If I Die Young....

I went to our place in the country today.  I needed to get away from the twin temptations of the tv and the laptop.  I parked near the old houseplace and walked down to the shack.

As I went through the upper fields, I passed the blackberry brambles.  They aren't quite ready yet, for the most part, but there were some early ones already turned, and I put my book and water bottle down long enough to pick a couple of succulent handfuls of the tiny sweet berries.  I swear there is no taste on earth as sweet, except perhaps that of a kiss given in love, as summer blackberries ripened in the sun in an open field.  Nothing store-bought compares.  They explode, disintegrate, dissolve, wash the mouth with joy, with the glory of every cloudless morning, every golden noon, every painted evening.

Picking them isn't an easy thing.  If you've never done it, you may not know that blackberry brambles guard their treasures jealously.  I made my requisite blood sacrifice, snagged my clothing on the thorns, stained my palms with purple blotches.  As I picked, a fragment of a song lyric floated through my head, "If I die young / At least I got some chocolate on my tongue...."   I smiled.  It's not chocolate that is always the sweetest and the best.  I'll be content with summer blackberries from a hidden field.

And You Wonder Why I Love This Man.....

When we hold each other, in the darkness, it doesn’t make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better. “It’s all right” we whisper, “I’m here, I love you.” and we lie: “I’ll never leave you.” For just a moment or two the darkness doesn’t seem so bad.

~ Neil Gaiman, Neil Gaiman’s Midnight Days

Mine

Pegasus.  The poet's steed.  You know symbols are my life.  (Or maybe you don't.  Maybe you don't read here often, or maybe you don't pay attention.) I've been looking for a good representation in a piece of jewelry for awhile.  I have a pendant with a quote and Pegasus shown in part, but this pin is the thing I've been hoping to find.  It's vintage and even sterling, the metal I prefer to wear.  I love it.  I can't wait for it to get here.

And the Other Side of the Coin

(assuming you read the previous poem post first)

....is an incredibly hard-to-fight and largely-self-destructive tendency to do something really very stupid.  

I call it the F-You syndrome. (edited for television, you understand)  When I'm trying to get over something or someone, I get this really defiant streak of idiocy that takes over my normal staid sense of self-control.  I get the urge to do foolish things.  

I listen to all my music too loud, drive too fast, "thread-the-needle" on the interstate just a little too often, and if that were all, I would probably be okay.

But I start thinking thoughts that will get me in serious crap, too.  Thoughts like, "Okay.  To hell with it.  I am done sitting in this ivory tower waiting.  Love is for songs and fairy tales, and I don't live in either one.  And I'm bored.  Very bored.  And Louisville is a town full of college students.  Lots of very cute guys who are both intelligent enough to know what a book is and also that there is life in the universe....."  

This is what the F-You syndrome does.  It makes me stupid.  I do not want a college guy diversion, even if they might be fun to play with.  That's a waste of time.  Pretty toys always are, regrettably.  There's also the fact that undergraduate college guys are waaaay too young.  As in ickishly so. As in Humbert-Humbertishly so.  As in "honey, you're adorable, but I actually have t-shirts, paperbacks, stuffed animals older than you" so.  

Don't misunderstand me.  I think love has nothing to do with age.  I think two people can fall in love and an age difference between them can mean nothing.  My grandfather was 16 years older than my grandmother; my cousin is MUCH younger than his wife.  When you find the person that you have everything in common with, that's the person you need, and everything else is just details.  And I do believe in love, do want love actually.  Fervently.  It's why I am so wound up right now, why I've been so sad lately.....

But I'm not talking about love right now.  I'm talking about stupidity. And for that, you need somebody closer to your own age.  Grad students....now that might be a different kettle of fish...

And the F-You syndrome has reasserted itself just that fast.

It's how I wound up with T.  (Not one of my better choices.)  I knew I was moving too fast with him, knew I was making stupid choices, but I just kept saying, "So? Who cares? It's not serious," and taking one more step forward, and one more, and one more.... And so I wound up with the Samurai wanting his head on a damn plate and unable to get it because he's so much better with a shinai than I am.  Crash-Burn.  Face/Palm.

