August and everything after (and other things I love right now)

[Preliminary Note/Disclaimer:  Here’s the thing — I’ve been sick in bed for a full fucking WEEK with the perfect storm of awfulness, i.e., bladder infection, some kind of cold/sore throat thingie, an apocalyptic peri menopausal period (sorry, you know how I am about compulsive disclosure), a pimple the size of a goiter on my neck (this didn’t send me to bed, per se, but I just want you to have the full picture of how my week has gone) and then, to top it all off, debilitating abdominal cramps (to be distinguished from the debilitating menstrual cramps solely by the location of the UTTER AGONY) from, it turns out, unhappy little creatures living in my intestines.  My point is that I’ve been cooped up and on a lot of drugs, ergo THIS POST MAY NOT MAKE SENSE]

[On the other hand it may make perfect sense.  Because drugs.]

[But what you should really know, is that I signed up for NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month – which started on November 1 and which I  never even really  committed to (in my mind)  – partly because of my inner “fuck-you” (I’ve talked about her before, the one that says “Oh, you think I should do “X”, the thing that I already wanted to do?  FUCK YOU, I’m not doing it.”) and partly because of the bad memories from the last time I signed up for NaNoWriMo (to wit: my artistic genius mommy (with great hair) slipped and broke her hip in mid-November (2011) and I stopped writing and then she died a few weeks later and then I never ever wanted to go back and look at what I was writing, or even think about it, really,  because maybe, instead of writing, I should have been spending more time with her in what would turn out to be the last time she was ever happy in her life.  SO THERE’S THAT.  Fuck.  But my point here is that I signed up for NaNoWriMo and it’s Day 9 and I think the part of me that doesn’t want me to write actually sent the perfect storm of FUCKING AWFUL PHYSICAL AILMENTS to prevent any writing  from happening and now I’m starting to feel better physically (Yay medicine!), so instead of doing the NaNoWriMo writing, I’ve suddenly got  the urge to blog?   Right.]

[Just so we are all clear on why I’m suddenly blogging after being a horrible blogger for the past year: I’M WRITING THIS TO AVOID WRITING THAT NOVEL THAT I’VE BEEN MEANING TO WRITE FOR MY ENTIRE LIFE, PRACTICALLY.]

[It just occurred to me that perhaps my next soul retrieval thingy should be to find out who the inner “fuck you” voice is?  Is she the same as the inner avoidance queen?  If so, they are fucking bad ass.  I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to convince them to just fucking COOPERATE and play nicely with everyone else.  It seems they would rather almost kill me (ok, slight exaggeration, but I’m trying to make a point)(it did suck, though) than let me write?]

[And why am I acting like any of this is new?  Isn’t my blog called “avoiding my Brilliant Writing Career”?  Hello.]

[Still.]

I was going to write about how, in my mind, there was August (and it lasted f-o-r-e-v-e-r) and then everything else flew by and somehow it’s now November.  And I was going to write something philosophical about how time seems to be changing and/or my perception of time seems to be changing and how I wonder if this is just what happens when you start easing towards the end of life, rather than springing from the beginning – the trajectory changes and the weight of it behind you serves to accelerate life until it’s all a blur and then there’s an end, somehow. But I don’t really have much else to say about that.   Time.  It seems to be changing.  The end.

So I guess I will write a list  instead (act surprised and delighted, “a list! what an unexpected surprise!”) :

1.  Yes.  Yes, I am using the name of a Counting Crows album as my blog post title today.  I might as well just go ahead and confess that I’ve never gotten over “August and Everything After”…. I still love it.  Serious love.  I listen to it at least once a week.  It’s always on in my car.  (Except when The Cure is on) (but that is another blog post)

2.  And if you must know — I am flat out in love with Adam Duritz (lead singer, Counting Crows) based solely on the fact that he writes brilliant lyrics (and sometimes dresses up in a pink and white bunny costume)(and talks openly about struggling with mental health issues)(and is a white Jewish boy rocking dreads like nobody’s business)(and I’m pretty sure we had a moment (well, I know I had a moment) when he was looking right at me during a show at DU a million years ago)(which I’m quite sure he remembered when I saw them again at Red Rocks, like 10 more times…)(all that aside, it’s his words that get me)

3.   I am a total lyrics person.  I don’t even understand people who can say they like a song, but don’t know the lyrics.  What is the point?  Although, to be fair, there are probably a (very) few songs that I can say that I like, but don’t know the lyrics.  Like that Blinded by the Light song, which seems to say “wrapped up like a douchen of a runner in the night” but probably doesn’t…  Don’t get me wrong, I can sound it out and pretend I’m singing those songs, but I have no fucking clue what they are really saying.  But mostly, in life, I know the lyrics.

