I know that I could do it if I had to, but, dammit, I do not want to have to give them to my friend. I have been married for 44 years, 6 months, 1 day, and a bunch of hours, minutes and seconds. I thought it was longer than that. It feels longer.
You know, it is not that I think that I deserve anything special, but living without the access to some resources that I now enjoy is a prospect that I am feeling distressed to consider.
Then, last night I had a dream. I dreamed that I was still living in this house, but that I was separated by a clear, but kind of iridescent thing. Not like a bubble, but like a sheet of something that had a discernible appearance but did not have a impervious barrier aspect to it. Ummm, like a visible thing that did not have substance. Like a cataract. Which is really funny, like fall down on the floor with laughter funny. Never mind. I do not want to talk about that now.
So, anyway, still in the dream, I am in the house here, but I can see this thing that is between me and the rest of the stuff. And, it is nice. It feels calm, peaceful. Calm. It is like I know that there are no panic attacks on this side of the thing...is it a veil or something? As long as I stay on this side of the veil I will be fine. If I walk up to the veil I am still safe. If I reach though the veil and rattle the cage of the creature who lives on the other side, then I will not be fine.
So. I have to think about remembering to stay on my side and not rattle any cages or make any noise that would indicate my presence.
In my life I have learned how to do that. It is just that damn hundred days project, that stupid fucked-up idea to get my damn life a little more organized and reduce the book population. That is the thing, the really big thing that rattled the cages around here. I am so conflicted about whether or not I should have done that project. Day to day, moment to moment, I can see both sides of that. I am sorry, truly contrite about the cage rattling. That benefited absolutely no one. It is just that I learned so much from doing those days and days and that part of it I would never regret, not for a damn second. Not even a nano-second, although I do not really understand exactly what that is, only that it is really small, brief.
I want to un-stagnate myself. I like that part. I want to be a person who grows and learns and has tons of forward movement in her life. I lust for new experiences. Even the opportunity to find out how I make it on my own thrills me. I just am not certain how much I am willing to suffer to do that, how much I am willing to sacrifice to do what seems like the right thing for the right reasons. During those weeks when it was scary I was sure that I knew that I wanted out. We are back in the not so scary part again and I...what? What do I know? What do I want? I am not sure. Especially after the past two days of looking for the means to a new life.
I feel sick. So cowardly. I actually am sick, just a little. I have a small fever and my sinuses and throat and chest feel icky, pre-cold/flue/whatever. I am in no mood to do what I need to do to find a new life or clean or do laundry or cut parts out of that poor mannequin. I have a cozy bed into which I can crawl in a few minutes. I have some syrupy over-the-counter stuff that will help me sleep and breathe easier. I have a car to take me to the pharmacy tomorrow if I need something stronger.
What I lack is the heart to just leave and let the rest take care of itself. If that makes me a coward or someone who is unwilling to make sacrifices, then, so be it.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Dremel Tool...where art thou?
I am the designated, named and appointed slob here. Yet, when I have a particularly tasty bit of loot, it often disappears and becomes lost in the mess of someone else, the someone who names my messiness. There is so much more that I could share about that, have already shared and will share again in the future, but today I need my Dremel Tool and it is nowhere to be found. I know that it cannot be in any of the cleaned-out and divested places around the joint because, well, they are cleaned-out and divested of the things that I am capable of letting go at this moment.
So, the problem is finding that clever little tool so that I can use it to eviscerate a mannequin today. I have been looking forward to this for weeks, for many reasons. Without the means to remove parts of the torso so that I can build a tree inside and through and around the hapless pretend person, I am left to ponder what this divesting of his potential insides might mean. You know, it would be inconceivable that this project be manifesting without suffering intense examination of how the idea to gut this guy and build stuff inside of him came about.
I mean, just the idea of removing some of the outer surface of a pretend man and filling that empty space with the concepts and bits of pieces of something that would be a growing thing in the natural world and then illuminating those newly constructed insides is nearly buried under the weight of all of that symbolism. The mind staggers.
And, the mind will manifest what it is desperate to make known.
So, anyway, I have not exhibited for many years, gosh, at least six or seven. No shit. I stopped working in my studio or doing any kind of art because of a vision problem that made single-image, binocular vision impossible. It is a rare visual disorder (what an understatement that is...disorder) that fewer than 6,000 persons, worldwide, are estimated to have. Finding a doctor or other medical professional to listen to you without the old rolling of the eyes, much less a diagnosis is, perhaps, even more rare. But, I eventually did. And, eventually, I was privileged to be one of the people for whom this problem dramatically increased in symptoms and disability until driving, handling anything sharp or mechanical or even walking safely became a daily struggle to remain upright and without serious bodily injury. I found myself unable to confidently or safely do something as simple as carry a basket of laundry up the stairs, or remove a casserole from the oven or hold a baby. There were days when it was so distressing to be trapped in the disability that I had trouble holding a conversation, or a thought, or a hope.
It was terrible and fairly disgusting to be trapped in a body that could not function as I wanted, needed. After much experimentation and time, my doctors and I decided on an invasive and dramatic surgery that did solve most of the mobility and visual issues, but, in effect, only traded them for another disability. However, I am completely satisfied with the new physical stuff, because I could do absolutely nothing with the other kinds of disability except wait for the time when I was housebound and at the mercy of someone who would rather see me gone in one way or another. The new disability aspects are ones with which I can work, and it is time to pull up my bootstraps and get back to the studio.
Thus the sculpture. It has been a long time since I created anything of this size. I had forgotten that the planning and pondering are an essential part of the process, and as a result have been impatient and unkind to myself about what I have designated to be laziness about actually beginning the damn thing and being stuck in procrastination instead of forward movement.
Today seems to be the day that I begin the dirty work of this thing. In my mind's eye I can see the opening that I will be cutting into the mannequin's headless, armless and legless, from slightly-below-the-knees, form. He and his, so afflicted, friends were part of a large, performance piece sculpture from seven years ago and they were spray-painted white. His sojourn in the garage has chipped and abraded his surface, but I kind of like the rough and tumble look of a guy who cannot, were he real, be mobile, grasp a martini glass and take a slow and thoughtful sip. Too bad the theme of this exhibit is trees, because something to do with a social activity like martinis amongst fellow imbibers would be interesting. Perhaps that is a project for one of his buddies who are still piled in the corner of the garage.
I have the parts to build the tree in-and-outside of him. Hollow tubular pieces from an old Lang holiday card display, wires of all kinds and dimensions. Flotsam and jetsam of decades of living in and out of the real world, mostly out, I suspect. Otherwise, I would not find myself in such sad and lost personal straits.