It's not just interesting relationship choices, either.  This might be the year I finally come home with the tattoo I've been planning for so many years. 

You see how it goes?

Hopefully, I will channel this recklessness out soon and harmlessly, find a lightning rod of some kind.  Otherwise, well, I've survived it before.  And that is how cautionary tales are collected, I suppose.  At least I'll have something interesting to blog.  And as Emerson would have it, I'll have some new wisdom from it, perhaps, to keep me from doing something similar next time.

Untitled

It's a work in progress.  I'm trying to purge some things, obviously.  Feedback would be welcomed.  If you ask for my honest reaction on this one, I'll tell you, but you need to tag me.

___________________________________

Don’t misunderstand.

It’s over.

I will cut off this hand

before I ever allow it

to reach for you

again.

Tonight I perform the rites

to make myself free

drag out every pitiful secret keepsake

treasured up in the shadows

of my foolish heart

 throw them all away.

You have to go.

I will cut you out

bleed you clean

and though you will leave scars

they do not mark me as yours

are tactile reminders only

to be smarter next time.

They will teach me

to keep my hands to myself

 no matter the temptation

to trust no falsetame angels

 who trade a touch of something like grace

for a taste of my soul

to set up no altars

until I can bear the cost

of the sacrifice required.

Daily Doses

Thursday, I had a day of adventure, roaming around town to my favorite junktique and so forth.  It was a good day.  I took a few forgettable pictures, but it was nice to be out with the camera until the rain came.  It spattered on the top of the roof of the parking garage I was shooting from enough to run me in, and so I transferred to the local bookstore where I found some things to read, sat for a long time outside there once the rain had passed reading a new book of Billy Collins.

Yesterday, I cleaned pretty much all day long.  I mopped, vacuumed, sunned the feather mattress, flipped the regular one, did endless loads of laundry, scrubbed fixtures, generally reclaimed the house from the edge of doom.  It's still not company-ready, but I feel a quiet sense of satisfaction when I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water or a Diet Mt. Dew.

Today, I've been online some catching up, but mostly I've been reading and listening to music.  I got a double CD from Billie Holiday that I've been listening to nonstop for the past two days, but exquisite as she is, I feel too much like too many of her lyrics too often, and she's started making me sad, so I've switched back to the long and elaborate playlist I've put together from a bunch of music I was recently gifted with by a friend and some stuff I already had.  Throw Nanci Griffith, Wilco, David Wilcox, Avett Brothers, Josh Ritter, and Pierce Pettis together and let them spin.  Mostly, this list doesn't make me sad, except when it does....  I'm trying to weed out the ones that break my heart.  I'm tired of things that break my heart right now.

I'm settling into the summer.  I'd like to see more of my friends, but that's probably not going to happen much.  They've all been more or less eaten by their children or just simply disappeared off the face of the world, so I will try to work in a visit here or there and work on my trips alone.  The big one is coming up in a little while, and I'm getting everything ready for it.  I'm actually looking forward to the drive up.  If I can avoid having to change another tire on the side of the freeway in North Tennessee, I'll enjoy just being behind the wheel watching the world unfold in front of me.  Maybe this time I will bring back a picture of the giant metal chicken from that gas station/chicken joint.

After that, I've decided that this is the summer I am going back to Ocean Springs, and this is the summer I'll go find the ruins of Windsor.  Those I can do in a day.  I might try to do Graceland this summer, too, but only if I can get somebody to go with me since that will be an overnight trip.  I'd love to see Memphis again, go to Sun Records, do the whole thing properly.  Maybe I can find somebody who'll go.

Now, though, it's time to finish up here and get back to the book.  It's nice to be in this lazy pace after the frantic pace of the school year.

Rereading The American Scholar

Tonight I got my mom's old battered copy of the Viking Portable Emerson down and reread The American Scholar.  I haven't read it in its entirety since...oh, I don't know...probably my undergrad.  I've done bits and pieces, excerpts, when I taught juniors, but the last time I read the whole thing, I was probably very, very tired, and I undoubtedly read it out of a Norton Anthology of some flavor or another, one of those massive chunks-o-Literature I now have in my classroom or somewhere lurking in the back of the house somewhere, onion-skin pages heavily annotated.

