The sooner I fall behind, the more time I have to catch up.
~Author Unknown
I have a problem. Actually, I have a lot of problems. At this precise moment, however, I am most concerned with one very specific problem: I am a procrastinator.
I do not recall how I came to be so deeply entrenched in the world of procrastination. Did I always live here? It’s entirely possible. In junior high and high school, I never studied. I was the sort that didn’t need to. Instead, I would stay up all night long reading books – many of which featured half-naked men and women with faulty clothing and ill-fitting lingerie upon their covers. (Note that this was JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL. I have long since left such high-brow literature behind.) In college, I chose majors that allowed me to support this no-studying, much-reading habit. Still, I can recall having papers due – often papers that I had been made aware of in the first week of class – and not starting them until the night before they needed to be turned in. In fact, now that I consider it, I think that may have been the ONLY time I wrote papers – the night before they were due. For me, the “you must write this essay before you leave the room” sort of test was the very best sort, as it saved me from having to write that same essay right before the next class.
These reflections support the theory that I’ve lived in Mundo Procrastinato for many, many years. I’ve certainly suffered the consequences of it plenty of times. Yet I persist. Why?
Right now, for example, I am supposed to be composing two separate documents that are due tomorrow. What am I doing at this crucial time? Writing this essay, which will get me NO closer to having the documents that are actually DUE completed. Also interesting? I’ve known about this deadline for three weeks, yet have typed out nary a word.
Even more interesting? Before I could even begin writing this essay, I was suddenly struck by the realization that it was ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL that I change the colors of my desktop theme immediately. I was clearly not going to be able to do any work – or writing – with that teal color floating about. (Oddly enough, I’ve been able to live with the teal color for a number of months, and only now noticed what a hindrance it is.) Once I made this determination, it took QUITE some time to come up with just the right color combination to promote productivity. I think I have it now, but time will tell.
Recently – over the past few weeks, which happens to be precisely the amount of time that this project has been hanging over my head – I’ve developed the need to engage in all sorts of activities that are not this project. I’ve needed to do quite a lot of cleaning, and also shopping. There have been websites to research, and magazines to read. When I finally force myself to take a seat in front of the computer, I usually realize that I am FAMISHED and have to take a break for food. This has had the unfortunate side effect of contributing to an uncomfortable pressure from my ever-tightening waistbands, which – of course – means that I have to take extra time to focus on exercise. Or at least take the time to THINK about focusing on exercise. With so much going on, is it any wonder that I haven’t had a chance to begin these documents?
And now, it’s also clear that I won’t be able to begin any serious work until I think a bit about the nature of my procrastination problem. And – in order to do that – I will of course have to spend a bit of time looking up procrastination quotes online. That is a very good use of time, as it produces immediate results.
This quote makes me feel quite good:
“Procrastination is the key to prolonging life.”
~Anonymous
Why yes, I think, it’s actually an investment. How clever I am to procrastinate, and enjoy myself, while everyone else is preoccupied with deadlines. But then I continue on, and – as the quotes grow progressively more ominous – begin to have doubts about the above assertion. For one thing, if someone is making a medical claim like this one, shouldn’t they be willing to attach their name to it?
After that thought, these quotes seem to hold a lot more clout, unfortunately for me:
In any moment of decision the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.
- Theodore Roosevelt
Put off for one day and ten days will pass by.
- Korean Proverb
The chief cause of failure and unhappiness is trading what we want most for what we want at the moment.
- Anonymous
After all is said and done, there is usually more said than done.
- Anonymous
“Procrastination is, hands down, our favorite form of self-sabotage.”
- Alyce Cornyn-Selby
Well. This is just awful. It is clear that my proclivity toward procrastination is not one of my better qualities. In fact, after reading these quotes, I’ve determined that it may be one of my worst traits. I can tell you one thing: There is NO WAY that I am going to be able to work on those documents now – not with this hanging over my head. No, the path that I must follow is clear. I am obviously going to have to spend some time researching this fault of mine and what can be done about it. I’ll have to get on that right away… well, maybe I’ll have a quick snack first.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
B Is For Becca
How I adore my friend Becca. (Note to other friends reading this: I adore you, too. Don't ever move away. Unless you already have. Like Anita, whose move I still have not recovered from. If you've already gone (like Anita), I must ask you to come back.) Becca left me for the city of Chicago. Okay... to be fair, she actually left me for her now-husband (who could - technically - count as another friend who left me....), who LIVES in the city of Chicago. Fine. To be completely forthcoming, his ENTIRE family also lives there. Still....
She left, and now I miss her. All of the time. Sure, I KNOW that there are such things as phones, and emails, but it's not quite the same. Actually, it's not at all the same. I miss deciding to see a film and ducking out to see it that very night. I miss mornings at St. Vinny's, and evenings in one of our apartments. I miss shopping, and dining, and laughing hysterically over things that make sense only to us. I miss being near her vitality. I miss her.
Fortunately for me, Chicago is still close enough to drive to (and back) in one day. This gives me a feeling of security. If times ever grow DESPERATE, I can hop in the car for my "Becca fix." For now, I think I'll just stock up on Becca in advance.
For your enjoyment, a memento from (C is for) Chicago, February 24:
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Public Thoughts
What if I were to tell my entire life story through the lens of the moments that I’ve spent in public restrooms? The concept occurred to me when I was in downtown Chicago on a Saturday night, inside a lounge called Crimson. Prior to my departure from the establishment, I visited the restroom, which was – on its own – the size of the “lounging areas” of most people’s homes. It was decadent, painted in rich colors with large stalls and many expensive glass mirrors suspended on the walls by silky ribbons. It was absurd, when you considered the sort of room that it was.
My mind flashes back to the public restrooms of my high school, rooms that I spent a lot of time in – especially for the purpose of avoiding spending time somewhere else. They were nothing like this. They were the perfect example of designing for the target demographic. As a high school student, my attendance in school was mandatory. The staff knew that I had to be there, and that I had no choice but to use their facilities while I was there. That – to them – was license to make the rooms into miniature torture chambers. The temperature was alternately steamy or frigid, whichever might be more miserable at any given time. The odds of there being BOTH toilet paper and paper towel available at once were minimal, and at least 40% of the toilets were clogged at all times. To me, none of that mattered. What did matter: There were no classes being taught in the bathroom. This made it a mini-paradise.
I remember moments in a semi-private public restroom a few years later. I was being hospitalized, and the bathroom was temporarily mine, attached to my hospital room. The first time the staff forced me to walk to it, a couple of days after my emergency surgery, the pain was nearly unbearable. It felt as if knives were being stabbed into my stomach from all directions, and I could only shuffle, hunched forward and clutching my walker with one hand and my abdomen with the other. I breathed heavily, pausing only to glare at the nurse walking next to me. She smiled beatifically, patting my arm. “Just a little farther, dear…” Once inside the bathroom, I sat, not moving, thinking only that I would never leave. I never wanted to endure the pain of standing or walking again. I planned to spend the rest of my life in that tiny room, but the nurse had other ideas.