4.   Like these:

I step out the front door like a ghost
into the fog where no one notices
the contrast of
white on white
 And in between the moon and you
the angels get a better view
of the crumbling difference
between wrong and right…

(Round Here)

(The contrast of white on white?  The crumbling difference between wrong and right?  Adam fucking Duritz y’all)

4.  Also:

It’s 4:30 a.m. on a Tuesday
It doesn’t get much worse than this
 In beds in little rooms in buildings in the middle of these lives
Which are completely meaningless…

(Perfect Blue Buildings)

(Fucking Tuesdays, man.  Tuesdays and institutions and wondering what the fuck the exact point of all of it is.  I get that.)

5.  And I might stop after this one:

I’m almost drowning in her sea
She’s nearly crawling on her knees
It’s almost everything I need.

(Sullivan Street)

(It’s almost everything I need.)

6.  Sorry.  But did you see the warning/disclaimer above?  I feel like you should’ve known something like this could happen. (Plus I’m barely even scratching the surface of the Counting Crows lyrics that I love.  It feels wrong to stop here.  But I will.)

7.  Everyone should read this book.

Well.  Everyone who has a sense of humor.  This isn’t any kind of “official” link — I don’t get money or anything if you buy it.  I just really believe most people should buy it and read it.  And laugh.

8.  What else?

9.  All that italicizing wore me out.

10.  I guess I should start thinking about what I’m going to write, you know, for real.  Maybe I should go back and read what I wrote in 2011?  I wonder how hard it is to write a good sex scene?  And by “good” I mean SO MUCH BETTER than that 50 Shades of Grey crap (which I read every word of, in all three books, so …..)  Hmmmmm.  I do have some Captain Kirk fantasies to explore…. 🙂

xoxo

kim

p.s.  Have I mentioned the rain?  It’s been crazy rainy here, pretty much since June.  There were a few weeks in the middle of the summer with no rain, but other than that?  RAIN.  Heat + Rain = Steamroom = Soggy/Grouchy/Kinda depressed Kim.  I’m ready for the amazing weather to come back.  That would be great.

p.s.s. or p.p.s. if you’re an English teacher or whatever… So ya, it seems I have parasites/amoebas/whatever in my gut.  Lovely.  Lucky for me, there’s medicine for that.  I’m starting with an 8 day regimen and hoping that is all I need.  And after this mess, I think I will do the preventative medicine every six months, like the doctor recommended when I first moved here, but which I failed to do, because sometimes I just don’t follow directions very well.  Or at all.

p.s.s.s.  I don’t just love Counting Crows lyrics.  In case you were wondering.  I just have “August and Everything After” on the brain tonight.  And to be honest, I’m not even sure Adam Duritz wrote all the lyrics I quoted, but I’m too lazy to look it up right now.  And it doesn’t matter.  Unconditional love, Adam.  That’s what I’m offering.  Or, you know, just sex.  😉

p.s.s.s.s.  Is it wrong to proposition a rock star via a postscript on your blog?  And then to entertain the fantasy that he has set up a google alert on his name, sees the proposition, proceeds to obsessively read everything you’ve ever written (on the blog), decides you’re fabulous and how interesting that you live in an awesome little town in Mexico (just like the girl in “Holiday in Spain” – avid fans will know what I’m talking about….) and how tired he is of dating fabulous (young) actresses and how you kind of remind him of his one-time lover Mary Louise Parker (in a fluffier, more middle-aged lawyer turned real estate agent/wanna be writer way) and decides it would be cool to reach out and say hello?  Is that wrong?

p.s.s.s.s.s.  I have a vivid fantasy life.  It’s entirely possible that Adam Duritz is a total dick.  Perfect.

p.s.s.s.s.s.s.  Is anyone still reading?  It occurs to me that my post title doesn’t exactly match my post.  I mean, I’m not really talking about all the things I love right now.  But I’m too tired to figure out another title.  Fuck it.