It was strange to read this and see the careful notes from my mother's hands.  She has a very different style of annotation, first of all, and we, being similar but ultimately different people, were struck by different parts of the passage.  Sometimes she had underlined the thing I would have, but more frequently, she'd marked something near it.  It was odd.  It made me reflect on deeper issues that she and I have, the way we disagree on things, misunderstand each other.  I think more often than not, we're almost seeing things the same, assuming that we understand in the same way, when really, we're underlining separate sentences....

Anyway, back to Emerson.

Going back through it again without a deadline or thirty-seven other things pressing down on me was liberating.  I always forget how wonderful he is.  I loved everything he had to say.  The ideas that struck me most forcefully were the ones about being careful not to get trapped in the worship of books or ideas and the need for the scholar to be active.

He spoke at length about making sure that the love of knowledge doesn't strangle creativity.  Basically, if books aren't seen as tools, if they become deified, then they will destroy what he calls "Man Thinking."  We have to forge our own patterns, our own ideas, or we aren't doing what we're supposed to be doing; we're just repeating instead of adding anything useful.  He says all this more eloquently, but it struck me powerfully.

The second thing that jumped out at me this time was what he had to say about how the true scholar must go out and experience life or s/he has nothing to pull from.  True knowledge lives.  There is no ivory tower life for the true scholar.  If new experiences and new adventures don't flow in, then no new knowledge is acquired.  Book learning, he says, is only a foundation for practical application.  Scholars should be more about carpe diem than anybody else.

And the whole thing is wonderful.  I'm hacking it to bits with my poor translation.  Get it and read it for yourself.  You can also read it online (with typos, so caveat emptor) here.   All of this is a good kick in the pants for the sadness I've been fighting lately.  There was a passage that directly dealt with that.  One day, I will apparently be able to use it as food for my knowledge.  Heh.  I hope I get there soon.  I'm holding Emerson to that one.

Insane -- Garrison Keillor

I wake up in the morning, eat some cantaloupe,
Toast two slices of bread, pour hot water through
The coffee, read about Obama and the pope
And think tenderly of faraway you.
A cold day in hell and my soul is haunted.
I am a ghost here.  All I ever wanted,
My love, is to be in your arms, my love.
You're flying to the rainy plains of Spain
And I'm snowbound alone on a rather grand
Street in St. Paul going quietly insane,
Wishing you'd call or something.  I stand
At the window as if you might suddenly appear.
O I would give anything -- anything! Do you hear
Me, love? -- if I could be in your arms, my love.
____________________

One of the things I got today was Garrison Keillor's book, 77 Love Sonnets.  This one struck me particularly, so I thought I'd share it here.  If you've never felt like this, then you're probably leading a blessed life, and I envy you.

Auspicious

Apparently, May 25 is just...auspicious.  It's funny how certain dates just have lots of things connected to them.  Today is one of those days.  Maybe every day is like that, but those days don't have things that relate to me, so I don't notice.   As I've been Tumblr-ing today, the birthdays of so many different things I love have passed through my feed.  Here are a few of the most important:

• Towel Day -- Today is the day for appreciating the works of Douglas Adams.  Don't Panic, make sure you have your towel, remember that 42 IS the answer, and you'll be fine.
• Star Wars -- It premiered in 1977, making it just slightly younger than me.  I still remember going to see one of the later episodes at our now-totally defunct drive-in theater.  C-3PO's giant golden face is indelibly carved into my childhood memories.  I wish I could somehow have the same sort of experience as an adult.  It's hard to believe that the series itself will be 35 next year.  We're all getting older, aren't we?  At least with the films, the quality stays the same.
• Ralph Waldo Emerson -- My favorite Transcendentalist was born today.  His words literally transformed the way I thought about life and my place in it when I read them for the first time.  I think everybody ought to read him when they're 17 or 18 and trying to figure out who they are.  He doesn't try to define that for any person, but he (along with Thoreau, although Thoreau never moved me the way Emerson does) surely stands by the road and points the way.  To me, he's the king of American philosophers.  

There may be something else.  I'm waiting to see.  These three are trifecta enough, don't you think?

