A mediocrity now and always

I don't know.

It is year's end and a time for reflection, they say.

Reflection never goes well for me.

But neither does looking forward.

All around me people are seeing thier wishes come true, are unlocking success, are becoming what they've wanted to be or doing what they've yearned to do and I...

am lost.

utterly and completely.

the only thing tethering me to the here and now is the one person I feel most guilty about.

he shouldn't love me.  I'm unworthy of it.

and but for him, I think I'd not be here to bitch and moan into a blank blog post screen.

am I lucky?  Or cursed to a life of torture, guilt, and meaningless toil?

This year has been so good for so many.

Tragic for others.

for me it has been misery.  Pain.  endless doubt, ceaseless instability.

I want to be happy for those who have everything I do not.  I want to be grateful for all that I do have. 

But being the terrible, wicked person that I am, I am not those things.

I'm bitter.  and lonely.  and resentful. and hopeless.

stuck and sour.

tomorrow I have to force myself to go christmas shopping.

the next day I must endure the holiday surrounded by family, pretending that I'm happy.

When I want nothing more than

ok.  decision time.  I am not blogging anymore.

I think when one has reached the abolute nadir, there's really no point, right?

no one wants to read it, because no one wants to know it.

I don't want it.

incomparable?  I hardly think so.

All over the place

Being au naturale once more is strange.

I mean, of course, that I no longer have prescription pills dissolving into my blood stream and balancing my brain chemicals any longer.

And it is strange.

I say strange because I don't know quite how to feel about it.

My moods certainly aren't stable--as I have a mood disorder--but they are , at least, my moods.  Mine.  Not some manufactured stability, or some chemically enduced high or low.  It is nice to know that the way I'm thinking and reacting and feeling, that its all mine.  I may be fucked up, but at least it is my particular brand of fucked up and not attributable to prozac or abilify or whatever.

Somedays it feels wonderful.  I feel energetic, motivated, organized (well, as organized as this lady can get withour serious intervention), and productive.

Other days, or even hours, I feel easily distracted, frustrated, self-destructive, unhealthy, low-energy, depressed, and all sorts of other negaitive things.

And there's no controlling which way I'll feel.  good things can happen and I still feel blue.  Bad things can happen and not seem to tip the scales if I'm feeling great.  That resiliance is nice, really welcome;  but the unshakable negativity even in the face of acts of kindness, activities I enjoy and the people i love?  Well, that's why I tried pills in the first place, right?

And I miss my therapist.  I don't miss taking time out of a very busy schedule to bitch about my problems to a near stranger (ahem). But I miss her.  She was great.  And inspirational and motivational and kind and understanding.  And sweet.

I'm trying to follow simple, clear, practical advice.

Such as, I'm trying to give myself a break.  She always said that.  I'm, as a rule, incredibly hard on myself.  Punishing, even.  If someone treated any one of my friends the way I treat myself, it would be absolutely unacceptable! i'd be up in arms.  And I wouldn't think of treating anyone the way I treat myeslf.  So I'm trying to have patience, be kind, and understanding.

I'm trying to eat better.  Trying is the operative word.  Trying to eat regulary and relatively healthily.  Trying to give the body what it needs, but aknowledging and understanding when the soul needs to be comforted as well...

I'm playing games and interacting with my husband as much as possible. 

I'm going to sleep early and rising early-- listening to the schedule my body wants to keep.

And I'm making plans for the future--which is perhaps the most significant change.

For the first time in a very long time I am entertaining the notion of having a family.  Of my own.  You know.  Like, a baby.

I know, I know, I know.  I'm an unstable mess.  I'll be the first to say it.

But for the first time in so, so, long, the idea of having children isn't repulsing me.  Isn't so terrible.

Obviously I'm not ready to get knocked up tonight with these luke-warm revelations, but I'm taking the padlock off that particular door.  Maybe we'll open it afterall.  Someday down the road.  When I know more.  When life is a bit more stable.

But if you know me and my journey, hearing that I'm starting to warm up to the idea of a family again is quite something.  Entertaining the notion that I might not be the world's worst mother--why that's downright miraculous.

I might be ok, and that's intriguing.