The elephant in my head is back and this time she is a little snarky, to be honest.

[Warning:  So.  I’m finally back to writing about what is really going on with me. If you’re new here — you should probably go read one of the funny posts…  This one is uncomfortable and itchy and not as funny as the lists, but ultimately better for me, and hopefully my process/floundering around can help someone else out there who is struggling… or just make you laugh, I don’t know.  Anyway.  This was a hard one to write.]

I need to write.

I think this has been established.

Over and over again.

I need to write. It’s what I do. It’s how I process. It’s who I am.
(it makes me laugh, it makes other people laugh with (at?) me, it makes things better every single time)

And, to be honest, somehow, without even really (consciously) trying — I have built the perfect life for a writer who isn’t really a full-time writer yet — I have a job that is basically seasonal — very very busy for 4-5 months and almost deadly slow the rest of the year, I have TONS of free time, my son is in college and, apparently (sniff), doesn’t need me much anymore, I’ve run out of sick/dying relatives to take care of (OUCH), I’m single, I don’t even have a pet to take care of for God’s sake.  There is no reason why I shouldn’t be writing my fucking heart out almost every single day.

Well, there is one reason.

Remember the benevolent and stubborn elephant in my head who tried to keep me from writing when my mom was dying, because she thought it would be too much for me?  She’s back.  She’s big.  And she doesn’t seem friendly…

ME:  “So.  You’re back.  What the fuck?”

ELEPHANT:  (Refusing to look at me, spraying what I can only imagine is delightfully cool water over herself, because apparently the inside of my brain is as hot as my body at this point….)  “Well isn’t this interesting…. she finally notices the blatantly obvious huge mass that is moi.  And we used to think she was so quick.”

ME:  “Who are you talking to?  I’m right here.  I can hear you.”

ELEPHANT:  (Turning to gaze down at me with what I can only describe as a bemused look on her face)  “Who am I talking to?  Who are you talking to?  That is the real question.”

ME:  (eyes rolling)  “Don’t act like I’m crazy, I’m not.  You wanna know how I know? The elephants in real crazy people’s heads don’t like to point out that they are not, in fact, real elephants.  Everybody knows that.”

ELEPHANT: (cocking her head and chuckling)  “Whatever you say, baby girl.”

ME:  “I’m not a baby and it is whatever I say.  I know you’re not, like, an actual “being”.  But you are big and powerful and once again you’re standing right the fuck in the way of EVERYTHING.  I need to write.  I need to write and I need to process and all this Big Scary Stuff is coming up for me and you know it and you won’t move and you won’t even let me begin to look at it.   I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t do this anymore.  Didn’t we have that agreement?  Why are you here again?”

ELEPHANT:  “A.  We did have an agreement. and B.  You broke it.  You’re the lawyer, what happens when agreements are broken?  The agreement is over, that’s what happens.  Law 101.  So I’m here.  And I’ve been here for a long time.”

Me:  “First of all, not all agreements are over if one person is in breach.  It depends on the kind of breach and the kind of contract and it’s all very convoluted and there’s never a simple answer, even though people want lawyers to give simple answers and OMG WHY IS MY LAWYER BRAIN ON RIGHT NOW???  How do you think I broke the agreement?”

ELEPHANT:  I said that I would stop worrying and not get in between you and your creative genius if you took care of yourself and didn’t get overwhelmed and depressed and lose yourself again and you said “of course I won’t do THAT again, look how healthy I am, look how I’m taking care of myself, of course you can stop worrying and protecting me from myself, I will never go down that road again, because I know what it looks like, I’m FINE…”  and you were fine, for awhile, sweet pea and then your mom died and you were still fine because you took care of yourself when you felt the grief turn to depression and you hung in there, but then things started changing and you started to lose yourself again and this time you didn’t see it, honey.  And I could see that you didn’t see it, so I came back to protect you.”

ME:  (trying to swallow lump in throat) “Oh. Thank you.”