I do not believe in randomness in the Universe. I believe in a kind and loving Universe where things may be temporarily difficult to the nth degree, but where those same things are there for a purpose, you know, like the clichéd and overused and overwrought 'learning opportunity'.
That said, I do not believe in fate. I am not a fatalist. I am of the belief that I chose all of the experiences of this fleshly life before I manifested, before I was born into this body, this time and space. I consciously chose my life, parents, child, friends, work, experiences and opportunities, and, yes, even spouse. I knew, before manifestation, that this life, as I have experienced it, is the alchemy that was essential for me to have this time around.
Around me, just beyond the edges of my awareness, my vision, lays the quantum soup. I live in it. It flows around me and moves me here and there and then over there. It supports me in ways, levels of wisdom of which I can only imagine, dream. Even when it is horrible and scary here, I know that I am not alone in some place where my struggle and pain exist in isolation, just for the sake of being worthless struggles and pointless pain.
There is meaning, real, down and dirty meaning in this life.
There is meaning in living in a circumstance where I loved, but did not choose well the person to whom I have devoted my life.
There is meaning in finding my life's works late in that life.
There is meaning in discovering, in exactly the right time, that being in and living in the moment may be distressing and frustrating to some of the people around me, but recognizing that and living it is essential to following my life's path with honor, self-respect and the manifestation of a life devoted to service.
There is meaning in the suffering of friends and family members who suffer, and accepting that being an observer of their pain, effort, how they do battle and how it all ends is a gift, a blessing to me in how I am able to be a part of it and benefit and learn from it and make it mine, not allowing any of it, not one, single, crystalline moment to pass without notice, consideration and respect.
There is meaning in relationships, however they present, in not being understood or respected just for who I am. That is certainly very sad, heartbreaking, but it is not wasted.
So. Taking a pretend man, removing parts of his outer shell and filling the empty space in his gut and chest with the symbols of life, is not a random or frivolous pursuit. When I was invited to be a part of this exhibit and was told the theme, my immediate thought was how interesting a tree built inside of a mannequin that I already had and for which I needed a purpose in order to justify keeping it around all these years would be. This opportunity was offered to me mid-way in my hundred days project and my first thoughts were that creating the sculpture would allow me to get rid of a ton of stuff that I have been saving for someun -remembered reasons. That it would be fun to drag out the power tools and adhesives, the soldering gun and saw, glue, paint, pound and craft my way into returning to the art that gave me so much pleasure and solace when I most needed it. And, I need it now. Again.
And, I am going to begin it today. Even knowing that it will bring criticism, disapproval and anger my way. Even knowing that, because it is time, and I deserve to have a little bit of happiness and fun around here, at least once in a while, you know?
This is coming a bit late in the process here this morning, but I am wondering what it means to consider the process of eviscerating something that is empty. The mind staggers.
Significant change comes with beginning the journey, with the first step, and first, I have to find that darn Dremel Tool. Rats. Double rats.
So, the problem is finding that clever little tool so that I can use it to eviscerate a mannequin today. I have been looking forward to this for weeks, for many reasons. Without the means to remove parts of the torso so that I can build a tree inside and through and around the hapless pretend person, I am left to ponder what this divesting of his potential insides might mean. You know, it would be inconceivable that this project be manifesting without suffering intense examination of how the idea to gut this guy and build stuff inside of him came about.
I mean, just the idea of removing some of the outer surface of a pretend man and filling that empty space with the concepts and bits of pieces of something that would be a growing thing in the natural world and then illuminating those newly constructed insides is nearly buried under the weight of all of that symbolism. The mind staggers.
And, the mind will manifest what it is desperate to make known.
So, anyway, I have not exhibited for many years, gosh, at least six or seven. No shit. I stopped working in my studio or doing any kind of art because of a vision problem that made single-image, binocular vision impossible. It is a rare visual disorder (what an understatement that is...disorder) that fewer than 6,000 persons, worldwide, are estimated to have. Finding a doctor or other medical professional to listen to you without the old rolling of the eyes, much less a diagnosis is, perhaps, even more rare. But, I eventually did. And, eventually, I was privileged to be one of the people for whom this problem dramatically increased in symptoms and disability until driving, handling anything sharp or mechanical or even walking safely became a daily struggle to remain upright and without serious bodily injury. I found myself unable to confidently or safely do something as simple as carry a basket of laundry up the stairs, or remove a casserole from the oven or hold a baby. There were days when it was so distressing to be trapped in the disability that I had trouble holding a conversation, or a thought, or a hope.
It was terrible and fairly disgusting to be trapped in a body that could not function as I wanted, needed. After much experimentation and time, my doctors and I decided on an invasive and dramatic surgery that did solve most of the mobility and visual issues, but, in effect, only traded them for another disability. However, I am completely satisfied with the new physical stuff, because I could do absolutely nothing with the other kinds of disability except wait for the time when I was housebound and at the mercy of someone who would rather see me gone in one way or another. The new disability aspects are ones with which I can work, and it is time to pull up my bootstraps and get back to the studio.
Thus the sculpture. It has been a long time since I created anything of this size. I had forgotten that the planning and pondering are an essential part of the process, and as a result have been impatient and unkind to myself about what I have designated to be laziness about actually beginning the damn thing and being stuck in procrastination instead of forward movement.
Today seems to be the day that I begin the dirty work of this thing. In my mind's eye I can see the opening that I will be cutting into the mannequin's headless, armless and legless, from slightly-below-the-knees, form. He and his, so afflicted, friends were part of a large, performance piece sculpture from seven years ago and they were spray-painted white. His sojourn in the garage has chipped and abraded his surface, but I kind of like the rough and tumble look of a guy who cannot, were he real, be mobile, grasp a martini glass and take a slow and thoughtful sip. Too bad the theme of this exhibit is trees, because something to do with a social activity like martinis amongst fellow imbibers would be interesting. Perhaps that is a project for one of his buddies who are still piled in the corner of the garage.
I have the parts to build the tree in-and-outside of him. Hollow tubular pieces from an old Lang holiday card display, wires of all kinds and dimensions. Flotsam and jetsam of decades of living in and out of the real world, mostly out, I suspect. Otherwise, I would not find myself in such sad and lost personal straits.
I do not believe in randomness in the Universe. I believe in a kind and loving Universe where things may be temporarily difficult to the nth degree, but where those same things are there for a purpose, you know, like the clichéd and overused and overwrought 'learning opportunity'.