This is in large part thanks to my incrediblpe partner, who helps me view the world through a lens of possibility.  With him as my partner, sure I can parent.  With him as my helpmate, absolutely I can get through this life.

Of course I'll only truly be ready to be a parent if I can honestly say that if he disappeared tomorrow, could I still do it?

When I can answer yes to that, then I'll be ok.

I think I've got a long way to go on that--I'm pretty fucking co-dependent.  We're like trees whose roots have grown together and whose branches have fused in places.  We've been together through all of our formative years--we've become adults as a couple.  To imagine doing anything without his support is somewhat like trying to imagine a new color; they say it isn't possible.

But life happens all the time, and if I'm not able to say (and believe, and know in my heart of hearts) that should anything happen to my partner that took him out of the parenting equation that I'd be able to rais our child well on my own-- then I'm not fit to be a parent.

Besides the not having a secure career, an income above the poverty line, or a place to live...

So, like I said.  Padlock off, but not opening the door yet.

Just.

Just not detesting, abhoring, and shunning the notion.

And that's progress.

I'll be damned! **Edit**

Well, would you look at that?

NERVES

The All Important Third Date

I said I would and I did.

Amazing.

The deed, not the writing.

Though these scenes always makes me grin like an idiot.

It's Nolan as he's wooing Zahra.  You saw their first date and how they met and all that.  Now the THIRD DATE, which Nolan has made somewhat unconventional.  This is a sorta prelude to the date-- the getting ready.

I also love seeing Grey as a little boy--cracks me up.

Enjoy!

All in a day's work!

Why'd I stop posting to Cedar Falls?

My Cedar Falls Blog?

Because Lord knows I have like a hundred little vignettes just sitting her being read by noone but moi.

Of course, If I posted them to the wild blue yonder of etherspace, they'd be there being read by noone but me in cyberspace...

But I think I stopped because a friend urged me to put them in order.

But I don't think in order.  And being forced to sort of stop and order them before all the writing was done killed my zeal, I think.

So Today, I believe, I will post to the Cedar Falls blog again.

I can't promise it will be a new one (I'm talking to you, D); but I promise it will be the one I feel like posting.

And guess what?  Not only am I getting laun dry done, not only have I been fucked hard in the ass this morning, not only have I been to the supermarket, but I have also written down a cold open and a first scene for the LBJ series.

Suck it, anti-depressents, mood stabilizers, and thyroid pills!

Baby Stepping Down the Stairs...

The decision was made, by myself and my husband, to cease the meds and stop with therapy.  He is backtracking now, saying all he wanted was to stop the meds, but he completely told me to stop going to therapy because it isn’t working and if anything, I gotten worse.

Now he claims otherwise, but had he not said that I wouldn’t have made such a drastic decision.

But it has been over a year.  And I agree.  I’m not better.  Not sure I’m worse.  I’ll trust the person I live with.

But I’m off meds. 

And guess who’s back to play?  Our Cedar Falls pals!

Apparently crazy is what makes me creative!  The oldest cliché in the book, I know, but the evidence is undeniable.  Both times I’ve seriously gone off my meds are the only time in the last 14 months that the characters have begun speaking again.  While on meds they and all other creative juice lays still and fetid.

Now it is all stirred up!  I want to write all kinds of things!

I want to write my Bridgewater Triangle movie;  I want to write my TV series about LBJ (Called :”Johnson” in honor of the man’s enormous endowment!), I want to write a miniseries about Eleanor of Aquitaine, and yes.  Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES—I want to write more about my incestuous little town.

The test will be whether or not I actually DO write anything, or simply think about it ad nauseum.

I have other stupid endeavors occupying my feeble little flurried mind.  Such as designing an in-law addition that may theoretically go onto my parents’ house.  And designing other houses, because I have ADD and cannot focus solely on one projects at a time, which is unfortunate since multitasking is not only not my strong suit, it is the bane of my miserable little existence.

And come Wednesday I will not be sitting with my therapist, whom I love very much.

And I’m unclear how I feel about this. 

I am certain I bawled my eyes out over it in the car after I told her my plan.

Certain  I felt shitty and awkward and stupid while explaining that it wasn’t her—she’s great—it is all me.

She says this feeling is part of my neuroses (new rosies!).