ELEPHANT:   “Of course.”

ME: “You seem different.  Bigger.  More…. comprehensive?  I think you don’t just want to stop me from writing, you want to stop me from dealing with, or even looking at, the Big Scary Stuff that is being triggered all over the place for me right now.”

ELEPHANT:  “Yes, that’s true.  It’s too much.  You’re not ready.  If you start writing about it and dealing with it, it will overwhelm you and pull you under again and I can’t let that happen.  Better to avoid it altogether, I say.  Too messy.”

ME:  “I know you want to protect me, but I have to do this.  I have to look at the Big Scary Stuff now and I have to learn new ways to do things and I have to write about it.  It’s time.  I don’t want to keep living like this, I don’t want the Big Scary Stuff to control me and fuck things up and keep me from having what I most want and being who I really am.   Please move, please let me do this.”

ELEPHANT:  “I don’t think so.  You’ve said this before, and look what happened.  No, I think you’re better off avoiding it altogether.  You’re fine now, why change?”

ME:  “I’m not fine.  That is the point.  I’m not fine.  I’m very un-fine.  I am tired of repeating the same patterns over and over and over.  Nothing changes if nothing changes, right?  I’m alive. I’m surviving.  Sometimes I’m happy, but I am most definitely not fine.  And it’s not all hormones – some of it is, for sure.  And I’m working with a doctor to help with that.  I feel like everything (ok, most things) that are Big and Scary for me have been magnified and clarified for me in the last few weeks — in a very fucking uncomfortable and miserable way, but THANK GOD FOR CLARITY…. I know what I need to address, finally.  I really do.  And I am ready to do it now.  I really need you to work with me and help me do this, don’t stand in the way.  Don’t steer me away from what I have to do.  Don’t help me numb out, act out, do what I always do…. Help me change.  Please.”

ELEPHANT:  “No.  You’re not ready.  You know how I know you’re not ready?  You can’t even say what the Big Scary Stuff is out loud.  How do I know that you’ve gained some clarity when you can’t even say it?  Until you can say it, it’s dangerous to let you start working with it.  Like, tsunami of pain and shame and sad type of dangerous.”

ME:   “Fuck!”

ELEPHANT:  “That’s what I thought….”

ME:  (pulling myself back together and dusting off my shoulders)  “Fine.  Here’s what the Big Scary Stuff is — I am a huge black hole of needy insecurity.  I don’t even live in my body, I live in my head.  I don’t see what is going on around me because I’m so busy telling stories about it in my mind.  My mind can extrapolate the most amazing and negative stories that you will ever hear from virtually NO information.  [so I should be an AWESOME writer, right?] They are truly crazy and the best part about it is that I believe them….   And all of the stories involve me being unlovable, unloved, alone, doomed, ashamed, scared, useless, lazy, ugly, empty, dumb, a disappointment, failure, a mistake, an imposter and so on and so forth.  And because I believe all those things about myself, I don’t believe that anyone else could possibly value me.  And if they do somehow seem to value me, I question it and tear it apart and suck it dry.  And I don’t know how to give myself what I need, so I try to get it from other people (and, since I’m being painfully fucking honest, “people” = “men”, usually) — and I try to get it quickly because it’s an urgent need at this point — so I manipulate to get it and then don’t trust it when it comes, because of course I’ve manipulated it, so it isn’t real.  And when I can’t get what I think I desperately need exactly when I desperately need it – I can’t tolerate it.  I have to leave the relationship or keep escalating my attempts to get what I think I need and then I become bitchy and temper-tantrumish.  And if I DO get what I need?  I don’t really believe it, because deep down I am positive that I don’t deserve it and that somehow I was just so good at manipulating that I got it.  So I end up leaving the people who do love me, just as easily as I leave the people who don’t.  Because I can’t tell the difference.  Basically, I’m fucked up.  And exhausted.  And depressed.  And I want to learn how to be different.

ELEPHANT:   “Wow.  That’s big.  I know that was hard to figure out, much less admit out loud, sweet pea.  Do you see why I wanted to protect you?  I’m so proud of you.  I will go now, but I can’t promise not to come back.”

ME:  “I know.  Thank you.”