Untying the Knot

It's the last day of the school year, and since I've been sitting here waiting for the big "you can go home," I've had a lot of time to think today.  Lots of what you might call personal reflection. You see, I've had one absolute hell of a year.  There have been people and things that have helped me survive it.  But then....  I've realized that I'm done with certain things in my life.  No.  "Done" just doesn't quite cover it.  Actually, I'm fairly pissed about these things.   Here's the list in no specific order, and no, really, it doesn't all or even mostly have to do with work:

• feeling bad about things I didn't start and can't do anything about
• people who only show up when they want something from me
• being so stressed out all the time that it makes me physically ill

It's time to clean house.  Fasten your seatbelt.  I need to get some crap cleaned out of my life.

Cummings -- "You Are Tired"

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

- e.e. cummings

_____________________

If you can't tell, I'm on a kick with Cummings.  I was cleaning out a bookshelf at school this afternoon, and I found my copy of 100 Poems.  I sat there on the tile floor and took a few moments to look through it, rereading the poems I'd marked, looking at the ones I hadn't.  

He never fails to please, to have the words that cut like gorgeous daggers of glass.  He never fails to have the words that I want somebody to come and say to me.  More than any other poet I know, he manages to capture that voice I wish I heard speaking to me.  

I could be the person he's talking to in this poem so easily right now.  I am tired (more than a little) and all my toys are broken.  Why isn't there somebody, some beautiful-speaking, parentheses-using man who UNDERSTANDS that who comes and knocks at the hopeless gates of my heart with a rose?  You know what?  It's okay if he forgets the flower, even.  Just as long as he brings the words....

Cummings -- "let it go"

let it go ‐ the
smashed word broken  
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise ‐ let it go it
was sworn to
go
  
let them go ‐ the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers ‐ you must let them go they
were born
to go
  
let all go ‐ the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things ‐ let all go
dear
so comes love  
  
~ e. e. cummings ~

When It's Done

I got drafted into being a part of graduation yesterday. I helped with "the middle" of the massive class, helping them robe up, file in, stand up, file down, and sit down at the right times.  Mostly, I think it went as well as anything involving more than 350 very excited people can.  I wasn't in the spectator stands or on the field, so I am not exactly sure about the precision with which we carried it off, but I think it was good.  If not, they have their diplomas and they were happy, and that's all that really matters ultimately.  They behaved well, carried themselves with grace and dignity, and we were out of there before midnight.  All in all, not a bad evening.

Graduation is such a mixed time for me.  I am so proud to see all my chickadees fly, see all those bright blue robes flapping in joy when it's all done, but especially right now, I was also sad to know that it's an ending.  Of course, I'll still keep in touch in some ways with some of them, and that's as it should be.  They go on to other things.  They shed us, and that's they way it's supposed to be.  We are the shell the nautilus outgrows, the nest they perch on the rim of for a brief moment before flying away.

Sitting behind them as they stood up and turned their tassels, I watched as the inevitable downpour of hats began.  Because I was so close, I had to fend off a couple, but I just laughed as they fell, as the new graduates scrambled to find a cap, any cap, and dashed down the stadium seats to the field where the throng of family and friends awaited.  For a few moments, I just sat there in the horrible black robe they make us wear every year and watched them go.

Then, suddenly, I just didn't want to be there anymore.  I'd been at school, I realized, since 7:30 that morning.  I'd been at school, in fact, putting in 12-hour days almost 5 days out of every week.  And along with the sense of happiness and completion that came from seeing every single one of mine walk that line and get what they had worked so hard and so long for, there was also a terrible sense of tiredness and emptiness.

I suppose somebody is going to say that it isn't appropriate for me to have had that feeling.  Perhaps I should have been all joy and sweetness and light and sugar puffs, but it was real, and I did have it, whether it was wrong of me or okay.  So it wasn't that I wasn't full of joy for them.  I was.  Very much.  It's just that at the same time, I was suddenly somehow out-of-place for me.