The next year, I visited a restroom inside a “mercado” in a small Mexican town. It was an open-air market, filled with produce, blankets, clothing, butchered animals suspended from the ceiling, and booth after booth selling tacos or enchiladas and any number of culinary delights. The bathrooms were in the very back of the roofed portion of the market, and I weaved my way through the crowds to get to them. Positioned at the door, seated on a stool, was a very tired looking Mexican woman. She held a basket on her lap, and it was filled with small square bundles – toilet tissue. The facilities themselves were accessible for free, but if one wanted to use toilet paper, one had to purchase it. I did so, handing her my coins and accepting the bundle. As I walked into the room, evaluating the stalls, I knew that there were many in the crowd who would not spare the change for the tissue, and I could not help but consider what the alternatives might be… Did they carry their own with them? Did they save the single napkin distributed with their lunch tacos? Or did they just go without?
I think back now on the many hundreds – maybe thousands - of public facilities that I have visited. Schools, restaurants, coffee houses, theme parks, grocery stores, gas stations, hotels… Where does the list end? How many have I forgotten? Why do I remember the ones that I do? What if I really could revisit every moment of time that I have spent in these places? What other venue have I visited so consistently at every point in my life, everyplace that I have traveled, with every companion that I have ever had?
The public restroom is a paradox. It is a public private moment. It is a time that you are surrounded by strangers and strange surroundings, but completely, intimately alone with the thoughts in your head. Perhaps this is why the thought of revisiting all of those moments appeals to me now. Today, when I am so filled with questions, I would like to revisit every moment of the “real me” to help me reconstruct my self-portrait. I would like to sit, quietly, in the strange space that is not mine and be entirely alone with my self.
My mind flashes back to the public restrooms of my high school, rooms that I spent a lot of time in – especially for the purpose of avoiding spending time somewhere else. They were nothing like this. They were the perfect example of designing for the target demographic. As a high school student, my attendance in school was mandatory. The staff knew that I had to be there, and that I had no choice but to use their facilities while I was there. That – to them – was license to make the rooms into miniature torture chambers. The temperature was alternately steamy or frigid, whichever might be more miserable at any given time. The odds of there being BOTH toilet paper and paper towel available at once were minimal, and at least 40% of the toilets were clogged at all times. To me, none of that mattered. What did matter: There were no classes being taught in the bathroom. This made it a mini-paradise.
I remember moments in a semi-private public restroom a few years later. I was being hospitalized, and the bathroom was temporarily mine, attached to my hospital room. The first time the staff forced me to walk to it, a couple of days after my emergency surgery, the pain was nearly unbearable. It felt as if knives were being stabbed into my stomach from all directions, and I could only shuffle, hunched forward and clutching my walker with one hand and my abdomen with the other. I breathed heavily, pausing only to glare at the nurse walking next to me. She smiled beatifically, patting my arm. “Just a little farther, dear…” Once inside the bathroom, I sat, not moving, thinking only that I would never leave. I never wanted to endure the pain of standing or walking again. I planned to spend the rest of my life in that tiny room, but the nurse had other ideas.
The next year, I visited a restroom inside a “mercado” in a small Mexican town. It was an open-air market, filled with produce, blankets, clothing, butchered animals suspended from the ceiling, and booth after booth selling tacos or enchiladas and any number of culinary delights. The bathrooms were in the very back of the roofed portion of the market, and I weaved my way through the crowds to get to them. Positioned at the door, seated on a stool, was a very tired looking Mexican woman. She held a basket on her lap, and it was filled with small square bundles – toilet tissue. The facilities themselves were accessible for free, but if one wanted to use toilet paper, one had to purchase it. I did so, handing her my coins and accepting the bundle. As I walked into the room, evaluating the stalls, I knew that there were many in the crowd who would not spare the change for the tissue, and I could not help but consider what the alternatives might be… Did they carry their own with them? Did they save the single napkin distributed with their lunch tacos? Or did they just go without?
I think back now on the many hundreds – maybe thousands - of public facilities that I have visited. Schools, restaurants, coffee houses, theme parks, grocery stores, gas stations, hotels… Where does the list end? How many have I forgotten? Why do I remember the ones that I do? What if I really could revisit every moment of time that I have spent in these places? What other venue have I visited so consistently at every point in my life, everyplace that I have traveled, with every companion that I have ever had?
The public restroom is a paradox. It is a public private moment. It is a time that you are surrounded by strangers and strange surroundings, but completely, intimately alone with the thoughts in your head. Perhaps this is why the thought of revisiting all of those moments appeals to me now. Today, when I am so filled with questions, I would like to revisit every moment of the “real me” to help me reconstruct my self-portrait. I would like to sit, quietly, in the strange space that is not mine and be entirely alone with my self.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Pasaporte
Things to remember when leaving the country:
Clothing
Arrangements made for pets
Hold mail
Camera
Cosmetics
Legal documentation that allows one to actually cross a border
Hmmm. It all seemed so doable until that last bit…
Last week, nearly four weeks to the day from my scheduled departure FROM THE UNITED STATES, I realized that my passport is expired. Yes, expired. Seemed to have lost its validity last year, actually, which means that at any point over the course of these last 12 months I might have considered renewing it. In typical mutinous fashion, My Mind decided to “make things more exciting” by “not thinking” of the passport issue until the final four-week countdown had begun.
Sigh.
Clearly maximizing the wicked possibilities, My Mind chose to bring the topic up around midnight, thereby ensuring a panicked night that left no room for activities such as sleeping. This had the delicious side effect of rendering my looks as unappealing as possible, and also of “clouding” my head. Both of these qualities increased the entertainment factor considerably when I appeared at the post office to fill out my passport renewal forms, and was positioned against a door to have my photo taken. Rest assured, I was far from thrilled. My Mind, however, was having a fabulous time. It chortled and giggled in glee as it eyed up the strange female postal employee who sat – positioned on a stool in the center of the post office box area – and watched me like a hawk. It was THRILLED when I got up to the counter and was greeted by the lone cheerful postal employee in the employ of the USPS.
I have never seen such uncalled for happiness in a government employee. He practically vibrated with delight when he realized that I needed to have forms sent in, and that he needed to take a photo to include in the packet.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby!” he shouted over his shoulder as he cantered toward a door that I could not see. I was a touch confused, as we’d barely conversed, but moved toward the indicated area. He popped out through a door, whirled about, and pulled a white screen down over the door that he had just come through. Waving me over in front of it, he spent some time flipping switches and pushing buttons on a bizarre camera-like contraption. Finally, without warning, he held it up and it made a couple of clicking noises. “Meet you back at the counter!” he sang gleefully, disappearing behind my back as I stood in place, trying to process the experience.