THE END

So.  There it is.  And here I am.  At least I’m writing.

xoxo

kim

p.s.  This was hard to write.  It’s hard to be vulnerable.  But it’s a process and I know it works for me to write/share.  But I’m not asking anyone out there to fix me, so don’t worry about that.  Support is great, though 🙂

p.s.s. or p.p.s. – whatever – Yes, I’m still doing the anti-antidepressant experiment, but am considering going back on them because this hole feels big and it snuck up on me and getting out of bed is hard.  Part of it is the heat.  I’m not kidding — if there isn’t a DSM for heat related depression, there should be.  This heat sucks the life out of me.

p.s.s.  It’s hot and I’ve been inside all day writing (writing!!!!!) – I’m heading to the beach now.  Somehow it always helps.  Look at this cool thing – from Pinterest.  I love Pinterest.

p.s.s.s.  How is it the end of August?  Ugh.

p.s.s.s.s.  I’m playing with my wordpress theme again…. don’t worry, this isn’t the final choice 🙂

Angels in the architecture. Also, Sons of Anarchy. Related topics? Probably not.

I’ve been thinking about angels lately.

Not necessarily in a religious way.

Or maybe that isn’t true, I mean is there any other way to think of angels?  But for religion, would there be angels?  I think not.

But it’s not something I want to analyze and argue about.

What does it matter what I believe to be true anyway?  Isn’t it only important to me?  Does it hurt anyone else if I do or do not believe in angels?

In any event, I think I do believe in them.

I believe in them in a woo-woo way and also in a flesh and blood way.

Or maybe I’m confusing things.

What I’m trying to say is that I can see that throughout my life I have often asked someone out there (God? Angels? The Universe?) for help and it almost always shows up in the form of a person.  Did God/Angels/the Universe send the person, or is the person God/An Angel/The Universe.

The answer is probably YES….

Anyway.

I see angels in the architecture of my life.

And I’m so very grateful for that.

(moment of silence…. thank you)

And this is coming up for me now because, if you’ve been following along, I’ve recently had a little trouble (read: total fucking nightmare situation triggering huge fear, shame, anger, vulnerability, panic…it’s bad) which comes on the heels of losing my artistic genius mommy (who had great hair) to stupid fucking cancer, like, just yesterday. (ok, she passed in December, but usually it feels like yesterday) and other related horribleness.

So, in the middle of some pretty intense darkness, some completely unexpected help arrived and blew my mind.

An angel.

I have no other way to describe it.

And this Angel came to me through my blog.

Which blows my mind on so many levels (I have a blog?  I write?  I write about intensely personal  and oftentimes super-uncomfortable shit and other people actually read it?  And they laugh at the same shit I laugh at? And they take time out of their day to actually write me back? And they aren’t offended by how often I use the term “fuck”?  And now they offer to help me without having ever met me in person???!!)

I’m humbled.

I’m grateful for all the angels who have appeared in the architecture of my life (but I’m afraid to start naming them out loud because what if I forget one and hurt their angelic feelings?)(and then what if they get super pissed and start using their powers for evil?)(I would be fucked.) and today I’m especially grateful for the sweet angel who is helping me out based solely on the fact that we found one another on the worldwide interweb and we share some awful experiences and she isn’t offended by my vulgar language, presumably.

Thank you.  Hand-on-heart thank you.

On a lighter note:

Is anyone else around here obsessed with Sons of Anarchy?

My sassy Virgo seester turned me onto the show and I CAN’T STOP WATCHING.

I’m on Season 4 now and I’m trying to pace my viewing so I can enjoy it for a little bit longer.

Ha.

Top Ten Things I Wanna Say About Sons of Anarchy:

1.  Jackson “Jax” Teller.  If you don’t know why that statement is number 1 on this list, do yourself a favor and take a peek at this dude.  (ok, if you’re a guy, you might not be as excited about this, depending on your sexual orientation)  He’s ridiculously good looking.  Not just that, he’s dead sexy.  Also, the actor who plays Jax is British (or something like that) trying to play a California biker dude — it’s interesting listening.  He mostly nails it, but some stuff is… off.