I could care less.  I need a break.  See if I can’t figure this out on my own.

She doubts that and is extrememly worried about my safety.

I very honestly assured her that while I think about suicide every day, about how wonderful it would be to kill myself and end the suffering, end the doubt, stop the pain and the hurt and the miserable existence—I haven’t yet, so I doubt I’ll ever have the balls to do it.

You see, I’m a fucking coward.  And when you’re a coward you look for easy, painless ways to off yourself.  And you panic and chicken-out if there’s a chance of failure. 

I should have taken all the sleeping pills in my possession a few months back, but did not.  I had the means, the motive, and the opportunity.

And I pussied out.

There’s a gun shop on my drive to work (oh the rural parts of our state) and I could stop in some day, apply for a license or whatever.

And yet have I?

And I won’t.

Not because I don’t desperately want to.

But because I am a feckless fool.

But maybe I’ll write again.  Remember how that gave me purpose?  It would be nice to have a purpose aside from trying to not get fired from a job I don’t love and at which I am not particularly skilled…

Hamlet, the sequel?

I've decided to cease and desist with the therapy.  Aaron reckons I've gotten worse.

So I'm going to stop seeing the therapist and stop with the medication (not that I'm on much right now anyway, due to healthcare snafu).

Tomorrow's therapy session will not go well.

The Therapist will not agree with my assessment.

I'm not looking forward to it.

And I will miss her alot.

But if it isn't working, it isn't working.

And I'm googling ways to kill yourself with common household objects.  So I'd say it isn't working.

The money makes me want to die.  The job makes me want to die.  The living situation makes me want to die.  My inability to cope with and manage most aspects of adult life makes me want to die.

And my guilt over what this is all doing to Aaron?  I want to curl up into a little miserable ball and expire.

But comes a time one must, surely, stop passively longing for release and finally take action, right?

If only there were a poisoned-sword duel I could attend.  Alas and alack.

That is the question...

SO yesterday was sort of bullshit.  I mean, it wasn't, at the time.  But now I feel very dissimilar.  Such is the way of things when you're bipolar I guess.

My therapist made me, I mean physically stopped me and held me and made me look her in the eyes and promise I'd call her if I felt like harming myself.

I made the promise, but not easily.

Everytime I have felt like harming myself I have stoutly refused to call her, or anyone.

Because when you're in that frame of mind you don't want help, you don't want people who care, you don't want to be saved.

You want to finally screw up enough courage to fucking get it fucking overwith already

Because.  Cowardice.

A few weeks ago, when I was feeling similarly to this, Aaron took the day off of work to stay home with me. This is a man who doesn't get paid for sick time.  He was concerned enough about what I'd do at home if left to my own devices that he stayed home despite losing all the pay.

And in his arms we spoke at length about Hamlet's soliloquy.

You know the one.

Everyone thinks they know it.

We've all hear it, or, rather, parts of it, again and again and again and again.  in movies, cartoons, tv, in other fuc king plays, in passing party conversation, in song and ad infinitum.

To be or not to be that is the question.

Most of us associate this line with hack acting.  To most of us, this line IS the quintessesntial shakesperain line, coupled with some affected british accent thespian in a ruffled collar holding a skull.  The charicature shakespeare.  Shakespeare distilled.

But that monologue, when read correctly, when you get past all the centuries of bullshit (I mean, actors dread having to give this soliloquy simply because it is so fucking over-exposed.  You feel like a quack the minute the words spill over your tongue!), once you really look deeply at it?

It is absolutely and on a deeply human level, so fucking TRUE TO LIFE.

If your life is that of a person who frequently considers and contemplates suicide.  It isn't this big existentialist (before there was a term for that) wankfest.

It is the real conversation that depressed individuals have with themselves over and over and over.  It is filled with reason but colored by cowardice.  It is aching and yearning and absolutely riddled with pain.

And, sitting there, in my husbands arms and going through that soliloquy line by line (he memorized it when he played Hamlet in Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, of course), I wept.