Back at his station, he rattled off question after question, only some of which seemed to pertain to our actual transaction. Eventually, the questions stopped, and he vanished, only to reappear in moments with a couple of photos.
“Ooooh!” he exclaimed, looking them over with an expression of intense appreciation. “Are these for a passport or for Vogue magazine?”
With that, he slid them across the counter toward me, beaming like a proud father. I glanced down and nearly fell over, but struggled to compose myself. I looked absolutely insane. My hair was engaged in a battle of rebellion – apparently each strand for itself – and I wasn’t even looking at the camera.
Before I could comment, he stapled them to the form and slid them into the envelope, sealing it tightly. Just before he dropped the package into the bin, he looked at me seriously for the first time.
“You’re certain,” he asked with a somber tone, “that you signed the forms?”
I nodded, still fixated on the image that had been seared into my brain when he exposed me to the “photo.” It was only after he had smiled, once again happy, and wished me a good day, that My Mind made its move. Perhaps, it suggested, snickering slightly, I had not signed the form? After all, I had been so tired, and perhaps a bit panicked. Things like signatures are SO easy to overlook under those circumstances….
Clothing
Arrangements made for pets
Hold mail
Camera
Cosmetics
Legal documentation that allows one to actually cross a border
Hmmm. It all seemed so doable until that last bit…
Last week, nearly four weeks to the day from my scheduled departure FROM THE UNITED STATES, I realized that my passport is expired. Yes, expired. Seemed to have lost its validity last year, actually, which means that at any point over the course of these last 12 months I might have considered renewing it. In typical mutinous fashion, My Mind decided to “make things more exciting” by “not thinking” of the passport issue until the final four-week countdown had begun.
Sigh.
Clearly maximizing the wicked possibilities, My Mind chose to bring the topic up around midnight, thereby ensuring a panicked night that left no room for activities such as sleeping. This had the delicious side effect of rendering my looks as unappealing as possible, and also of “clouding” my head. Both of these qualities increased the entertainment factor considerably when I appeared at the post office to fill out my passport renewal forms, and was positioned against a door to have my photo taken. Rest assured, I was far from thrilled. My Mind, however, was having a fabulous time. It chortled and giggled in glee as it eyed up the strange female postal employee who sat – positioned on a stool in the center of the post office box area – and watched me like a hawk. It was THRILLED when I got up to the counter and was greeted by the lone cheerful postal employee in the employ of the USPS.
I have never seen such uncalled for happiness in a government employee. He practically vibrated with delight when he realized that I needed to have forms sent in, and that he needed to take a photo to include in the packet.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby!” he shouted over his shoulder as he cantered toward a door that I could not see. I was a touch confused, as we’d barely conversed, but moved toward the indicated area. He popped out through a door, whirled about, and pulled a white screen down over the door that he had just come through. Waving me over in front of it, he spent some time flipping switches and pushing buttons on a bizarre camera-like contraption. Finally, without warning, he held it up and it made a couple of clicking noises. “Meet you back at the counter!” he sang gleefully, disappearing behind my back as I stood in place, trying to process the experience.
Back at his station, he rattled off question after question, only some of which seemed to pertain to our actual transaction. Eventually, the questions stopped, and he vanished, only to reappear in moments with a couple of photos.
“Ooooh!” he exclaimed, looking them over with an expression of intense appreciation. “Are these for a passport or for Vogue magazine?”
With that, he slid them across the counter toward me, beaming like a proud father. I glanced down and nearly fell over, but struggled to compose myself. I looked absolutely insane. My hair was engaged in a battle of rebellion – apparently each strand for itself – and I wasn’t even looking at the camera.
Before I could comment, he stapled them to the form and slid them into the envelope, sealing it tightly. Just before he dropped the package into the bin, he looked at me seriously for the first time.
“You’re certain,” he asked with a somber tone, “that you signed the forms?”
I nodded, still fixated on the image that had been seared into my brain when he exposed me to the “photo.” It was only after he had smiled, once again happy, and wished me a good day, that My Mind made its move. Perhaps, it suggested, snickering slightly, I had not signed the form? After all, I had been so tired, and perhaps a bit panicked. Things like signatures are SO easy to overlook under those circumstances….
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Middle Of The Night Thoughts
Tonight, I was given a toy camel while I was out. It is a blue camel, which is a touch unrealistic. I suppose that a camel could be blue, but it would take quite some time to apply the color, and I doubt that the camel would care for it. Since camels are already notoriously temperamental, it seems like a bad idea. Shame on the toy creator for even introducing the thought into anyone’s mind.
Since I’m on the subject, I will say that I have been very troubled by the plight of the camel. As it turns out, camels have very good reasons to be so angry all of the time. For one thing, they are considered to be “beasts of burden.” The phrase alone communicates everything that needs to be said. For another thing, someone apparently thought it was a good idea to name a horrific solpugid a “camel spider.” This is most unfortunate, as not only is this creature frightful to behold, but it is neither related to camels nor is it a spider. It is more closely related to a scorpion… Many urban legends have taken off in relation to these creatures, and the poor camel suffers by association.
In other thoughts, I will say that I adore orchids. Someday I will have to write more about my fascination with them, and why I believe them to be some of the most interesting plants alive. For now I will just say that I adore them, a thought which was inspired by the beautiful bouquet on the table in front of me – a gift from an anonymous source. I have my suspicions as to the identity… Actually, I have more than suspicions.
Random thought number three: How old are the Larabars in my jar? I’m a bit concerned, now that I’ve noticed it. For some reason, I initially adored the gingersnap flavor, but then developed a dislike for it. Unfortunately, that dislike came about after I had already ordered an entire box of the bars. I’m pretty sure that they’ve been in that jar for quite a length of time. Hmmm. Do those sorts of things go bad? They are individually packaged…
And on to the next thought, which centers around pancakes. The thought is this: I love coconut pancakes. I like them with lots of butter, and with raspberry syrup. Heaven on a plate, really.
As you might have guessed, I should pretty much be banned from writing at this point. I’m “done for,” so to speak. I’m tired, I’ve been out late, I should sleep. I should not be writing. So I’ll stop here. Instead, I'll offer up this terrible, terrible photo. If you're interested, it's received lots of press on the internet. Much debate and "to-do" over the "scam" factor, etc. There you go. A little project for you. Good to stay busy, you know...
Since I’m on the subject, I will say that I have been very troubled by the plight of the camel. As it turns out, camels have very good reasons to be so angry all of the time. For one thing, they are considered to be “beasts of burden.” The phrase alone communicates everything that needs to be said. For another thing, someone apparently thought it was a good idea to name a horrific solpugid a “camel spider.” This is most unfortunate, as not only is this creature frightful to behold, but it is neither related to camels nor is it a spider. It is more closely related to a scorpion… Many urban legends have taken off in relation to these creatures, and the poor camel suffers by association.