 

2.  I don’t even really like giant back tattoos, or blondes, or stringy hair or guys who wear lots of big rings (so they can cause more damage when they hit people….) and I would totally do Jax Teller.  In a heartbeat.  No questions asked.

3.  Did you know that if you ever get kicked out of a motorcycle club (read:  violent gang) they peel off your huge gang tattoo?  Or they just kill you.  Honestly it’s best to just not get kicked out.

4.  According to Sons of Anarchy, motorcycle gang dudes hug each other a lot.  Like, they are very loving to one another.  Sometimes they even kiss.

5.  It turns out you can’t just join a motorcycle gang — you’ve got to be, like, an apprentice for a seriously long time and then they might let you join, assuming you survived the apprenticeship.

6.  Motorcycle gang guys take their leather “cuts” very seriously.  Do not fuck with a biker guy’s leather jacket.  FYI.

7.  You should probably not ever touch one of their motorcycles either.

8.  Horrific violence is less horrific if there’s a great soundtrack going on while the violence is happening.  It’s weird.  It becomes more dreamlike and less patently offensive.  Bravo, Sons of Anarchy?

9.  Women who love motorcyle gang dudes are basically fucked.  These guys are constantly up to outlaw stuff, never call home and are surrounded by skanky chicks who wanna have sex with them all the time.  And you’re not really allowed to question anything they do….  Oh, and if they are in jail, you are totally allowed/expected to fuck one of the other motorcycle gang dudes.  I would suck at being an “old lady” to a biker dude.  At least I know that now…..

10.  If you’re gonna be a woman who loves a motorcycle gang dude, fall in love with the head honcho cuz then the other bitches have to show you respect…. Ha!

 

xoxo

kim

p.s.  yes i’m still in puerto morelos and NO, they haven’t arrested the asshole who stole all my shit…. the good news is that i haven’t seen him around town or heard from him so maybe he is really gone.

p.p.s.  my baby boy turned 20 this week.  WTF?

p.p.p.s.  oohhhhhhh, i experienced my first almost-hurricane (Ernesto) — yikes!  i was scared but everything was fine – lots of rain and wind but very manageable.  i am stocked up and ready for the next one though…..

 

I finally have some stuff to write about that *isn’t* grief or depression, but am I writing it today? NO. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Here’s the deal:  I finally have some shit to write about that isn’t related to death/dying/grief /depression and/or presumptuous pretend-Buddha iguanas.*

FINALLY

Like, “Hey y’all, my blog is now ONE YEAR OLD!”

and

“Hey, remember last Valentine’s Day when I enacted that stupid no-dating/sex Moratorium (and then substantially complied with it?)  It’s officially over today!”

and

“Hey, it turns out that I’m probably going to stay here, in Mexico, and try to scrabble out a meager existence in paradise (whether I want to or not) this is major!”

That is a LOT of fodder for blog posts.

I should be ecstatically writing my little heart out.

But I’m not.

I mean, I’m writing this, right now, but trust me, I’m practically having to force each word.

Each.  Fucking.  Word.

Oh, the “I don’t want to write and you can’t make me” trauma/drama/angst going on in my head is truly remarkable.

Remarkable.

(it took me 10 minutes to come up with writing “Remarkable.”…again.)

(I’m not kidding.)

Now what?

I’m so resistant today that I don’t even want to entertain the thought of  trying to figure out what the fuck is responsible for this latest writer’s block.

So.

I guess I won’t.

🙂

Happy Valentine’s Day….

xoxo

kim

*except for this:  Sue, the pretend-Buddha iguana is NOT ON THE WALL TODAY!  I can’t find him anywhere.  It’s very unlike him to not be on the wall.  OMG what if he is in the house?  Totally.  Creepy.

** and I guess I want to say THANK YOU to everyone who has gone on this blogging “journey” with me over the last year.  It’s been fun and crazy and weird and oh-the-wonderful-people-I’ve-“met”-here.  As of yesterday I had a little over 10,000 page views and 80 blog posts….say WHAT?!  You guys are awesome, every last one of you.

I’m having a relationship with an iguana who is pretending to be the Buddha. Or the Buddha is pretending to be the iguana. Either way, it’s weird.