I wept because someone knew my heart completely.  Understood my tangled, thorny thoughts better than I did myself.  I wept because I wasn't alone, as I so often feel in those times--not because I was cradled in my lover's embrace (you see, in a deep depression this closeness can sometimes have a numbing effect--can sometimes make one lonlier still, because being so close to a vital being, a pumping heart, especially of one who 'loves' you?  This often makes the depressed person feel more alien.  Further distances them from their own humanity.  Look at the way Hamlet treats Ophelia!), but because someone, some fucking PLAYWRIGHT in some dusty theatre's backroom, scribbled this amazing piece of revelation down onto vellum.

To exist or not to exist is the problem, the question at hand.
Whether it is braver, m ore righteous, to suffer your fate
or to take a stand and say "fuck you" to the hand you've been dealt.
To just... go to sleep, nothing more!  And by doing so,
To take matters into my own hands and end all the pain, the misery, the awfulness.
It is something to strive for, to reach for, it is a desire...
To die.  To just sleep... (how nice would that be?)
But there's the fucking catch.
Because in this sleep of death, this eternal sleep, what kind of dreams/nightmares will take me?
It gives us pause.
And it makes our lives long and full of suffering.
The fear of what's after death is what makes cowards of us.
We're afraid to take control and kill ourselves because nobody really knows
What waits after we draw our final pitiful breath.
 Because why else put up with a shitty, awful, miserable life, but for fear of the afterlife?
The undiscovered country from which no traveler returns (thanks, will).
It weakens our resolve.
It holds us back from taking that last, final, and yearned-for step to freedom.
These THOUGHTS, these useless fucking machinations of the cowardly brain
they stand in the way of ACTION
and the moment is once again lost...  Till next time we start this whole fucking debate again...


But there's a reason everything sounds better coming from the bard...


HAMLET: To be, or not to be--that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--

No more--and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--

To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprise of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action

 

Tomorrow is Today

Grades are due today, so I took the fucking day off.

I am almost $500.00 overdrawn until my direct deposit goes through tonight at midnight.

My health insurance is still in limbo or non-existant.

Which means my medication is slim to none (leftovers and free samples)

And my stress level is through the roof because by june I may not have a job and simultaneously may not have a place to live, as my landlord wants to move back in here...

But the election went the way I'd hoped (with a few exceptions).  I am not going to work today (double edged, but I'm choosing to enjoy the pleasant edge), we have monday off, Thanksgiving is within sight, and I live with and love my best friend.

So despite the instability of my mental/emotional state, and despite the overwhelming burdens of work, finances, and paperwork... despite all that I am feeling glad.

And not like killing myself.  Today, anyway.

Though I'll confess the prospect of accidental death almost never feels like a bad prospect.

I suppose with continued therapy I'll get to work through that.

There's something in the air... and on the lawns...

Tis the season.

Not the season for holly and mistletoe and big red suits and jingling bells.  Not yet.  Despite what discount mega stores may imply with their months-early stock.

Nay.

Tis the season of spiced apple cider.

Of pumpkin patches and burnished horizons.  Of flooded red bogs and thick rolling fogs.

the season of crisp morning air and long knit scarves and frost on the fallen leaves.

Tis the season wherein the atmosphere seems to crackle with a charged energy--a mystery and a nostalgia.

Tis the very witching time of year... When the veil seems thinner... when the paranormal seems not only possible, but probable.

I can very nearly TASTE the spirits in the air around.

I adore this time of year; the dichotomy between the cozy and the Cryptozoic titillates and tickles me.

Imaginations gambol and fancy takes flight.  Whispers and whimsy and wild propositions.

Tis the season we humans indulge in comfort food, indulge in earthly delights before the torpor of winter saps us of out virility and vigor.

Tis ghost-hunting season! mwahahahahahahah!

That being said.

It is also, unfortunately the time of year where people insist on decorating their suburban lawns with the most ridiculous bullshit.

Being Irish, I have some serious pet peeves on this subject.

Let's start with the acceptable, and work our way toward the vomit-inducing, shall we?

So, being a New Englander, the type of autumnal home decoration that I not only approve-of but almost DEMAND?  The obligatory harvest display.

Get yourself some various gourds (the more gnarled and mishaped the better), grab a hay bale, a corn stalk or two and some mums?  You've got yourself a classic Fall tableau.  Throw in some brambly branches and we're golden.  Also acceptable?  A charming and traditional-looking scarecrow.