That said, I do not believe in fate. I am not a fatalist. I am of the belief that I chose all of the experiences of this fleshly life before I manifested, before I was born into this body, this time and space. I consciously chose my life, parents, child, friends, work, experiences and opportunities, and, yes, even spouse. I knew, before manifestation, that this life, as I have experienced it, is the alchemy that was essential for me to have this time around.
Around me, just beyond the edges of my awareness, my vision, lays the quantum soup. I live in it. It flows around me and moves me here and there and then over there. It supports me in ways, levels of wisdom of which I can only imagine, dream. Even when it is horrible and scary here, I know that I am not alone in some place where my struggle and pain exist in isolation, just for the sake of being worthless struggles and pointless pain.
There is meaning, real, down and dirty meaning in this life.
There is meaning in living in a circumstance where I loved, but did not choose well the person to whom I have devoted my life.
There is meaning in finding my life's works late in that life.
There is meaning in discovering, in exactly the right time, that being in and living in the moment may be distressing and frustrating to some of the people around me, but recognizing that and living it is essential to following my life's path with honor, self-respect and the manifestation of a life devoted to service.
There is meaning in the suffering of friends and family members who suffer, and accepting that being an observer of their pain, effort, how they do battle and how it all ends is a gift, a blessing to me in how I am able to be a part of it and benefit and learn from it and make it mine, not allowing any of it, not one, single, crystalline moment to pass without notice, consideration and respect.
There is meaning in relationships, however they present, in not being understood or respected just for who I am. That is certainly very sad, heartbreaking, but it is not wasted.
So. Taking a pretend man, removing parts of his outer shell and filling the empty space in his gut and chest with the symbols of life, is not a random or frivolous pursuit. When I was invited to be a part of this exhibit and was told the theme, my immediate thought was how interesting a tree built inside of a mannequin that I already had and for which I needed a purpose in order to justify keeping it around all these years would be. This opportunity was offered to me mid-way in my hundred days project and my first thoughts were that creating the sculpture would allow me to get rid of a ton of stuff that I have been saving for someun -remembered reasons. That it would be fun to drag out the power tools and adhesives, the soldering gun and saw, glue, paint, pound and craft my way into returning to the art that gave me so much pleasure and solace when I most needed it. And, I need it now. Again.
And, I am going to begin it today. Even knowing that it will bring criticism, disapproval and anger my way. Even knowing that, because it is time, and I deserve to have a little bit of happiness and fun around here, at least once in a while, you know?
This is coming a bit late in the process here this morning, but I am wondering what it means to consider the process of eviscerating something that is empty. The mind staggers.
Significant change comes with beginning the journey, with the first step, and first, I have to find that darn Dremel Tool. Rats. Double rats.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Divesting
So, anyway, now that the hundred days is over, I can take a breath and actually breathe.
I have to get going on the sculpture that is due in a month, and I think that will be started on Thursday. There is going to be noise and mess and I will be in trouble, but will worry my fuzzy, little head about that later.
I have been going through books and a whole bunch of health-related tomes are on their way out. One book that I am keeping is a 1975 printing of The Formula Manual. It is a crazy book about using chemicals and other stuff to make your own stuff. Some of it sounds easy to make and useful, to boot. Other 'recipes' sound just crazy.
A teeny sampling from the index is...
General Home
Disinfectant for shoes
Drain cleaner
Luminarias
Filter cleaning compound
Cement waterproofing
Lubricating stick (...huh?)
Kitchen
Air purifier, wick type
Baking powder
Egg preservative
Mustard
Preserving olives (uses lye, for chrissakes)
Celery vinegar
Home workshop
Laboratory hand lotion
Lighter fluid
Rust remover
Sculpture modeling wax
And, chapters on making your own pet care treatments, pest control, personal care products, cleaning and laundry supplies, and more. The stuff in there is far, far out.
Poultry Laying Mash
Ground corn
Ground barley
Ground wheat
Ground oats
Meat scraps
Dried milk solids
Alfalfa meal
Bone meal
Salt
Chocolate biscuit coating
Margarine
Cocoa powder
Dry skim milk
Powdered sugar
Salt
Vanilla extract
Antichap stick for lips
Beeswax
Castor oil
Sesame oil
Anhydrous lanolin
It is so interesting that I am going to make every effort to put it back on the shelf until I have more time to spend doing nothing but reading the darn thing.
I swear, I never know what I am going to find in a bookcase around here.
I have to get going on the sculpture that is due in a month, and I think that will be started on Thursday. There is going to be noise and mess and I will be in trouble, but will worry my fuzzy, little head about that later.
I have been going through books and a whole bunch of health-related tomes are on their way out. One book that I am keeping is a 1975 printing of The Formula Manual. It is a crazy book about using chemicals and other stuff to make your own stuff. Some of it sounds easy to make and useful, to boot. Other 'recipes' sound just crazy.
A teeny sampling from the index is...
General Home
Disinfectant for shoes
Drain cleaner
Luminarias
Filter cleaning compound
Cement waterproofing
Lubricating stick (...huh?)
Kitchen
Air purifier, wick type
Baking powder
Egg preservative
Mustard
Preserving olives (uses lye, for chrissakes)
Celery vinegar
Home workshop
Laboratory hand lotion
Lighter fluid
Rust remover
Sculpture modeling wax
And, chapters on making your own pet care treatments, pest control, personal care products, cleaning and laundry supplies, and more. The stuff in there is far, far out.
Poultry Laying Mash
Ground corn
Ground barley
Ground wheat
Ground oats
Meat scraps
Dried milk solids
Alfalfa meal
Bone meal
Salt
Chocolate biscuit coating
Margarine
Cocoa powder
Dry skim milk
Powdered sugar
Salt
Vanilla extract
Antichap stick for lips
Beeswax
Castor oil
Sesame oil
Anhydrous lanolin
It is so interesting that I am going to make every effort to put it back on the shelf until I have more time to spend doing nothing but reading the darn thing.
I swear, I never know what I am going to find in a bookcase around here.
The quality of friendship
I have a friend. She lives far, far away from me, but we stay in touch with messages back and forth via our computers. Over the past couple of months, or so, she has become increasingly distraught. Our conversations are full of her struggles and frustration with some health issues and she has always make joking comments about her feelings and her efforts to find some resolution, but sometime around the middle of the month she started joking about stabbing herself with a fork, which did not toss up any flags or anything because of that whole stab-me-with-a-fork joke-y thing that people say.
Then, within the span of a week, she, twice, said something about guns and bullets. Which she later modified with saying that it was just a joke. Both times, but the lag bothered me.