In other thoughts, I will say that I adore orchids. Someday I will have to write more about my fascination with them, and why I believe them to be some of the most interesting plants alive. For now I will just say that I adore them, a thought which was inspired by the beautiful bouquet on the table in front of me – a gift from an anonymous source. I have my suspicions as to the identity… Actually, I have more than suspicions.
Random thought number three: How old are the Larabars in my jar? I’m a bit concerned, now that I’ve noticed it. For some reason, I initially adored the gingersnap flavor, but then developed a dislike for it. Unfortunately, that dislike came about after I had already ordered an entire box of the bars. I’m pretty sure that they’ve been in that jar for quite a length of time. Hmmm. Do those sorts of things go bad? They are individually packaged…
And on to the next thought, which centers around pancakes. The thought is this: I love coconut pancakes. I like them with lots of butter, and with raspberry syrup. Heaven on a plate, really.
As you might have guessed, I should pretty much be banned from writing at this point. I’m “done for,” so to speak. I’m tired, I’ve been out late, I should sleep. I should not be writing. So I’ll stop here. Instead, I'll offer up this terrible, terrible photo. If you're interested, it's received lots of press on the internet. Much debate and "to-do" over the "scam" factor, etc. There you go. A little project for you. Good to stay busy, you know...
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Inspired Taste
This evening, I watched the film Amelie for the first time. Yes – I agree – it is shocking. I should have seen it YEARS ago when everyone else was watching it, but I must have been busy. Better late than never…and yes, this IS one of the situations in which that cliché actually applies. Anyhoo…. The film (as usual) provoked some thought – and perhaps a bit of inspiration. Lucky for you, I’m keeping it lighthearted, since I’m starting to get sleepy and cannot tax my brain with heavy thought.
And with that prelude I present: The Amelie-Inspired List of Likes and Dislikes, compiled on the spur-of-the-moment with only those likes and dislikes that are top of mind. This should NOT be confused with a Well-Thought-Out List of Likes and Dislikes.
Some Of My Dislikes:
The sight of an elderly person dining alone in a restaurant. Very nearly breaks my heart every time.
Hems that drag on the ground.
The intense fear of being labeled “intolerant” or “close-minded” that prevents people from voicing and/or acting their true beliefs, and that often leads to the “loudest party” prevailing.
Designer dog breeds.
Bike paths that are supposedly many miles long, but that require extensive biking across such barriers as busy streets, sidewalks, lawns, forests, and parks in order to reach each section of the trail.
Some Of My Likes:
The giggles of babies.
The foam on the top of a latte, especially if the barista has taken extra care with it. Once my foam had the shape of a lovely leaf floating in it… That was nice.
The scents of horses, and of horse-related things. All of them. Yep - ALL.
Angry birds. There is something so adorable in the way that their bodies vibrate in fury. Also adorable: Angry birds swooping at you; angry birds narrowing their pupils at you; angry birds shouting at you in unintelligible angry bird noises.
The feeling of snuggling into a bed, under the covers, surrounded by pillows, with the knowledge that you do not have to get up at any specific time. The feel of the mattress underneath your tired body, and the release as you let your muscles sink into it.
Hamsters.
Hamster stomachs.
Hamster feet.
Hamster eyes.
Hamster tails.
And with that prelude I present: The Amelie-Inspired List of Likes and Dislikes, compiled on the spur-of-the-moment with only those likes and dislikes that are top of mind. This should NOT be confused with a Well-Thought-Out List of Likes and Dislikes.
Some Of My Dislikes:
The sight of an elderly person dining alone in a restaurant. Very nearly breaks my heart every time.
Hems that drag on the ground.
The intense fear of being labeled “intolerant” or “close-minded” that prevents people from voicing and/or acting their true beliefs, and that often leads to the “loudest party” prevailing.
Designer dog breeds.
Bike paths that are supposedly many miles long, but that require extensive biking across such barriers as busy streets, sidewalks, lawns, forests, and parks in order to reach each section of the trail.
Some Of My Likes:
The giggles of babies.
The foam on the top of a latte, especially if the barista has taken extra care with it. Once my foam had the shape of a lovely leaf floating in it… That was nice.
The scents of horses, and of horse-related things. All of them. Yep - ALL.
Angry birds. There is something so adorable in the way that their bodies vibrate in fury. Also adorable: Angry birds swooping at you; angry birds narrowing their pupils at you; angry birds shouting at you in unintelligible angry bird noises.
The feeling of snuggling into a bed, under the covers, surrounded by pillows, with the knowledge that you do not have to get up at any specific time. The feel of the mattress underneath your tired body, and the release as you let your muscles sink into it.
Hamsters.
Hamster stomachs.
Hamster feet.
Hamster eyes.
Hamster tails.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Facing Upward
It is a given that those who regularly practice yoga will encounter poses that are particularly challenging. These poses are not necessarily challenging in and of themselves, but are – for one reason or another – difficult for this person to express. If one practices yoga long enough, one generally learns that those are usually the poses that are the most needed, and that – by working through the difficulties that the pose presents – one “works” through a parallel challenge in life. Yoga teaches many things, and flexibility of mind and spirit is one of them.
For many years, I hated the pose commonly known as Upward Facing Dog. This was incredibly unfortunate, as the yoga that I choose to practice incorporates Upward Dog after Upward Dog into a typical class. I might easily find myself in the pose more than 20 times an hour. Each time, I felt irritation rising in my consciousness. It seemed to match the speed with which pain rose into my lower back, and I would feel spasms of annoyance express themselves in my wrists. The position that my body was in – feet pressing into the ground, legs lifted off the floor, wrists pushing into the ground, back and neck arched – was nothing but uncomfortable. As I watched the instructor, waiting impatiently for the cue to leave this pose behind, I thought of nothing but my discomfort.
I was foolish. This pose would never go away, and I was choosing to suffer in it every time. It is an essential part of the Sun Salutation, which is incorporated into nearly every yoga class that I have ever attended and will ever attend. Still, I persisted in my mental belligerence. I did not explore the pose, but resisted it. And then – last year - I stopped resisting. I don’t know what prompted it, but I do know that – for the first time – I stopped thinking of what I did not like about the pose and instead allowed myself to feel the elements of the position that felt good. I dropped my shoulders, and felt my neck lengthen toward the sky. I pressed my hands firmly into the floor and pressed my chest even more firmly toward the front of the room. As I adjusted, I felt what the yogis describe as “an opening of the heart.” I suddenly felt light, and as I lifted my body up and forward, I felt my emotions lift to meet it – much as the pain had previously matched my mental state.
For months, Upward Dog was one of my favorite poses. Each time I was in it, it felt so soothing and uplifting that it became therapeutic. The sudden ease with which the pose came to me was almost confusing. I began to long for the pose, and to move eagerly into it during class, happily flowing through vinyasa after vinyasa.