A little too Martha?  Tough.  This is what autumn in new england should look like.

Look at all the gourdy gourds!

Ok, so say you aren't the suburbanite, better-homes & gardens type.  Say you want to play upmthe fun and drama of this scintillating ans spooky time of year?  Well, then, naturally you will want to decorate for all hallow's eve!

But if you're going to do this, please jesus, do it right!

If you're going for spooky, by heaven, commit!

Now, honestly, this CAN be done without special effects and big budgets.  Check out these simple, yet stylized solutions:

Simple yet elegant.  Done well and not over done.


Ok, so if that's too tame for you, you'll want to explore creating some fucking installation art.  You'll want to TRANSFORM your mundane suburban lawn into a creepy, eerie nightmare!

Stylize, helped to great effect by the fog machine.

Add caption

The ufo is fucking stellar!

Yeah.  Dry ice or a fog machine really fucking help.  everything.

If you choose to do this, folks, there are no half-measures.  Half measures are for pussies.  Go big or go the fuck home.

COMMIT, dammit!

Make little kids shriek in delighted terror, and make other adults green with envy.  Be the haunted fucking house you dreamt of as a pre-teen.

And dont' by any means, get sucked in to the cutesy trap.

The nauseating, icky, pablum that floods mega value marts this time o'year.

                                                                                                                                                                               The inflatable sort of generic bullshit that makes your eyes roll back in your skull.

That makes you literally retch as you drive by.

And, for god's sake, please don't buy every single inflatable lawn ornament and stick them all out there together in a horrible pastiche with no rhyme, reason, or thought to composition.

Guhck.


And don't even get me started on costumes...

Turbulence and Trauma

It has been a turbulent few weeks.  Believe it or not, it has nothing to do with my birthday!  I may be one of the few folks who doesn't give a fuck about turning another year older.  Maybe it will feel different when 30 rolls around, but 29 was thoroughly unevenetful and unemotional.

Having to suddenly go off all my meds because of insurance complications, on the other hand... not pretty.

And my doctor tells me that doing this literally causes brain damage.  Not figuratively, not "It's like causing brain damage", but it ACTUALLY damages my brain.  Possibly irreparably.

Oh. 

Well. 

Oh well.  What can you do?

So If I begin to drool more frequently we'll know why...

I had a mixed bag of a weekend.  Some real highlights; friends, family, and relaxation with the hubs.

However, as I was ridiculously busy I failed, for the second weekend in a row, to even make a dent in the mountain of correcting I need to get done.

It is becoming a serious concern.  Term ends next week.  Yikesaroni.

And this weekend meant facing a lot of different people weilding the same dreaded question:  How's work?

grumble.

The more I was asked it the less sure I became. 

How is work?

Fine.  I guess.  I think. 

It isn't a natural fit.  It just isn't.  I love the kids to bits, and I really like my collegues, and I think the school system is wonderful.  It just...

Guys, I'm not a teacher.  At least not this kind of teacher.  Can I teach?  It seems so.  But it does not come naturally and it does not bring me the joy or satisfaction that I think is necessary to making it in such a demanding, pressure-packed career.  I mean, you gotta want this bad to put up with the incredible stress, pressure, bullshit, and hassle.

And while I want A JOB bad, I want A SALARY bad, this chosen path just isn't superb for me.

But I'm working at it.  Everyday.  Working so hard I practically collapse from exhaustion at the close of each day.

Working and wondering when or even if I'll ever feel confident.  Or qualified.  Or even comfortable.

It is nearly 1 AM now.  Just finished lesson planning a few minutes ago. 

Time for bed.  I have to get into work early tomorrow.

Looking forward to enjoying some autumnal delights and ghost-hunting this weekend!

To internet or not to internet.

not intentionally promoting a book or movie, just an appropriate image.

Officially another year older. 

A new job.

In a new district.

The same insecurities.

It has been more than a year since I started therapy.  I have now tried quite a few different chemical and non-chemical solutions.

I am far from cured.

In fact, I worry lately that I'll never get there.  To destination happyville.

Or even contentment county.