I got up and made my way down.  I hugged a few necks, made some conversation with those I saw, but mostly, I had only one real destination, the little PT Cruiser waiting on me, already parked nose-out in the back lot.  This was a moment for families and friends as people were swept into embraces and photographs were taken.  I, being neither of these, did not belong.  I was like the old brick building standing silent looking down on the field.  We had done our part,  had served our ordained purposes, delivered up our portions of the sacrifice, and now it was time for others to take it from there.

As I crossed the field, I unzipped the black robe.  As I climbed the bleachers on the other side, I pulled it from me.  I was no longer anything that was official, anything that mattered at all.  I was just a tall woman in a black dress walking.  The revelry on the field continued.  The happy noise of it followed me across the dark parking lot through the courtyard.  I tossed the wadded up robe in the backseat of my car and cut through town seeking the interstate where I could find speed.  When it's done, it's done.

Hide Out

I sat on a rock by a river today for a long time listening to the sound of water falling.  It's amazing how sweet that was.  I'm restless, my mind is chewing on something that it will not let go, and now is not the time for a long trip, so I loaded up the car and headed to Dunn's Falls.  A short twisting county backroads drive, a dollar and a half handed to the wizened ranger behind the sliding glass window, a quick trip down steep stairs thoughtfully surfaced with old shingles for better grip, and I had what I needed for the most part.

A fair number of people come to see Dunn's Falls, but the beauty of it is that nobody really stays very long.  They are transient, walking down to take quick pictures, delicately picking their way across the limestone shelf, holding a child's hand as he or she wades in the cool water there, looking up at the rusting mill wheel, and then, by and large, the people go away again.  It's possible to be peaceful for long periods of time there.  There is no swimming area, no concession stand, no fishing or boating area.  The river is not easily accessible for wading.  There is no picnicable place.

My little rock tucked into the corner is quiet, shady most of the day, large enough to pull my legs up when I want to sit indian-style, and dry enough to put my camera gear and other things on as well, just in the flow enough to let me dandle my feet if it gets too sultry.  I took pictures for awhile and then came back to the rock, wrote in my journal, read my Kindle, just sat and looked at the river lazing away below.

Eventually, a "serious photographer" showed up with a Nikon D3 and a tripod and started messing around, scrambling up the falls and so forth.  He had a good time, and I was much amused watching him, especially when he ignored the sign that said "DO NOT CLIMB FALLS" to get a shot he wanted.  I wanted to take a shot of him standing basically right under that sign with his setup, but I didn't think he'd appreciate the irony of that as much as I did.

He saw me with my D80, and came over to condescend to me some.  "Oh, what's that you're shooting with?  A D50?"  Um.  No.  D80.  (and yes.  I know you have one of the great gods of KAMERA there, chief.  I do recognize them when I sees them.) "Let me show you a cool trick..."  And he proceeded to try to talk to me about slow shutter speeds making cool effects on waterfalls....  I proceeded to make polite noises.

It's true, though, that I don't control my camera as well as I'd like to.  I can't deny that I'm still having trouble with the controls (NOT THE CONCEPT OF THE CONTROLS) of the D80.  I need to print out some of the PDF of my manual to take out with me.  I don't have a hard copy, and when I get out shooting, I get all the buttons turned around in my head.  This camera is complex with menus, buttons, and little wheels that make it do everything but make coffee.

It's also true that the guy was basically harmless.  He was just one of those "experts" who can only share the love of something by being a bit didactic.  We were showing each other pics off the back of the cameras, and making the appropriate polite sounds, and he told me that he thought I should print some of mine.  That was nice to hear.  I always figure that nobody but me and my family who has to sort of pretend to love what I do anyway much cares what I do with my camera.  To have a perfect stranger tell me that was gratifying.

I sat today until the water combed away the worst of the mental tangles.  It's good at doing that.  Then I put my camera, my Kindle, and my journal away, climbed the steep, rickety steps again, and slowly drove home.  It's good to have a place to hide when needed.  It's necessary.

Kiss

I know I said I was going to be gone for a bit, but… Well, didn’t Robert Burns say something terribly clever and Scottish about mice and men and stupid plans?  This has been on my mind a lot lately, and so it seemed to be demanding to be written.  So I wrote it (and I may not write anything else again for a while).  And no, you may not ask me why.  I will simply lie with a straight face to you and call it a dramatic recitation or poetic license.  I will simply weave together something slightly maudlin about anniversaries, passing years, silver strands in the mirror, old year book photos, and BS you.  Because while I love you, not everything is your business….