As my practice evolved, other things evolved as well. Near the end of the year, Juliet – my dog – grew very ill. As her body weakened, she became unable to carry her own weight up the stairs after going outside. I began to carry her – not an easy feat, as her weight generally hovered around 70 lbs. She continued to weaken, and soon needed to be carried both up and down the stairs.
I feared losing her, but – even more – I feared failing her. I could not bear the thought of her life being anything less than all that it could have been, and I became obsessed with thoughts of “what I might have done differently,” or whether or not “she was happy.” She began to receive treats anytime she lifted her head, and her diet became primarily canned food – a luxury previously denied her to keep her at a “healthy weight” with “healthy teeth.” These long-term goals no longer applied, and I had lost my measurements of “good pet ownership.” I had endeavored to keep her healthy – above all else – and that was the one thing that I could no longer do.
One day, as we stood at the bottom of the stairs, Juliet stopped in front of my feet, waiting. I crouched down, as had become my habit, and settled her onto my knees. As I did so, I placed an arm underneath her chest and the other behind her back legs. I pushed my chest forward and into her body, and dropped my shoulders. As I tightened my back muscles, I straightened my legs and lifted Juliet into the air. Only then, as I maintained my posture and looked up the stairs toward the top, did I realize that I was duplicating the forward and upward motion of Upward Dog. At the same time I was – very literally – carrying my own dog upward, toward the safety of the home that she knew.
It seems odd that I would master this pose after six years, just in time for it to manifest itself in such a tangible and undeniable manner in my daily life. I had changed my perception of it – I allowed for the possibility that it was something other than what I had believed it to be – and it became so much more than a position. I considered this, and I considered the other beliefs and perceptions that I found challenging. My notion of what “happiness” is, for example… It would be impossible for Juliet to share the same idea. It is probable that dogs are incapable of even grasping a concept like “happiness.” This is what Juliet knew: She was hungry, and she was fed; she was tired, and she was given a bed; she needed to go outside, and she was carried out. Now she knew that she would be taken home, and she trusted in my arms to take her there.
Why was I struggling with the “pose” of “Juliet’s owner” in the vinyasa of my life? When I began the “class” with Juliet – when I accepted the role and adopted her into my life – it was with the understanding that this particular “pose” would come at the end. Yet I was resisting, I was questioning, I was trying to “be anywhere” but where I was. I was – once again – being belligerent.
Now, with Juliet in my arms, I lifted upward, step after step. With each footfall, I let the resistance slip away. This was my pose, and I would learn to embrace it. There would be discomfort, and there would be pain, but it was a part of the practice and would not last. I felt Juliet’s weight, and I felt my arms support it. I felt my back brace against it, and I felt my heart move forward and into it.
For many years, I hated the pose commonly known as Upward Facing Dog. This was incredibly unfortunate, as the yoga that I choose to practice incorporates Upward Dog after Upward Dog into a typical class. I might easily find myself in the pose more than 20 times an hour. Each time, I felt irritation rising in my consciousness. It seemed to match the speed with which pain rose into my lower back, and I would feel spasms of annoyance express themselves in my wrists. The position that my body was in – feet pressing into the ground, legs lifted off the floor, wrists pushing into the ground, back and neck arched – was nothing but uncomfortable. As I watched the instructor, waiting impatiently for the cue to leave this pose behind, I thought of nothing but my discomfort.
I was foolish. This pose would never go away, and I was choosing to suffer in it every time. It is an essential part of the Sun Salutation, which is incorporated into nearly every yoga class that I have ever attended and will ever attend. Still, I persisted in my mental belligerence. I did not explore the pose, but resisted it. And then – last year - I stopped resisting. I don’t know what prompted it, but I do know that – for the first time – I stopped thinking of what I did not like about the pose and instead allowed myself to feel the elements of the position that felt good. I dropped my shoulders, and felt my neck lengthen toward the sky. I pressed my hands firmly into the floor and pressed my chest even more firmly toward the front of the room. As I adjusted, I felt what the yogis describe as “an opening of the heart.” I suddenly felt light, and as I lifted my body up and forward, I felt my emotions lift to meet it – much as the pain had previously matched my mental state.
For months, Upward Dog was one of my favorite poses. Each time I was in it, it felt so soothing and uplifting that it became therapeutic. The sudden ease with which the pose came to me was almost confusing. I began to long for the pose, and to move eagerly into it during class, happily flowing through vinyasa after vinyasa.
As my practice evolved, other things evolved as well. Near the end of the year, Juliet – my dog – grew very ill. As her body weakened, she became unable to carry her own weight up the stairs after going outside. I began to carry her – not an easy feat, as her weight generally hovered around 70 lbs. She continued to weaken, and soon needed to be carried both up and down the stairs.
I feared losing her, but – even more – I feared failing her. I could not bear the thought of her life being anything less than all that it could have been, and I became obsessed with thoughts of “what I might have done differently,” or whether or not “she was happy.” She began to receive treats anytime she lifted her head, and her diet became primarily canned food – a luxury previously denied her to keep her at a “healthy weight” with “healthy teeth.” These long-term goals no longer applied, and I had lost my measurements of “good pet ownership.” I had endeavored to keep her healthy – above all else – and that was the one thing that I could no longer do.
One day, as we stood at the bottom of the stairs, Juliet stopped in front of my feet, waiting. I crouched down, as had become my habit, and settled her onto my knees. As I did so, I placed an arm underneath her chest and the other behind her back legs. I pushed my chest forward and into her body, and dropped my shoulders. As I tightened my back muscles, I straightened my legs and lifted Juliet into the air. Only then, as I maintained my posture and looked up the stairs toward the top, did I realize that I was duplicating the forward and upward motion of Upward Dog. At the same time I was – very literally – carrying my own dog upward, toward the safety of the home that she knew.
It seems odd that I would master this pose after six years, just in time for it to manifest itself in such a tangible and undeniable manner in my daily life. I had changed my perception of it – I allowed for the possibility that it was something other than what I had believed it to be – and it became so much more than a position. I considered this, and I considered the other beliefs and perceptions that I found challenging. My notion of what “happiness” is, for example… It would be impossible for Juliet to share the same idea. It is probable that dogs are incapable of even grasping a concept like “happiness.” This is what Juliet knew: She was hungry, and she was fed; she was tired, and she was given a bed; she needed to go outside, and she was carried out. Now she knew that she would be taken home, and she trusted in my arms to take her there.
Why was I struggling with the “pose” of “Juliet’s owner” in the vinyasa of my life? When I began the “class” with Juliet – when I accepted the role and adopted her into my life – it was with the understanding that this particular “pose” would come at the end. Yet I was resisting, I was questioning, I was trying to “be anywhere” but where I was. I was – once again – being belligerent.