Today, for the first time in a long time, I played a scene in my head.  Like I used to do.  A new scene for Cedar Falls.  It wasn't anything terribly awesome, but it was something.  There's been so much of nothing for so long.  Occasionally there'd be snoppets of dialogue.  Images, certainly.
moments.

But this was an entire scene.  With my old friends. 

But this maked me more than a mite concerned. 

Concerned, because I've noticed that my characters only come out to play when I've missed a dosage.

Yeah.

How's that for a demon to stare down? 

I can only create when I'm crazy?  Well, isn't that the struggle artists, actors, musicians, and comedians have been enduring since Prometheus gave us fire? 

Not a comfortable notion.  I don't believe I'm equipped, mentally to examine this complexity further.  Don't think I have the emotional werewithal, you know?

Today was one of the roughest I've had in a while...  well... so in a month or two, I guess.



Something's been on my mind all week.  I meant to blog about it sooner, but . . . lethargy, procrastination, and legitimate business often prevent me from getting my thoughts down into this ether when they manifest.

Most thoughts wear themselves out and dissipate before the next time I sit down to type, and so many of the times I jot a mental sticky, a "Oh, I should blog this", many of those times are utterly forgotten, lost to the sirens of the ephemera.  Mental stickies are not as effective as actual stickies.

But this "oh, I should blog this" is still hanging on the cluttered bulletin board of my conciousness.  In fact, it stands ut from the rest, and I keep revisiting the thought each day, mulling it over some more, dissecting it more, playing with it like a cat with its dead thing.

 I saw this platitudinous thing somewhere in the wild blue yonder (the interwebs) last weekend:

And I thought: Hmm.

And then I thought:  Shut the fuck up.
And then I thought: Yeah, maybe if there were no bills, no responsibilities, no risk, and no regrets!
And then I thought:  The internet pisses me the fuck off.
And then I went and did something else.

But later I thought:  Well, what the fuck do I do while I procratsinate?

Video games?  sometimes.
Write?  Not so much anymore.
Masturbate?  Meh.  Not with any great panache.  Not a moneymaker there.
So... then... well... I happened to be procratinating when I found that little gem in the bowels of tumblr (I hate it when my red head art-porn sites have pithy posts...).

So what do I (and most of the western world nowadays) do when I am actively procratsinating?  I internet.

That's right.  I verb it.  I internet the fuck out of hours and hours of my life.

Failblog.  Facebook.  Blogspot.  Hulu.  Pandora.  Amazon.  Wikepedia.  Link after link, page after page, whim after whim after facy after impulse.

I internet.

Can one internet for a living?  I imagine lots of my generation has discovered how to do just that.  They're cleverer than I.

But when I'm at work this mental sticky seems to loom larger and larger.  When I struggle to keep pace with the real educators.  When I am pulling out my hair over the enormous responsibility that I never really wanted and don't believ I'll ever be equal to.

I wonder: what SHOULD I be doing while I procrastinate, and there fore doing instead of teaching for the rest of my life?

No answers have revealed themselves.  But a feeling of anxiousness fills me whenever I ruminate upon the niggling, stupid, nothing of an internet kind of thing to fucking say.  What a fucking post card it is.  The worst kind of platitude or aphorism or whatever the hell it might qualify as.

And yet it looms.

And I feel... unfulfilled.  And I feel a wanderlust.  And a fierce urgency to find out.

But stickies, by nature, aren't the proper medium for details, plans, or roadmaps.

Just imperatives.

Attending this anxiety group makes me more anxious than not.  I'm learning breathing techniques and trying to re-wire my negative thought patterns into more positive, empowered ones. 

Bleck.

I wish I had a 'restart' button, or that I could load from a previous save.  But how far back would i go?

High school. 
Maybe younger?

Shrug.  Sigh.  Roll eyes.

Living a worthless life-- and being aware of it-- is an exhausting, demoralizing thing.

Two suicide attempts in 29 years.

If my life is old school nintendo, then I won't get to load from a previous save if I attempt one more time.  NES didn't have any save files, you know?  If Mario bit the big one and had no more free guys?  That was it.

No matter if you were one level in or all the way to the scary tanks.

Dead was dead, back in the world of old school videogaming.

Excepting, of course, that you could simply start over.  Sure it was back at the very first level, but at least it didn't like permanently render your system out of order or anything.