The thing I crave most about being in a relationship just now is the kissing.  Isn’t that crazy?  Of all the multitudinous important aspects of everything that a relationship is and can be, right now, I miss kissing. I could be graphic; I can write that, but that’s not what I’m here for.  And it’s not the graphic side that I’m talking about, really, anyway. 

I miss all the ways it starts.   The casual touches, the tangled hands, or the fingertip across my lips.  That little smile that’s full of pure devilment or that slow steady glance that’s full of something that somehow consumes.  Things that are games or things that are totally serious.

I miss the feeling of being held close, of sharing the space with someone else, of no longer being an isolated island in the universe.  I miss the moment when his breathing changes, when the kiss changes, when it becomes sweet, or wild, or certain, or all of those things together, and for an eternal moment nothing else matters.

It’s been too long since I had anybody to share this simple thing with, and to be honest, the price for it with most of the ones I’ve met has been far too high, a kind of giving up, giving in, becoming something other, something else, for me to even consider it for very long.  Either they’re not interested (the usual) or I run as far as necessary (more rare, but it happens).  But still, when I’m tired and when it’s late, sometimes the sacrifice doesn’t seem like such a big thing.  While I’m okay with being alone most of the time, sometimes, just sometimes, just today, just now, this life I’ve picked gets very heavy.

Hat Off (Hiatus)

I wish I could be clever for you, or witty, or silly, or whatever it is that you've come to expect of me, but right now, that just isn't happening.  You will probably see a slight absence here.  This blog is a bit tidal, anyway, and I've been going strong for me this year.  I need to take a little bit of time right now and get my head back together about something.  It's not the sort of thing that makes good reading, actually, if anything that I ever write does, so I beg your polite indulgence. Rather than say something trivial in an uninteresting way, I'm going to choose to say nothing instead.  I'm sure I will crop up with the horrifying, the amusing, or at least an item worth running your eyes over sooner rather than later, but rather than bore you with this piddling little existential crisis, I will simply take my jingly cap off and do some silent soft shoe on the edge of this abyss where it will annoy no one.

My Favorite Seuss

Tonight we were sitting around talking and my cousin's little girl was pulling story books out of her collection.  They had recently unearthed a bunch of Dr. Seuss, and she had one of my very favorite ones from when I was a child myself, The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins.  I looked at it for the first time in probably 20 or more years.  It's amazing to me how much I remember and how much of it I'd forgotten.

I'd forgotten how nice the art really was.  I remembered Bartholomew and all his hats. I remembered that they got more and more interesting as time went on, but I forgot all the intricacies of those he met.  I had forgotten almost all of the details of the plot.  I had forgotten why I loved the book in the first place.  I had forgotten that I liked his calmness in face of trouble and persecution, his confidence in his rightness and honesty.

I used to make my Dad read this one to me night after night when I was little to the point that he finally would say, "I'll read you anything you want that's not Bartholomew Cubbins."  It makes me laugh now to think about it.  Part of it was that it is such a long story, and that meant that I got to spend more time with him reading to me, of course, but I did really like the intricate story.  So many of the stories were predictable and fluffy.  I guess even as a little kid I wasn't much into that.

I am glad my cousin's little girl is going to have the rich experience with Dr. Seuss that we all grew up with.  I'd hate to think of somebody missing him.  Every person has an individual favorite, and who knows what hers will wind up being.  As for me, I think I'll go see if I can dig my copies up and see what else I may have forgotten from those dusty volumes.

Holiday from Myself

I need a vacation from my own self.  I have something in my head that I'm turning over and over obsessively, grinding it into tiny gritty bits that are abrading.  I can't let it go, won't put it down, and  I'm tired of thinking about out.  I need to escape myself somehow, climb out of this space between my ears and see something else for awhile.

(Warning:  Literary Allusion Commencing)

I'm like Hamlet.  I'm overthink.  I have a tendency to take even something relatively straightforward and question it until it becomes a four-fold path.  There are certain things for me that are never straightforward at all, certain topics that simply stick all the gears together.