She mentioned and waffled about talking to someone, like a professional, and not just me. If she has been sharing any of this with anyone else, I do not know about it. Then, it began to sound a little scary and I asked her exactly what her feelings were and when she replied back, we began to discuss local resources for her. Just in case her feelings and situation continued to worsen.
And, they did, so together we found some resources for her.
Then, she recanted all of things she had shared. She is not saying what happened, or did not happen, but I have known her long enough to make an educated guess. And, that is one of the things that friends do for one another. They listen. Then they listen some more and if a time comes when they are asked for help, they help. Then when whatever crisis or circumstance there was changes or is no longer there, they just let it go.
But, what a friend cannot do is to stop worrying. Or caring, or being ready for the next thing. I can do it for her because some of my other friends do it for me. Either side of that equation is exhausting, that is for certain. Whilst I have worries enough of my own, I still worry about her.
So, then I have this thing of my own. I have this close and personal relationship that is not so close any more, but it continues to drag its sorry ass around as though there was some kind of a future in there someplace. At least on my end, and how fucking pathetic is that. Anyway, it has been quiet here for some weeks now and I thought that we were re-entering a calm period. And, let me just say that if this relationship does end, my hope is that we will find a way to be friends for our own sakes, but also for the sake of other family members who should not be put in the middle of dysfunction that is not of their own making.
Early this morning the doorbell rang, and dutiful, little relationship-member that I am, I answered to find a strange man waiting on the porch. He had a big smile and said that he knew that he was a little early, but that he was sure that A would not mind. So, A comes barreling down the stairs, demanding to know who is at the door and I told A that I did not know. He metaphorically shoulders me out of the way and says to the stranger something about being ready in a minute, barrels back upstairs and down again and out the door. Slam. Vroom-vroom.
Six hours later A returns home with a huge bandage on his eye, and I know exactly what has happened. On four...count 'em...four fucking other occasions, this exact same, well, not really exact, but really, really similar thing happened, and all four of them were times when A had some health thing. Two were day surgeries and two required hospitalization.
Never a word to me beforehand. Not a single word to me when he came home today. The details of what he needed having done are not important, but I learned about the the two that involved staying in the hospital because both times I received a telephone call from his doctor(s) telling me what a sorry piece of crap I was for not being there when he needed me. Oh, sure, they said it much nicer than that, but it was the essence of the conversations. One of the times involved another scolding for being a bad, bad partner when I arrived at said hospital. I found out about the two day surgeries from one of his sisters, who called to find out how he was doing.
I am hurt all over again today, because, whilst I am not surprised, what kind of a person does this sort of thing? It is not like he feels as though he has to be the strong and silent type of guy, because if he was he would not be having me do all manner of health-related things for him at other times. When he had his knees replaced last year I spent every day at the hospital with him, even during the several weeks of rehabilitation. I created a bedroom for him on the ground floor, and did whatever he needed. I do not get it. I know that he is upset with me for one thing or another all the time, but this is different.
Is it about humiliating me? Is it about keeping his personal life a secret from me? That might be part of it because I have never known anything about who his friends are or where he goes or how long he will be gone. Or anything; but, you know, you get accustomed to that over the years and if he needs to keep all of that to himself, then that is just the way things are. For years I had a pager or cell phone so that he could find me whenever he wanted and that was fine. Now I have a desk-blotter calendar on which I write wherever I am going to be each day. That is fine, too.
But, you leave for the day, or you just leave the house and drive yourself to the hospital to have surgery and you do not tell your partner about it?
Today was like something new, even though it is the same old same old. Maybe it is related to all the things happening lately. Something has changed in the way I am accepting this today. What is wrong with me for that not to have been an issue for me?
These two things are related, I swear that they are. Solicitations for help are made and I respond. Then something changes and I find myself on the outside of the relationship, shut out and wondering what I did wrong. You know, the common denominator here is me. There must be something about me that is creating these situations. I know a gazillion people and am related to many of them, but these two people are the only ones with whom I have this insane kind of issue.
I admit to being a pacifist and I am always really and truly happy to help the people that are important to me, but I am not certain that I am comfortable being a doormat.
I am taking a few leaps ahead here, but the person who first said that thing about how money cannot buy you happiness and all the people who have agreed with that are wrong. Money can buy the peace of mind upon which happiness is formed. That is practically the same thing, so, dear kind and loving Universe, I am letting you know that I would not be averse to being gifted with a whole shitload of money so that I can fix a few things around here, and I am not shamed by how self-centered I am feeling. Just saying.
And, dear Universe, thanks for a safe place to be self-centered once in a while.
Then, within the span of a week, she, twice, said something about guns and bullets. Which she later modified with saying that it was just a joke. Both times, but the lag bothered me.
She mentioned and waffled about talking to someone, like a professional, and not just me. If she has been sharing any of this with anyone else, I do not know about it. Then, it began to sound a little scary and I asked her exactly what her feelings were and when she replied back, we began to discuss local resources for her. Just in case her feelings and situation continued to worsen.
And, they did, so together we found some resources for her.
Then, she recanted all of things she had shared. She is not saying what happened, or did not happen, but I have known her long enough to make an educated guess. And, that is one of the things that friends do for one another. They listen. Then they listen some more and if a time comes when they are asked for help, they help. Then when whatever crisis or circumstance there was changes or is no longer there, they just let it go.
But, what a friend cannot do is to stop worrying. Or caring, or being ready for the next thing. I can do it for her because some of my other friends do it for me. Either side of that equation is exhausting, that is for certain. Whilst I have worries enough of my own, I still worry about her.
So, then I have this thing of my own. I have this close and personal relationship that is not so close any more, but it continues to drag its sorry ass around as though there was some kind of a future in there someplace. At least on my end, and how fucking pathetic is that. Anyway, it has been quiet here for some weeks now and I thought that we were re-entering a calm period. And, let me just say that if this relationship does end, my hope is that we will find a way to be friends for our own sakes, but also for the sake of other family members who should not be put in the middle of dysfunction that is not of their own making.
Early this morning the doorbell rang, and dutiful, little relationship-member that I am, I answered to find a strange man waiting on the porch. He had a big smile and said that he knew that he was a little early, but that he was sure that A would not mind. So, A comes barreling down the stairs, demanding to know who is at the door and I told A that I did not know. He metaphorically shoulders me out of the way and says to the stranger something about being ready in a minute, barrels back upstairs and down again and out the door. Slam. Vroom-vroom.
Six hours later A returns home with a huge bandage on his eye, and I know exactly what has happened. On four...count 'em...four fucking other occasions, this exact same, well, not really exact, but really, really similar thing happened, and all four of them were times when A had some health thing. Two were day surgeries and two required hospitalization.