This is the iguana who lives on the wall next to my Mom’s house in Puerto Morelos (a/k/a Casa de Colores).

More specifically, this is his head.

To be honest, I don’t actually know if it is a “he”.   Nor do I even know if  it is really an iguana.

But for now, I’m assuming it is a male iguana.

He’s a total peeping tom (see him staring into my living room window?) but I haven’t named him “Tom”.  In my head, his name is “Sue”.

Probably because when I look at him it seems like he might have a lot of issues, not unlike that guy in the Johnny Cash song “Boy named Sue” (“My name is Sue,  how do you do,  motherfucker….”)(OK, Johnny Cash doesn’t actually say ” motherfucker”, but it’s implied… he was super-pissed.)

He’s always like “yeah, I’m an iguana and this is my wall.  Fuck you, transient human beings.”

It’s totally his wall.

He’s been living there for several years.  Maybe a hundred years, I don’t know.  He seems ageless.

Nothing bothers him.  Nothing alarms him.  He doesn’t react to anything.

I can’t win a staring contest with him.

He’s totally focused.  Zenlike.

He meditates a lot.

It’s like he’s mocking my inability to meditate.

He’s all “Oh, look at that human being flailing around and reacting to shit while I just sit here on my wall in perfect, peaceful silence… clearly she has no spiritual life.”

He’s also some kind of ninja iguana.  I can watch him for HOURS and he doesn’t move a muscle, but then if I blink or look away and then look back all of the sudden he’s got like one little leg up in the air.  Just one little green front leg.  Just holding it there.  Acting as if it had always been that way.  No big deal.

Asshole.

He thinks he’s the Buddha for chrissakes.

I’m sure he’s here to teach me some spiritual lesson.

Because God knows I haven’t had any kind of challenges lately.

And of course he is an IGUANA.

Remember how I went to Portland last spring, to Rally! with Havi?   Havi teaches/talks about iguanas kind of a lot. 

In Havi-world, iguanas are the [stupid, crappy, annoying] things you don’t feel like doing.

I didn’t realize how perfect Havi’s metaphor was until I became more familiar with Sue (the iguana.  not my friend Sue, who I’ve never met in person, but who is totally lovely and not iguana-like at all…) 

Iguanas are prickly (and not in the cute hedgehog way, FYI) and scaly and ugh, not cuddly at all. (No offense to the iguana-lovers out there, if there are any, which I doubt….)  Moreover, they stare you down.  You try to go about your life — la di da — tra la la — and there they are, peeking in your windows, invading your privacy and staring you down.  My iguana, Sue, is not even that big, but I’m still totally intimidated by his unrelenting stare.

(Note:  I just opened my back bedroom door and there he is, staring at me from a new place on the wall…Ack!)

So.

To recap.

• I’ve projected a personality onto this thing that may or may not be an iguana.
• On one hand I feel he’s pretending to be the Buddha (or the Buddha is pretending to be him….see how that works?) and although I think he is kind of judgy in his Buddha-ness, I also think that I could probably learn a lot from him re: mindfulness.
• On the other hand, he represents all the shit I am avoiding (little things like my finances, my career, where I’m going to live…) and all the issues I don’t want to deal with, but can never get away from, because, ummm, they are mine.  So they sit out there and stare at me wherever I go, whatever I do.
• I’m not in therapy right now.

Hmmmm.

It seems the only good news here is that I’m ACTUALLY WRITING.

Woo-hoo!

xoxo

kim

p.s.  The non-memorial party for my sweet mommy was amazing.  I haven’t been able to write about it yet and I’m pretending that is because I haven’t received any of the pictures from the party to post to the blog, but that is probably bullshit.  Maybe I’m just not ready.

p.s.s.  In my defense (ha) I had a house full of guests from last Thursday to this past Thursday and all of that was wonderful and also pretty challenging for someone who recharges by being A-L-O-N-E.  I spent Friday completely cloistered in the casa (which was crazy because it was a ridiculously gorgeous day) and then ended up spending most of yesterday at a committee meeting (yes, there are committees here in paradise!) and then with friends, so this is really the first chunk of time I’ve had to write in awhile.

p.s.s.s.  Actually that is all true and also probably bullshit.  I’m sure I could’ve taken some time to write if I really wanted to.  I mean, if  I want my job to be “writer”, then it seems perfectly acceptable to say “hey, I need to go write for awhile” to guests/friends.  Maybe I don’t want my job to be “writer”?  Ugh and Heavy Sigh.