Now, with Juliet in my arms, I lifted upward, step after step. With each footfall, I let the resistance slip away. This was my pose, and I would learn to embrace it. There would be discomfort, and there would be pain, but it was a part of the practice and would not last. I felt Juliet’s weight, and I felt my arms support it. I felt my back brace against it, and I felt my heart move forward and into it.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Foreign Language
When I met R, his grasp of the English language was…shall we say… “limited.” I believe that it could be captured in the following two phrases:
“sings ahh mek ahh say shooom” and “No English”
The latter of these was quite obvious. The first a bit more mysterious… until I realized that it was what the Spanish-speaking crowd believed to be the chorus of a popular song at the time: “Things that make you go hmmmm.” This phrase was incredibly popular among all the young Mexican men at the time, and it was used liberally – generally with the result of bewilderment on the part of the English-speaking conversation partner.
As our relationship developed, I became R’s English instructor. It worked quite well, for the most part. He developed a mastery of the language that would later allow him to take upper education courses in his second language rather than his first. Sadly, in learning the language directly from me, and later my family, he had no way of knowing when we were using “legitimate” words, and when we were being nonsensical. This proved to be unfortunate.
Periodically, I was struck by what I had done. Take, for example, the day that I was attempting to emphasize the extreme hurry that we were in to get ready and out the door for an important engagement.
“We are,” I stated, as we walked toward the house, “in a hurry.”
“A hurry?” he repeated.
“Yes.” I said firmly, opening the sliding glass door. “We are in a BIG hurry. We NEED to get going.”
“Uh-huh.” He acknowledged, as we stepped through.
I suspected that he might not grasp the importance.
“We are,” I repeated, with much stress on each word, “talking MA-JOR hurry.”
An awareness spread across his face.
“Aaaahhhh…” he breathed, finally understanding, “We’re talking MAJOR TWUNKA.”
For a moment, I was taken aback. I paused in my tracks, then – my decision made – moved steadily forward. “Yes,” I affirmed, deciding this was no time to get into the ‘nuances’ of the language. “We are talking major twunka.”
“Major twunka” had – apparently – been incorporated into R’s vocabulary right along with all the other nouns, verbs, adverbs, etc. The tragedy of the situation was, of course, that no one outside of our family had any idea of what he could be referring to. It was actually quite clever, I realized, the way that he had worked it all out…
“Twunk,” or “Mr. Twunk,” was what we called our pet Guinea pig. My mother, brother, and I all adored the pig, and we never refrained from telling him so.
“You,” we would declare, eyeing his bulging black belly, “Are SUCH a Twunk. You are a FINE swine. What a pig.”
Another one of us would chip in. “We are talking TWUNKA.”
“Yes!” we agreed, interchangeably, “We are talking MAJOR TWUNKA!”
By listening to many variations of this conversation, R deduced that “major twunka” was essentially a handy superlative phrase. If it applied to pigs, it must apply to any situation that required particular emphasis. And so he used it…
I cannot recall if I ever remembered to clarify the roots of the “major twunka” phrase. In later years, I reflected upon this and wondered if – as he went about his life – he continued to pepper his conversation with it.
“R,” I imagined an employer saying to him. “We need that piece finished – ASAP!”
“Yep,” I heard R concur in my head. “It’s coming right up - we’re talking major twunka.”
In later years, the incidents declined but never ceased. When I began kickboxing, I would often – at home – dance around in circles around R, bobbing and weaving and calling out the names of punches as I hit at the air around him. He absorbed it all, learning…until the day that he began play-boxing around me. As he moved his arm up in an approximation of an uppercut, he yelled out what he’d heard when I punched at him.
“Apricot!” he shouted, and bounced around on his feet. “Apricot, apricot!”
I doubled over in laughter. Had I been in a real fight, I would have been a goner. Perhaps, I think now, there was some genius to his method. Forget “talking smack” – a guaranteed way to cause someone to lose their concentration is to start “talking fruit.”
I ponder this, considering…. I try to imagine an action hero – perhaps Bruce Willis – who has realized that he is outnumbered. As three men move in for the kill, he kicks one leg out abruptly to the side.
“Gooseberry!” he yells. The man to his left pauses, confused. Bruce takes immediate advantage. He grabs the man in a headlock and pulls him off his feet.
“Banana!” he shouts, swinging the man’s body in an arc toward the other men. “Apple-cherry!”
The two men are knocked to their knees, but their heads were already spinning. The words continue to pummel them.
“Fig!”
“Grape! Lemon!”
Before they can clear their heads of the fruity thoughts that have filled them, he is gone.
Yes, I think, there’s something to this. But then I pause. If I share the technique with Hollywood, it will be in every new action film for the next year. That would – essentially – ruin my genius approach, which relies heavily on the element of surprise. This will not do. I will have to, therefore, request that each and every one of you reading this blog keep this secret weapon just that – secret. After all, you never know when you may need to pull out an unexpected apricot, and you’d hate to have your opponent waiting with a vicious peach.
“sings ahh mek ahh say shooom” and “No English”
The latter of these was quite obvious. The first a bit more mysterious… until I realized that it was what the Spanish-speaking crowd believed to be the chorus of a popular song at the time: “Things that make you go hmmmm.” This phrase was incredibly popular among all the young Mexican men at the time, and it was used liberally – generally with the result of bewilderment on the part of the English-speaking conversation partner.
As our relationship developed, I became R’s English instructor. It worked quite well, for the most part. He developed a mastery of the language that would later allow him to take upper education courses in his second language rather than his first. Sadly, in learning the language directly from me, and later my family, he had no way of knowing when we were using “legitimate” words, and when we were being nonsensical. This proved to be unfortunate.
Periodically, I was struck by what I had done. Take, for example, the day that I was attempting to emphasize the extreme hurry that we were in to get ready and out the door for an important engagement.
“We are,” I stated, as we walked toward the house, “in a hurry.”
“A hurry?” he repeated.
“Yes.” I said firmly, opening the sliding glass door. “We are in a BIG hurry. We NEED to get going.”
“Uh-huh.” He acknowledged, as we stepped through.
I suspected that he might not grasp the importance.
“We are,” I repeated, with much stress on each word, “talking MA-JOR hurry.”
An awareness spread across his face.
“Aaaahhhh…” he breathed, finally understanding, “We’re talking MAJOR TWUNKA.”
For a moment, I was taken aback. I paused in my tracks, then – my decision made – moved steadily forward. “Yes,” I affirmed, deciding this was no time to get into the ‘nuances’ of the language. “We are talking major twunka.”
“Major twunka” had – apparently – been incorporated into R’s vocabulary right along with all the other nouns, verbs, adverbs, etc. The tragedy of the situation was, of course, that no one outside of our family had any idea of what he could be referring to. It was actually quite clever, I realized, the way that he had worked it all out…
“Twunk,” or “Mr. Twunk,” was what we called our pet Guinea pig. My mother, brother, and I all adored the pig, and we never refrained from telling him so.
“You,” we would declare, eyeing his bulging black belly, “Are SUCH a Twunk. You are a FINE swine. What a pig.”