Never a word to me beforehand. Not a single word to me when he came home today. The details of what he needed having done are not important, but I learned about the the two that involved staying in the hospital because both times I received a telephone call from his doctor(s) telling me what a sorry piece of crap I was for not being there when he needed me. Oh, sure, they said it much nicer than that, but it was the essence of the conversations. One of the times involved another scolding for being a bad, bad partner when I arrived at said hospital. I found out about the two day surgeries from one of his sisters, who called to find out how he was doing.
I am hurt all over again today, because, whilst I am not surprised, what kind of a person does this sort of thing? It is not like he feels as though he has to be the strong and silent type of guy, because if he was he would not be having me do all manner of health-related things for him at other times. When he had his knees replaced last year I spent every day at the hospital with him, even during the several weeks of rehabilitation. I created a bedroom for him on the ground floor, and did whatever he needed. I do not get it. I know that he is upset with me for one thing or another all the time, but this is different.
Is it about humiliating me? Is it about keeping his personal life a secret from me? That might be part of it because I have never known anything about who his friends are or where he goes or how long he will be gone. Or anything; but, you know, you get accustomed to that over the years and if he needs to keep all of that to himself, then that is just the way things are. For years I had a pager or cell phone so that he could find me whenever he wanted and that was fine. Now I have a desk-blotter calendar on which I write wherever I am going to be each day. That is fine, too.
But, you leave for the day, or you just leave the house and drive yourself to the hospital to have surgery and you do not tell your partner about it?
Today was like something new, even though it is the same old same old. Maybe it is related to all the things happening lately. Something has changed in the way I am accepting this today. What is wrong with me for that not to have been an issue for me?
These two things are related, I swear that they are. Solicitations for help are made and I respond. Then something changes and I find myself on the outside of the relationship, shut out and wondering what I did wrong. You know, the common denominator here is me. There must be something about me that is creating these situations. I know a gazillion people and am related to many of them, but these two people are the only ones with whom I have this insane kind of issue.
I admit to being a pacifist and I am always really and truly happy to help the people that are important to me, but I am not certain that I am comfortable being a doormat.
I am taking a few leaps ahead here, but the person who first said that thing about how money cannot buy you happiness and all the people who have agreed with that are wrong. Money can buy the peace of mind upon which happiness is formed. That is practically the same thing, so, dear kind and loving Universe, I am letting you know that I would not be averse to being gifted with a whole shitload of money so that I can fix a few things around here, and I am not shamed by how self-centered I am feeling. Just saying.
And, dear Universe, thanks for a safe place to be self-centered once in a while.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Saying Goodbye
Everyone eventually dies, so we know of that kind of loss in our lives from an early age. Now that I am in my sixties, that experience seems to be accelerating at an alarming rate. It certainly reminds me of my own mortality, just as it does for most people. It is heightened by the recent threat aspects of what is happening here. You know how most people say that they would not like to live forever. That even if they could be assured of good health and appetites, not to mention being able to stay mobile in the context of how their bodies work and as concerns financial matters, nearly every person with whom I have had this conversation (yes, people do talk about this when they get to be old codgers like me) is absolutely positive that he/she does not want to live to be very old.
My definition of very old is well into my 100s. Maybe beyond that. At least, in this moment, I think that I mean that I would not mind being around in this flesh for triple the time that I have already been mucking about in this body.
Perhaps it is because I have always been a late-starter. I did not appreciate learning until I was an adult. I was nearly thirty years of age when I gave birth to my daughter. I merely dabbled, without much focus by the way, in my life's work until she went to college and then dropped out and I found that I had a whole bunch of money saved for her second year that she was not going to use. I knew that if someone became aware of her changed plans and the shitload of cash that I had, that it would be taken away from me in one way or another. So, I spent it on art materials. An insanely huge amount of art materials, but that is for another story. The point is that I have come johnny-come-lately to everything that I most treasure in my life.
That means that there is a universe of things that I have never experienced and I need to live a long and useful time in order to dive into those things, wallow in them, gobble up their essence and make them mine. I do that now, the diving and digesting, but not so much the wallowing because there is not enough time. Not nearly enough time. I have books to read and places to go. I have art to make and give away or sell or keep until it needs to get the hell out of here to make room for something else. I have work to do and circumstances to create and societies to bring into fruition. I have grandchildren to watch grow and great- and great-great- grandchildren to have sit beside me and share whatever interests us.
Before I die.
And, that is going to happen, sooner than I want, even if it is twenty or thirty years from now, which according to my doctor is a possibility, living for another thirty years. But, I already know that it will be with diminished capabilities and, more importantly, diminished capacities. Like mobility and cognition and the ability to adequately express myself and my needs and desires. I know that with absolute certainty because I experienced that during the last year of a friend's life.
She died last week and her passing was noted and honored on Friday.
M was 92 years of age, and until this past year, she was able to get around reasonably well. We were still able to take her to concerts and out to eat. She still enjoyed books, newspapers and film, but most especially television. She was able to stay in her family home until the past several years and then had an apartment in a senior living facility. There she allowed others to do her heavy cleaning, but maintained her apartment very well. She was active in that rarefied community in which she lived, creating notices for activities and posting them and sharing the information with everyone she encountered. She took classes and painted the most wonderful artworks. She was fully invested in every possible aspect of life, and that was not a new experience for her because she had a full and lovely life.
M was part of a wonderful marriage, which is the aspect of her life that holds the most energy for me. She and her husband did many things together. They were respectful of their individual interests, but the time that they spent doing things together was just so nice. It is inspiring, the way she talked about her husband and their life together. I did not meet her until a few years before he died, and, in the way of women of our age, we spent the majority of our time on us, not on him. You know? But, there is something about the way that married people behave with each other that clearly exhibits what their relationship is about. Yeah.
The eulogy at M's funeral mass was amazing. The priest had known her for decades and was able to share his experiences of her with the rest of us and, my god, they matched and complimented ours with such stunning similarity. What you saw in M was exactly who and what she was, and she was just as wonderful a friend to me as she was to every person that entered her sphere of influence. M's daughter (who was my friend and how I came to know M), one of her granddaughters and a great-granddaughter shared their memories of M. It was all as perfect as only such things can be, and we all laughed and smiled and cried as we heard the reflection of our relationship with M manifested in the words those women spoke.