I wonder if everybody is this way.  I wonder if everybody has something that "gives them pause," or if there are people who sail through life able to reach out and grasp those things they want sure of the consequences and confident of their ability to bear the costs, believing in the rightness of their turnings and the virtue of their footfalls down the road before them.

Right now, I don't even wish for that.  I just want to shake it all off me like an old overcoat and not even think about it anymore.  I just want to run, to spread my wings in the sun and be totally free of all of it, to go somewhere wonderful and fill myself with something else for long enough that when this comes up again, and it, bad-penny-like, must, it won't feel like something rubbing on a sore spot.

Stupid Is as Stupid Does

(Or, There Are Some Kinds of Fool Not to Be)

Don't you hate it when you realize that you're doing something more than a little unwise?

It sneaks up on you.  You're not really paying attention.  You're in the middle of your day-to-day routine, and suddenly it hits you like a hammer right between the eyes.  It could be something you do or don't, a relationship you're pursuing or running away from, a way of eating, a pattern of thought, a work ethic or lack thereof, a spending habit.

Then you have to have that moment of self-assessment, of measuring and weighing, of getting it back between the white lines again.  You have to drag your hands through your hair, ask yourself those "What WERE you thinking, or WERE you thinking at all?" questions, and realign your personal universe in proportion with whatever the silliness you were participating was.

After that, you have to hold the reins of the wayward mind tightly, keep it from jumping fences and rolling in clover, from running away and getting into trouble.  Discipline is required.

It would be easier and possibly more pleasurable to let it run, but sooner or later, disaster always strikes.  It's better to play it safe.  Stupidity leads to tragedy.  I have the scars to prove it, on my body, on my mind, on my heart.  Smart is the way to go.  There are some things that are just stupid, and the wise lay them down gently and walk away before they wake to find  cannot put them down at all.

Soup and Solitude

My nerves are raw today...  So I ran away a little.  It's the test.  I know it.  I can't help it.  I'll be a total basketcase tomorrow (more than usual) and then I'll be more like my version of fine.  Right now, though I can feel the stress under my skin like live eels.

I'm hiding out in my room eating soup and listening to music.  It's safer this way as I'm not a nice person when I'm stressed (more than usual) and I don't have the right to take this nasty out on anybody else.  This way I don't have to make emergency judgement calls and hope that what falls out of my mouth isn't cringeworthy, and I won't claw up those who only mean no harm or who are just being themselves.

Tying the Knot (in It)

Lest you think this indicates something it doesn't I added the parenthetical...

I'll start out cheerily by telling you today sucked.  A lot.  I was greeted with a "command" from CO to sign something for a box that hasn't arrived yet meaning another shipment of my stuff has magically disappeared.  Uh-gin.  Who knows what portal to adventure this one slipped through.   I also found out a have a ream of paperwork due (stapled in neat bundles); I'm "behinder" than usual since I felt like crap all day Saturday and was fighting the battle of the Dying Fridge and had other stuff (house cleaning/family obligations/visitors) on Sunday.

The crowning touch came when one class started sharing horror stories of their "personal recreation" time and couldn't understand why I didn't want them to talk about said recreation activities and thought they needed to get smarter about their lifestyle.  It was frustrating and disheartening beyond all my ability to express.  I heard every cliche that will lead to a moment of agonizing revelation somewhere twenty or thirty years down the road , when the person wakes up at last.  They thought it was all very, very funny.

The sickness from the weekend combined with a lack of sleep making me shaky and weak. We had another bird in the building.   I felt completely sympathetic as it flew from end-to-end and vainly sought freedom against the relentlessly blocking glass.  The day finished with calls from the repairman telling me he could not come out to fix the refrigerator today...Maybe tomorrow!...and a horrible, ridiculous, depressing fightish call with my mother.  A headache hovers at my temples.  I am about to go to bed. I have to believe that even though tomorrow is Tuesday, it is going to be better.  If not, I am going to run away.  I've tied my knot to hang on, but my hands are too sore to cling for long.

Exactly

"The point of quotations is that one can use another's words to be insulting." ~ Amanda Cross