Another one of us would chip in. “We are talking TWUNKA.”
“Yes!” we agreed, interchangeably, “We are talking MAJOR TWUNKA!”
By listening to many variations of this conversation, R deduced that “major twunka” was essentially a handy superlative phrase. If it applied to pigs, it must apply to any situation that required particular emphasis. And so he used it…
I cannot recall if I ever remembered to clarify the roots of the “major twunka” phrase. In later years, I reflected upon this and wondered if – as he went about his life – he continued to pepper his conversation with it.
“R,” I imagined an employer saying to him. “We need that piece finished – ASAP!”
“Yep,” I heard R concur in my head. “It’s coming right up - we’re talking major twunka.”
In later years, the incidents declined but never ceased. When I began kickboxing, I would often – at home – dance around in circles around R, bobbing and weaving and calling out the names of punches as I hit at the air around him. He absorbed it all, learning…until the day that he began play-boxing around me. As he moved his arm up in an approximation of an uppercut, he yelled out what he’d heard when I punched at him.
“Apricot!” he shouted, and bounced around on his feet. “Apricot, apricot!”
I doubled over in laughter. Had I been in a real fight, I would have been a goner. Perhaps, I think now, there was some genius to his method. Forget “talking smack” – a guaranteed way to cause someone to lose their concentration is to start “talking fruit.”
I ponder this, considering…. I try to imagine an action hero – perhaps Bruce Willis – who has realized that he is outnumbered. As three men move in for the kill, he kicks one leg out abruptly to the side.
“Gooseberry!” he yells. The man to his left pauses, confused. Bruce takes immediate advantage. He grabs the man in a headlock and pulls him off his feet.
“Banana!” he shouts, swinging the man’s body in an arc toward the other men. “Apple-cherry!”
The two men are knocked to their knees, but their heads were already spinning. The words continue to pummel them.
“Fig!”
“Grape! Lemon!”
Before they can clear their heads of the fruity thoughts that have filled them, he is gone.
Yes, I think, there’s something to this. But then I pause. If I share the technique with Hollywood, it will be in every new action film for the next year. That would – essentially – ruin my genius approach, which relies heavily on the element of surprise. This will not do. I will have to, therefore, request that each and every one of you reading this blog keep this secret weapon just that – secret. After all, you never know when you may need to pull out an unexpected apricot, and you’d hate to have your opponent waiting with a vicious peach.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Confessions Of An Addict
Looking back, I still can’t figure out quite how it happened. One day, all was (relatively) normal. And, now….this. I don’t know that things can ever be restored to what they were. How can something change so dramatically and so very, very quickly?
It all seemed so innocent at first. D arrived at the appointed hour for our chosen DVD night, bringing with him several brown grocery bags. (This – I will interject – was not exactly part of the agreed-upon plan. “I’ll bring food…” is what he said. My mind assumed “enough food for one meal.” D’s mind asserted “I’ll purchase the entire inventory of the grocery store and take it over there so that she has some food in her cupboards.” I must learn to anticipate this sort of generosity and get more details in future conversations…but back to “the incident.”) I let him pass without fear, and his trusted hands brought the food-laden bags INTO THE APARTMENT.
Sigh. How naïve I was.
Like treasures from a chest, the tasty offerings began appearing. Strawberries, tangerines, hearts of palm, chocolate bars, crackers, pasta…it all looked scrumptious. And then I saw it. Sitting on the counter - not demonstrating an ounce of shame - was a generous wedge of creamy brie. Even then I had no idea...
It was only when I had TASTED the brie (before I realized that OF COURSE I would have to taste it, that there had never really been any choice) that I began to suspect. As I continued to slice more and more creamy cheese from the wedge, my suspicions grew.
“Nonsense” my mind assured me. “You can stop anytime.”
And I did. After I had stuffed myself to the point of discomfort, I stopped. And then I woke up the next morning, and was dismayed to realize that all I wanted for breakfast was brie.
“Don’t,” I began reasoning with Myself, “Be stupid. You cannot have brie for breakfast. You know what you should have? Something healthy. Have some fruit.”
“Fruit,” Myself shot back, “Is KNOWN to be best when consumed with certain cheeses – like brie. Plus there’s calcium in cheese. You NEED calcium, or your bones will crumble and you will spend the rest of your life wishing that you had EATEN MORE CHEESE.”
I could see that there was going to be no reasonable conversation here, so I forced myself to leave the apartment. As I drove to the office, I considered my current obsession. An awareness began dawning in the back of my head. I reflected upon the meals that had led me into the weekend, and sustained me throughout. Hmmm. When had I developed that hankering for macaroni and cheese? And how had I not noticed that I had been adding cheese to every meal?
More importantly – what was this new dietary habit all about? Why was I – even now – miles from the brie stashed in my refrigerator – all but consumed with thoughts of its oozing goodness? What did I want for lunch? Brie. Or macaroni and cheese. Or macaroni and cheese with a side of brie. What did I want for dinner? The exact same thing all over again. The days stretched before me…an endless battle to restrain myself from the power of cheese.
I do not know how I have come to this, but I bare my soul to you all: I am an addict. I am addicted to cheese. Still, there is some hope for me yet. It appears that my addiction is a bit pretentious, and limits itself to select cheeses. Creamy, ooey-gooey buttery cheeses. Perhaps I can – through perseverance – persuade this addiction that it is above cheese, and that it is instead addicted to lowfat yogurt. I realize that the odds are slim, but I have nothing but time…and a wicked wedge of brie in my refrigerator.
I’ll be right back…
It all seemed so innocent at first. D arrived at the appointed hour for our chosen DVD night, bringing with him several brown grocery bags. (This – I will interject – was not exactly part of the agreed-upon plan. “I’ll bring food…” is what he said. My mind assumed “enough food for one meal.” D’s mind asserted “I’ll purchase the entire inventory of the grocery store and take it over there so that she has some food in her cupboards.” I must learn to anticipate this sort of generosity and get more details in future conversations…but back to “the incident.”) I let him pass without fear, and his trusted hands brought the food-laden bags INTO THE APARTMENT.
Sigh. How naïve I was.
Like treasures from a chest, the tasty offerings began appearing. Strawberries, tangerines, hearts of palm, chocolate bars, crackers, pasta…it all looked scrumptious. And then I saw it. Sitting on the counter - not demonstrating an ounce of shame - was a generous wedge of creamy brie. Even then I had no idea...
It was only when I had TASTED the brie (before I realized that OF COURSE I would have to taste it, that there had never really been any choice) that I began to suspect. As I continued to slice more and more creamy cheese from the wedge, my suspicions grew.
“Nonsense” my mind assured me. “You can stop anytime.”
And I did. After I had stuffed myself to the point of discomfort, I stopped. And then I woke up the next morning, and was dismayed to realize that all I wanted for breakfast was brie.