The mass was meaningful as only those rituals can be. I used to be Catholic, but that is for another story, as well. However, the time not being Catholic has done nothing to diminish my love of the rituals that were precious to me and in which I participated with such devotion and love. It was nice to sit amongst other people who loved M, many of them more intimately and for longer times than I. My Saturday morning coffee friends have joked about our coming-later years with a delicious alchemy of humor, anticipation and abject horror, with horror being the least of those, but still there, nevertheless. Sitting there, watching M's closest friends, observing their cute little bodies, their hairstyles designed to minimize the inevitable thinning of their tresses, their adorable-yet-functional-and-comfortable clothing.
Oh, my. I want to be them. I want to be their version of a woman in her 90s. I want their devotion to one another and to the husbands that still remain. I want their interests, their style, their attitudes, their conversations, their viewpoints and to appreciate what living that long has done to form their view of the world, and most of all I want their wisdom. Yeah, some people might say that not every old person is wise, but I believe that they are wrong. Dead wrong. I want every fucking scrap of what they have.
I want, when it is time for me to leave this flesh and move to my next place, that I am able to say goodbye in the manner in which M was able to do. I would love that the people I leave behind in this world are able to have memories like those I have of M and how she made a difference in my life. I would love if they would love and miss me the way that I am loving and missing M. And, I would hope that that does not happen for a very, very, very long time. I have a lot left to do and I do not want to miss a single moment.
Goodbye, M. I love you.
My definition of very old is well into my 100s. Maybe beyond that. At least, in this moment, I think that I mean that I would not mind being around in this flesh for triple the time that I have already been mucking about in this body.
Perhaps it is because I have always been a late-starter. I did not appreciate learning until I was an adult. I was nearly thirty years of age when I gave birth to my daughter. I merely dabbled, without much focus by the way, in my life's work until she went to college and then dropped out and I found that I had a whole bunch of money saved for her second year that she was not going to use. I knew that if someone became aware of her changed plans and the shitload of cash that I had, that it would be taken away from me in one way or another. So, I spent it on art materials. An insanely huge amount of art materials, but that is for another story. The point is that I have come johnny-come-lately to everything that I most treasure in my life.
That means that there is a universe of things that I have never experienced and I need to live a long and useful time in order to dive into those things, wallow in them, gobble up their essence and make them mine. I do that now, the diving and digesting, but not so much the wallowing because there is not enough time. Not nearly enough time. I have books to read and places to go. I have art to make and give away or sell or keep until it needs to get the hell out of here to make room for something else. I have work to do and circumstances to create and societies to bring into fruition. I have grandchildren to watch grow and great- and great-great- grandchildren to have sit beside me and share whatever interests us.
Before I die.
And, that is going to happen, sooner than I want, even if it is twenty or thirty years from now, which according to my doctor is a possibility, living for another thirty years. But, I already know that it will be with diminished capabilities and, more importantly, diminished capacities. Like mobility and cognition and the ability to adequately express myself and my needs and desires. I know that with absolute certainty because I experienced that during the last year of a friend's life.
She died last week and her passing was noted and honored on Friday.
M was 92 years of age, and until this past year, she was able to get around reasonably well. We were still able to take her to concerts and out to eat. She still enjoyed books, newspapers and film, but most especially television. She was able to stay in her family home until the past several years and then had an apartment in a senior living facility. There she allowed others to do her heavy cleaning, but maintained her apartment very well. She was active in that rarefied community in which she lived, creating notices for activities and posting them and sharing the information with everyone she encountered. She took classes and painted the most wonderful artworks. She was fully invested in every possible aspect of life, and that was not a new experience for her because she had a full and lovely life.
M was part of a wonderful marriage, which is the aspect of her life that holds the most energy for me. She and her husband did many things together. They were respectful of their individual interests, but the time that they spent doing things together was just so nice. It is inspiring, the way she talked about her husband and their life together. I did not meet her until a few years before he died, and, in the way of women of our age, we spent the majority of our time on us, not on him. You know? But, there is something about the way that married people behave with each other that clearly exhibits what their relationship is about. Yeah.
The eulogy at M's funeral mass was amazing. The priest had known her for decades and was able to share his experiences of her with the rest of us and, my god, they matched and complimented ours with such stunning similarity. What you saw in M was exactly who and what she was, and she was just as wonderful a friend to me as she was to every person that entered her sphere of influence. M's daughter (who was my friend and how I came to know M), one of her granddaughters and a great-granddaughter shared their memories of M. It was all as perfect as only such things can be, and we all laughed and smiled and cried as we heard the reflection of our relationship with M manifested in the words those women spoke.
The mass was meaningful as only those rituals can be. I used to be Catholic, but that is for another story, as well. However, the time not being Catholic has done nothing to diminish my love of the rituals that were precious to me and in which I participated with such devotion and love. It was nice to sit amongst other people who loved M, many of them more intimately and for longer times than I. My Saturday morning coffee friends have joked about our coming-later years with a delicious alchemy of humor, anticipation and abject horror, with horror being the least of those, but still there, nevertheless. Sitting there, watching M's closest friends, observing their cute little bodies, their hairstyles designed to minimize the inevitable thinning of their tresses, their adorable-yet-functional-and-comfortable clothing.
Oh, my. I want to be them. I want to be their version of a woman in her 90s. I want their devotion to one another and to the husbands that still remain. I want their interests, their style, their attitudes, their conversations, their viewpoints and to appreciate what living that long has done to form their view of the world, and most of all I want their wisdom. Yeah, some people might say that not every old person is wise, but I believe that they are wrong. Dead wrong. I want every fucking scrap of what they have.
I want, when it is time for me to leave this flesh and move to my next place, that I am able to say goodbye in the manner in which M was able to do. I would love that the people I leave behind in this world are able to have memories like those I have of M and how she made a difference in my life. I would love if they would love and miss me the way that I am loving and missing M. And, I would hope that that does not happen for a very, very, very long time. I have a lot left to do and I do not want to miss a single moment.
Goodbye, M. I love you.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Juds' Hundred Days Project
It took a while, but all of the writing that I did during those hundred damn days is now on two pages that can be found on the left-hand column here. I still have not read them, but when I am ready, they are just sitting there, waiting for me, in two easy pages.
I also noodled around with the settings for comments and think that problem is now solved. Thanks to L for letting me know that it was all wonky.
I also noodled around with the settings for comments and think that problem is now solved. Thanks to L for letting me know that it was all wonky.
Fillums
Yesterday I watch two fillums, as my friend Sue says. I just call them films, but am not nearly as fancy or fanciful as she is.
I love movies. Not as much as I love books, but they are a very close second place. If I started to think about those texts and reels that are important to me, well, not much else would get done.