I imagine a successful suicide attempt would result in total system failure.

 unless there's an afterlife.

Which I doubt.

Feral Beasts

"My stories run up and bite me on the leg - I respond by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go and runs off. "
~Ray Bradbury

In searching for some inspirational quotations for my students I came across this one and it, well, it sort of bit me in the leg and I haven't been able to shake it all day.  I have  read many, many pithy, funny, touching, moving, and revelatory quotations about the writing process, but this is the first time I'd ever read this one.

And at first I dismissed it.  Pffft.  Silly.  Grr.  Not what I was looking for.

Then I revisited it and examined it as a possibility because it seemed like something that might appeal to my middle schoolers.  Personifying untold stories as little beasties that latch on with lock-jawed tenacity.  It wasn't what I needed today, but perhaps I ought to keep it in mind for future inspirational quotage.

But it kept coming back to me at random intervals throughout the day.  And I realized why the thing stuck with me more than all the Twain quotes, the Stephen King quotes, the Plaths, the Woolfes, the Hemingways and Keruacs, the Angelous or the Wildes.  Even though I've never been particularly interested in Mr. Bradbury, nor felt a particular connection to his works, the gentleman scholar has hit my proverbial nail in the head.

My stories, my epics, my ideas--they come like feral beasts out of a wild yonder; they appear unbidden and they are determined to upset the natural ecosystem, the natural balance of my metaphorical natural order of things.  And, rabid, crazed and unrestrained, they sink their teeth into me.  And the only course of action, the only way to fight them is to give them what they want.  

And that's how it feels when I'm compelled, impelled, coerced into my 'creative writing ventures'.

And perhaps why, in absence of one of these clawing, scrambling monsters I find it so damned difficult to create, to produce, to output.  

But the little ghouls, the little animals are so inconvenient!  So unreliable! 

And so I am not a writer, but one who now and then writes.

It isn't 'fancy', for that word is too polite!  Too whimsical and smiling.  

It is more a fight-or-flight response to a mortal imperative; I'm attacked and I respond as I must in order to survive.  I write to feed the gnashing maws; I write to exorcise those wild jaws that have me in a veritable deathroll.

And when it is done, when they are temporarily sated and they slink back into the unknown and unknowable ether from whence they came, when that happens I am spent, I shiver and weep and usually hate.

That's writing...

 

 

 

Or!  Or perhaps this quotation struck a particular cord with me today because my beastly insane-o-cat attacked me quite randomly yesterday-- as I'm correcting papers all of a sudden I let out a blood curdling screech in response to the very real and very 'not-just-playing' claws sunk into my exposed lower back.

Still no idea why the neurotic little shit wigged out like that.  We think he might have been after a string or a moth or even a shadow.  Whatever it was, boy was he ever intent on murder.   It looks like I've been bitten by the demon monster from paranormal activity!

Chairs! The Sequel

CHAIRS!

Firstly, in my own defense against perceived attacks, I'd like to state that there's alot going on in my life-- a hell of a lot more than just chairs!  HOWEVER.  Sometimes it is simpler, more effectively cathartic to focus on the concrete.  The little things.  the chairs.

So. 

You've met Ethan Allen and Lorraine, our wonderful new livingroom chairs.  Aren't they darling?  I'm in love.  I still think of the old pair.  I'll always love and appreciate them and what they meant.  But we grow... we evolve.

Hilariously, one of our cats used to hide under the orange chair, which had a skirt.  He used to hide there to escape his tail--he has issues with his tail--but our new one doesn't have a skirt.  Hilariously he still scuttles under there to hide.  Does he think no one can see him?  Adorbs.

Lolz, not like this...

So.  Diningroom.  Recently I decided to ask our landlord if I could clean up this big, gorgeous circular dining table that was languishing in the communal garage.  I asked him if I could just sort of borrow it--keep it until it came time for us to move out (no date set, just a sort of... you know... eventuality).

He, being a sweetheart, gave us an "of course! take anything you need"  which is the same message he gave us when we firts moved in, impoverished and living in the tiny studio.

BEFORE

Like a pledge commercial!