“Don’t,” I began reasoning with Myself, “Be stupid. You cannot have brie for breakfast. You know what you should have? Something healthy. Have some fruit.”
“Fruit,” Myself shot back, “Is KNOWN to be best when consumed with certain cheeses – like brie. Plus there’s calcium in cheese. You NEED calcium, or your bones will crumble and you will spend the rest of your life wishing that you had EATEN MORE CHEESE.”
I could see that there was going to be no reasonable conversation here, so I forced myself to leave the apartment. As I drove to the office, I considered my current obsession. An awareness began dawning in the back of my head. I reflected upon the meals that had led me into the weekend, and sustained me throughout. Hmmm. When had I developed that hankering for macaroni and cheese? And how had I not noticed that I had been adding cheese to every meal?
More importantly – what was this new dietary habit all about? Why was I – even now – miles from the brie stashed in my refrigerator – all but consumed with thoughts of its oozing goodness? What did I want for lunch? Brie. Or macaroni and cheese. Or macaroni and cheese with a side of brie. What did I want for dinner? The exact same thing all over again. The days stretched before me…an endless battle to restrain myself from the power of cheese.
I do not know how I have come to this, but I bare my soul to you all: I am an addict. I am addicted to cheese. Still, there is some hope for me yet. It appears that my addiction is a bit pretentious, and limits itself to select cheeses. Creamy, ooey-gooey buttery cheeses. Perhaps I can – through perseverance – persuade this addiction that it is above cheese, and that it is instead addicted to lowfat yogurt. I realize that the odds are slim, but I have nothing but time…and a wicked wedge of brie in my refrigerator.
I’ll be right back…
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Just A Few Thoughts
This is not what I would consider a high-quality blog entry, as I'm quite tired from an unusual outing but feel compelled to enter a few words before retiring.
"Why compelled," you ask?
Well, for one thing, because it seems that since the universe is so clearly sending me loud distress signals, I'd best use every avenue and opportunity to "work through" - or toward - whatever it is that I'm learning and/or arriving at. Still unsure of the specifics of what the hell is even going on, frankly, so excuse the practically nonsensical nature of that sentence. That, these days, is my life. Nonsensical. Or is it?
But I have digressed....
Writing - I'm quite certain - is clarifying. If only I knew what topics to address in my writing, I might actually get somewhere. In the meantime, I have "opened myself" to new experiences. Yes, I tried a new experience last night. That went well. I tried a new experience tonight. Didn't like that one so much. But more on those later... when I'm really blogging. Not like right now, when I am (I've noticed) pretty much just rambling. Again, this - these days - is my life. A transitionary phase. That's one of the things I'm telling myself.
What? What was that?
Sorry - thought I heard the higher powers finally explaining the meaning of my current state. Alas, I was mistaken. It was a rabbit munching on lettuce. Close, close. If I thought long enough - and hard enough - I might find quite a lot of meaning in that munching.
Still, I'll put this out there... for whoever is paying attention: I'm ready. Yes -like you've INSISTED, I'm shedding myself of negative energies right and left, and I'm WIDE open for anything positive that you want to send my way. Yup, anytime you want to direct those POSITIVE things toward me, I'll be ready. Opened my mind right up in anticipation, I have. Just thought I'd make that clear. NO HARBORING of those negatives here. Moving them RIGHT out of my life. Just waiting...right over here...anytime now...
Also, I was struck by the melodramatic nature of a couple of my recent posts and couldn't let them be the most recent things posted, for the shame of it. Instead, I've replaced it with what appear to be the ramblings of a madwoman. Great. Way to go, K. Put everyone's mind at ease with your clearly improved mental state. Excellent.
Anyhoo... the lesson in this is probably a fairly easy one to grasp. Don't write when you're tired, and have been subjecting yourself to "new experiences" like mad, and have received traumatic life blow after traumatic life blow within an absurdly short period of time, and have exhausted your emotional reserves, and have subjected yourself to what was deceptively labeled as a "Strength Training class" and was actually a front for AN HOUR of cruel and unusual torture. That last part is particularly important. I'm pretty certain that a screw slipped during the twentieth push-up on the Bosu. I can't discuss it further, or I'll get so riled up that I won't be able to sleep. All I WILL say is this: Whatever EVIL mind invented that device should be FORCED to use it EVERY day in EVERY activity that they undertake for the rest of their life. That - my friends - would be true justice.
"Why compelled," you ask?
Well, for one thing, because it seems that since the universe is so clearly sending me loud distress signals, I'd best use every avenue and opportunity to "work through" - or toward - whatever it is that I'm learning and/or arriving at. Still unsure of the specifics of what the hell is even going on, frankly, so excuse the practically nonsensical nature of that sentence. That, these days, is my life. Nonsensical. Or is it?
But I have digressed....
Writing - I'm quite certain - is clarifying. If only I knew what topics to address in my writing, I might actually get somewhere. In the meantime, I have "opened myself" to new experiences. Yes, I tried a new experience last night. That went well. I tried a new experience tonight. Didn't like that one so much. But more on those later... when I'm really blogging. Not like right now, when I am (I've noticed) pretty much just rambling. Again, this - these days - is my life. A transitionary phase. That's one of the things I'm telling myself.
What? What was that?
Sorry - thought I heard the higher powers finally explaining the meaning of my current state. Alas, I was mistaken. It was a rabbit munching on lettuce. Close, close. If I thought long enough - and hard enough - I might find quite a lot of meaning in that munching.
Still, I'll put this out there... for whoever is paying attention: I'm ready. Yes -like you've INSISTED, I'm shedding myself of negative energies right and left, and I'm WIDE open for anything positive that you want to send my way. Yup, anytime you want to direct those POSITIVE things toward me, I'll be ready. Opened my mind right up in anticipation, I have. Just thought I'd make that clear. NO HARBORING of those negatives here. Moving them RIGHT out of my life. Just waiting...right over here...anytime now...
Also, I was struck by the melodramatic nature of a couple of my recent posts and couldn't let them be the most recent things posted, for the shame of it. Instead, I've replaced it with what appear to be the ramblings of a madwoman. Great. Way to go, K. Put everyone's mind at ease with your clearly improved mental state. Excellent.
Anyhoo... the lesson in this is probably a fairly easy one to grasp. Don't write when you're tired, and have been subjecting yourself to "new experiences" like mad, and have received traumatic life blow after traumatic life blow within an absurdly short period of time, and have exhausted your emotional reserves, and have subjected yourself to what was deceptively labeled as a "Strength Training class" and was actually a front for AN HOUR of cruel and unusual torture. That last part is particularly important. I'm pretty certain that a screw slipped during the twentieth push-up on the Bosu. I can't discuss it further, or I'll get so riled up that I won't be able to sleep. All I WILL say is this: Whatever EVIL mind invented that device should be FORCED to use it EVERY day in EVERY activity that they undertake for the rest of their life. That - my friends - would be true justice.
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