So, anyway, 24 hours and three films.
District 9. An alien slum, government bad guys, a hapless stooge and disgusting food.
Julie and Julia. A woman without focus or direction, a quitter if you will, and lots of pretty food.
The Book of Eve. Crappy marriage, a quest for independence and nice food.
They are listed in the order of how good they are, with District 9 being the best, J&J only just decent enough and Eve, well, poor Eve is barely good enough, but they do have a common thread. I will give you a hint and share that it is not food, even though foody things dominate parts of each story.
What they all are, are love stories. Is that not the way of good stories? Yes. Yes, it is and that is what makes them eminently watchable.
So, anyway (have to stop writing that) those fillums got me to thinking about what has been happening the past few days.
I have a friend who needs help that I cannot give. She has been ill for a long time. Nothing life threatening or any such thing, but the kind of malaise that depletes the spirit; and since her spirit has never been strong, her suffering is all the more sad for it. Since she lost her job she has been living on her considerable resources, but even that will not last forever.
Today she needed help moving furniture in preparation for the first open house of the condo she wishes to sell. Old carpeting out, new carpeting in and chairs and sofas and table all over the place that need to be returned to order and prettiness for the potential buyers. It is unfortunate that I no longer move heavy objects, not even my own. Just plain sad all around, although it does nothing to diminish our affection for one another. Early in our relationship, whilst on a trip across the big pond, it fell to me to be the person who provided support. That responsibility was increased later on, upon the gradual discovery of her life-long issues. At some final moment it because too great a burden to carry and we broke up, not like lovers, but close friendships gone awry are sort of like that. I have chosen to be part of her life again and I am glad to still be her friend and all that, but in a short time it is as though nothing has changed and even though I do not like it and plan to avoid the falling that friendship invites, but, alas, I have become the hapless stooge. Again.
The past several months have made me aware that whilst I am moving in, generally, a general direction, I lack focus. I have been managing for such a long time to stay out of trouble that simple movement has been enough, has been, in truth, the best for which I could hope. There is a quality of being here that is no longer acceptable to me. Most of this makes no sense to anyone but me and it is not always the case that I can make sense of what happens. I loved, but not well, and when that person approaches now all I feel is fear and, gosh, that is such not a good thing. I get these pops of adrenaline, but not in the way that gets you excited and involved, engaged in some cool and groovy activity. I do not feel the fun part of that hormone (which I am fairly certain is called something else now) and am left only the fight which I cannot do and the flight which I am too chicken to do. After all that happened during the hundred days, I have to wonder why it is that I am still so unwilling to be brave. I can be the bravest, most courageous, most definitively dedicated warrior you ever fucking saw when it comes to being all of that for someone else. I cannot imagine what wonderful or terrible thing needs to happen in order to be able to do that for myself. I do not love assault or dismissal. I do not cherish being used. I am not a quitter, I swear that I am not.
There must be some way to bring the hundred days project here. I need the reminder of it. I need the inspiration. I am hungry.
I love movies. Not as much as I love books, but they are a very close second place. If I started to think about those texts and reels that are important to me, well, not much else would get done.
So, anyway, 24 hours and three films.
District 9. An alien slum, government bad guys, a hapless stooge and disgusting food.
Julie and Julia. A woman without focus or direction, a quitter if you will, and lots of pretty food.
The Book of Eve. Crappy marriage, a quest for independence and nice food.
They are listed in the order of how good they are, with District 9 being the best, J&J only just decent enough and Eve, well, poor Eve is barely good enough, but they do have a common thread. I will give you a hint and share that it is not food, even though foody things dominate parts of each story.
What they all are, are love stories. Is that not the way of good stories? Yes. Yes, it is and that is what makes them eminently watchable.
So, anyway (have to stop writing that) those fillums got me to thinking about what has been happening the past few days.
I have a friend who needs help that I cannot give. She has been ill for a long time. Nothing life threatening or any such thing, but the kind of malaise that depletes the spirit; and since her spirit has never been strong, her suffering is all the more sad for it. Since she lost her job she has been living on her considerable resources, but even that will not last forever.
Today she needed help moving furniture in preparation for the first open house of the condo she wishes to sell. Old carpeting out, new carpeting in and chairs and sofas and table all over the place that need to be returned to order and prettiness for the potential buyers. It is unfortunate that I no longer move heavy objects, not even my own. Just plain sad all around, although it does nothing to diminish our affection for one another. Early in our relationship, whilst on a trip across the big pond, it fell to me to be the person who provided support. That responsibility was increased later on, upon the gradual discovery of her life-long issues. At some final moment it because too great a burden to carry and we broke up, not like lovers, but close friendships gone awry are sort of like that. I have chosen to be part of her life again and I am glad to still be her friend and all that, but in a short time it is as though nothing has changed and even though I do not like it and plan to avoid the falling that friendship invites, but, alas, I have become the hapless stooge. Again.
The past several months have made me aware that whilst I am moving in, generally, a general direction, I lack focus. I have been managing for such a long time to stay out of trouble that simple movement has been enough, has been, in truth, the best for which I could hope. There is a quality of being here that is no longer acceptable to me. Most of this makes no sense to anyone but me and it is not always the case that I can make sense of what happens. I loved, but not well, and when that person approaches now all I feel is fear and, gosh, that is such not a good thing. I get these pops of adrenaline, but not in the way that gets you excited and involved, engaged in some cool and groovy activity. I do not feel the fun part of that hormone (which I am fairly certain is called something else now) and am left only the fight which I cannot do and the flight which I am too chicken to do. After all that happened during the hundred days, I have to wonder why it is that I am still so unwilling to be brave. I can be the bravest, most courageous, most definitively dedicated warrior you ever fucking saw when it comes to being all of that for someone else. I cannot imagine what wonderful or terrible thing needs to happen in order to be able to do that for myself. I do not love assault or dismissal. I do not cherish being used. I am not a quitter, I swear that I am not.
There must be some way to bring the hundred days project here. I need the reminder of it. I need the inspiration. I am hungry.
Friday, April 23, 2010
So, anyway
It was like, what, a hundred and nine days ago I had this great idea. It was to join the UK folk who decided to share their idea about doing something, anything, that could conceivably make you a better person in the space of one hundred days.
So, I did that and it was a kind of terrible experience. Well, not really terrible every day, but it was kind of really sucky some of the time. Other times it was not so terrible. I guess. I decided that I would get rid of a book every day. Like, cool and all that, but it did not seem like much of a big deal beyond getting rid of a hundred books, which is a great thing to do in a house that has thousands of books. Just a drop in the whole paper, ink and glue realm, but, really, it would be only a hundred books, forchrissakes.