Getting a new (to us) table, however, spurred me to the task of getting new chairs!  The only didningroom chairs we had were the very first chairs we bought as a married couple-- purchased with a $50.00 gift certificat to IKEA.  If you know anything about the price of chairs, you will know that to buy two chairs for under fifty dollars is a feat!  We purchased the best chairs we could get: two folding chairs!  We've had them ever since. 

Ours are a dark stain, but here they are!

I've since purchased chairs from biglots or something.  Couple of futureistic IKEA inspired white ones, couple of sleek modern style imitation wood ones, but all have met their demise.  Turns out chairs are expensive because a good chair isn't easy to construct.

Facsimile

The problem with the IKEA ones, despite lasting this lobg, is that they just FEEL like folding chairs, you know?  The feel like EXTRA seating.  Like, 'ok, I'll sit here if I must", but certainly not sit-all-night-and-play-games.

So I started my search in earnest.  Yardsales, antique stores, thrift stores, INTERWEBS.  That reminds me-- when did EBAY become ri-fucking-diculous?  Remember when it started and you could find bargains?  Now?  Sheesh.  Don't go looking on ebay if you want to save money.  Go to ebay if you want to overpay for other people's bullshit.



Anyway.  Weeks of craigslist, garage sales, bargain sites, free-on-the-side-of-the-road-piles, and other such avenues yielded nothing.  You see, no budget, plus rather specific tastes, equals problems.

We'd both agreed right off the bat that we could not stand any "grandma chairs".  You know what I'm talking about.  Country chairs.  Fancy chairs.  My mother's chairs.

Bleck

grrr

Despite the orange background, these are still not doing it for me!

And the ubiquitous country kitchen chair!

The problem with this stipulation, it turns out, is that these chairs were, for some time, the most popular fucking chairs in north america.  The chairs that everyone is getting rid of now?  Grandma chairs.  Everywhere.  EVERYWHERE.








We thought: well, maybe we'll pick up some of those and spraypaint them some outrageous color.  It's all the rage right now, and I happen to love it!  take something so terriblyn old-fashioned and give it an amazingly dynamite re-do!

Aren't they the sex?!?!?!?  Hearts.


But still.  We'd prefer something more square.  Less... grandma-esque.

Well we'd had some close-but-no-cigar moments.  We'd had searches that actually brought us to some other fabulous finds!  Lorraine was discovered whilst looking for dining chairs.  So was my amazing new lucite bar stool for only FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS!  compare to market price:

Divinity.

Finally I took my mother's advice and stopped off at the Teen Challenge furinture store. 

Turns out these do-gooders have some AMAZING FUCKING FURNITURE, the sale of which benefits an incredible charity.  However, I couldn't afford it.  The furniture is top notch, (local furniture stores donate!  Way to go Bernie & Phylls, and Jordan's!)and while the prices are more affordable that they would be retail, they were still unrealistic for me. 

So i wandered next door to their regular old thrift store (like Sally's) and found, to my enormous surprise, some CHAIRS!

Were they perfect like Lorraine?  No.  But were they non-grandma, and non-farmhouse?  Yup.  Did they have a little something?  Yeah.  Were they solid?  Were they a strong possibility?  YUP.

I inquired into the price.  Really?  Oh.  In that case.  Yes, I will take four chairs at six dollars a piece.  Sure thing!

So I figured out how to fit four wide-seat (for my lovely big ass) dining chairs into my buick, and away I went.  And my dollars went to a good cause!

so here they are. 

Square!  Very 1930's

  
The upholstery is stained, but will be super easy to replace, and we just happen to have a good deal of fabric we love and purchased when Saftler's was going out of business.

Our fabric choices!

They'd be easy enough to spraypaint, too, if we want to go that route, but even though they're dinged up they don't look too bad as is.

So here they are.  they need a little tighteneing.  Will get a make-over.  But here they are and my search for chairs is officially over.  It feels good.  I went to IKEA the other day with my Sister-in-law and while I could appreciate the chairs, I didn't need to lust after them with an unholy yearning!

Aaron says that this detail makes them look a little "hobbity", lol, but overall approves!

I have chairs, I am happy, and now can't wait to get the rest of the apartment in order so that we can host VISITORS to sit in these amazing chairs!!

These people need more chairs!!