So, then I decided to add another thing, and that would be to think/say/write something positive about myself or someone else every day.
Compared to the positive thoughts, the damn books ended up being a snap and I, now that it is over, am kind of surprised by that but not all that surprised, you know?
Through the process, I wrote about it every day. I chose what I thought would be a safe place. It was a forum of women that I had learned to love and where I knew that I would be safe, no matter what I wrote or did not write. I was mostly right about that. The place was chock-full of loving and supportive and insanely funny and caring women. Well, except for the ones who seemed to be supremely irritated by me and the stupid stuff I wrote. And, you know, in the big picture, it was all stupid stuff, just not to me. To me it was like the realest deal that ever was.
That blog place was called In the moment, just like here, and I got right to that whole in the moment thing and place and I stayed there.
Once past the first couple of days, I would sit down at this keyboard and just allow whatever was in my head and heart pour out of my fingertips. No filtering. No editing. No spell-checks. Good thing I am good at spelling. Then I started posting the crap I was writing in a second place and that place had an automatic spell-check function, just like here, and my spelling got much better without me having to actually read what I was writing in order to have it be less mis-spelled.
So, I wrote about the books and, eventually, all the other stuff that left the premises. I wrote a positive thought every day, and let me just say here that that was a really tough thing to do, especially after things got weird here at the old homestead. Which things did. Got weird, I mean. Like really weird. And then they got scary.
So, the most scary stuff has settled down, but only because of me being quiet like a fucking mouse or something else really quiet.
But, during one of the scary parts, I got judged. You know, that is not the end of the world, being judged. It is not. It is not pleasant and I do not know anyone who would choose to be judged or who would like it when it happened, but, again, not the end of the world. I am going to share a secret here, a secret known by every person who has scary parts in their life and then has to deal with being judged about how they feel about being scared and stuck and judged. It is not fun, not even a tiny bit. It is like being punched flat down on the ground, getting run over by a big machine and then having another machine come by and run you over, too. I did not solicit the judging opinion, the opinion was not helpful and for a time it added to the burden I was already carrying. It was a really sad time. More importantly, the writing that was helping me survive was now causing me more pain and I had to stop it for a while.
So, then I was not writing and I did not have any safe place anymore where I could divest all the internal baggage that the stupid hundred days project was piling on during the time when I was clearing out my physical environment.
I am better now. And, I think that I can write again, even if I end up getting judged all over the damn place again. Besides, in this new location I have some control and if someone wants to be all judgmental on my ass, there is a possibility that I might be able to stand up for myself and say something like, who the fuck asked you. Like that. Except I would not say that because I do not want to be the kind of person who would say such a thing, not even to someone who probably deserves it, if not for being mean to me, then probably for something else. Now I am being mean and I do not like it one bit. So, I am establishing a no meanness zone here. Wonder how long that will last.
For someone who never wrote every day, the past nine days without writing anything have been, surprisingly, full of the loss of the process. It seems that I have a lot more crap to divest in the whole inner process realm. And, since no one knows about this place it is probably safe and the only one judging me will be, well, me.
So, I did that and it was a kind of terrible experience. Well, not really terrible every day, but it was kind of really sucky some of the time. Other times it was not so terrible. I guess. I decided that I would get rid of a book every day. Like, cool and all that, but it did not seem like much of a big deal beyond getting rid of a hundred books, which is a great thing to do in a house that has thousands of books. Just a drop in the whole paper, ink and glue realm, but, really, it would be only a hundred books, forchrissakes.
So, then I decided to add another thing, and that would be to think/say/write something positive about myself or someone else every day.
Compared to the positive thoughts, the damn books ended up being a snap and I, now that it is over, am kind of surprised by that but not all that surprised, you know?
Through the process, I wrote about it every day. I chose what I thought would be a safe place. It was a forum of women that I had learned to love and where I knew that I would be safe, no matter what I wrote or did not write. I was mostly right about that. The place was chock-full of loving and supportive and insanely funny and caring women. Well, except for the ones who seemed to be supremely irritated by me and the stupid stuff I wrote. And, you know, in the big picture, it was all stupid stuff, just not to me. To me it was like the realest deal that ever was.
That blog place was called In the moment, just like here, and I got right to that whole in the moment thing and place and I stayed there.
Once past the first couple of days, I would sit down at this keyboard and just allow whatever was in my head and heart pour out of my fingertips. No filtering. No editing. No spell-checks. Good thing I am good at spelling. Then I started posting the crap I was writing in a second place and that place had an automatic spell-check function, just like here, and my spelling got much better without me having to actually read what I was writing in order to have it be less mis-spelled.
So, I wrote about the books and, eventually, all the other stuff that left the premises. I wrote a positive thought every day, and let me just say here that that was a really tough thing to do, especially after things got weird here at the old homestead. Which things did. Got weird, I mean. Like really weird. And then they got scary.
So, the most scary stuff has settled down, but only because of me being quiet like a fucking mouse or something else really quiet.
But, during one of the scary parts, I got judged. You know, that is not the end of the world, being judged. It is not. It is not pleasant and I do not know anyone who would choose to be judged or who would like it when it happened, but, again, not the end of the world. I am going to share a secret here, a secret known by every person who has scary parts in their life and then has to deal with being judged about how they feel about being scared and stuck and judged. It is not fun, not even a tiny bit. It is like being punched flat down on the ground, getting run over by a big machine and then having another machine come by and run you over, too. I did not solicit the judging opinion, the opinion was not helpful and for a time it added to the burden I was already carrying. It was a really sad time. More importantly, the writing that was helping me survive was now causing me more pain and I had to stop it for a while.
So, then I was not writing and I did not have any safe place anymore where I could divest all the internal baggage that the stupid hundred days project was piling on during the time when I was clearing out my physical environment.
I am better now. And, I think that I can write again, even if I end up getting judged all over the damn place again. Besides, in this new location I have some control and if someone wants to be all judgmental on my ass, there is a possibility that I might be able to stand up for myself and say something like, who the fuck asked you. Like that. Except I would not say that because I do not want to be the kind of person who would say such a thing, not even to someone who probably deserves it, if not for being mean to me, then probably for something else. Now I am being mean and I do not like it one bit. So, I am establishing a no meanness zone here. Wonder how long that will last.
For someone who never wrote every day, the past nine days without writing anything have been, surprisingly, full of the loss of the process. It seems that I have a lot more crap to divest in the whole inner process realm. And, since no one knows about this place it is probably safe and the only one judging me will be, well, me.
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