So, I signed up to write a novel. Next month. Stop laughing.

So.

November is National Novel Writing Month (“NaNoWriMo“).

Participants sign up with the goal of writing 50,000 words between November 1 and November 30, 2011.

Well, not just words.

Ideally one should be writing some kind of story that makes sense to, ummm, other people.

But mostly it is about just getting up every day and writing like a motherfucker.

(If you really want to learn about NaNoWriMo, check out their “About” page here.)

Anyway.

My point is, I signed up to do it about a month ago.

And then everything changed.

And I basically quit writing.  Because UGH.

And now I have all sorts of stuff going on.  Or not-going-on, as is more descriptive in my case.

Not writing.  Not packing up my entire house and garage.  Not taking care of things — banking, mail, taxes, attorney-stuff.  Not exercising.  Not interacting with life.

I’m pretty busy not-doing a lot of things.

Which makes me wonder how realistic it is to think that, at midnight on October 31st, something is going to flip and all of the sudden I’m going to be able to write at least 1,666 words every day for 30 days.

Not realistic at all, obviously.

And yet…..

I still want to try.

Mostly because kind of the whole premise of NaNoWriMo is that if you want to be a writer, you’ve just got to write.

(duh)

And a LOT of what you write is guaranteed to suck. 

And some of it is probably going to be amazing.

And you’re probably not even going to get to the amazing shit if you don’t just sit your butt down and write, write, write.

This is a good premise for someone like me.

Basically, NaNoWriMo gives me permission to suck at writing, while encouraging me to write as fast and as much as I can for thirty days.

Win/win!

So, I’m going to try do it.

Plus, my Mom has been after me to write a book forever.

(Oh, Hello mother/daughter issues….)

And if I want to write something for her to read, I don’t have the luxury of lots of time.

(Thanks, cancer.)

So NaNoWriMo is really kind of perfect for me right now.

I may not be able to whip out a great American novel in 30 days (although “Water for Elephants” was drafted while the author was doing NaNoWriMo, so it can be done….), but I can probably come up with enough good dialogue, gentle action/horror and great sex scenes to keep Mom entertained for a bit.

I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to do this yet.  Lots of writers post what they are writing day-to-day publicly, like on a blog, so their peeps can follow along.  I’m not sure I’m brave enough to do that.  We will see.  I am, however, going to be doing some NaNoWriMo prep — character studies, plotting, research — before November 1, that I might want to share.*

YIKES!

Stay tuned.

Oh, and I’m going to be doing all that (character studies, plotting, research) while I’m also trying to pack up our entire house (and garage…) so that I can store all of our stuff by October 31st and join my Mom on her World Domination Tour in early November.  First stop Tampa, and then (fingers crossed) on to her home in Puerto Morelos, Mexico.

No big deal.

xoxo

kim

*Note – NaNoWriMo says you’re not allowed to start writing your novel before November 1, but you can do as much prep work as you want.  So I’m not cheating.

p.s.  My silent retreat last week was glorrrrrious!  So peaceful, so nice to be away from my home full of stuff that needs to be packed, so nice to be “out of touch” for a few days.  Well, only really one day.  But still!  It was nice.

p.s.s.  And while I was on silent retreat, the idea for my NaNoWriMo novel just crept into my head, totally uninvited!

p.s.s.s.  And I started reading a book my awesome therapist/counsellor/Carolyn recommended, The Untethered Soul, and WOW.  Really amazing stuff.  Life changing, actually.  I had to stop reading and just let some of the concepts soak in.  I’m going back to it tonight (instead of, ummm, packing, of course) and then I get to see Carolyn again tomorrow.  Thank God for Carolyn, yo.

p.s.s.s.s.  This post is like 700 words.  It took me over 2 hours to draft.  More like over three hours, if I’m being really honest.  This is not a good sign.

I can’t write on account of the Mass of Dark Matter surrounding me. Here’s proof.

Here is the situation:

I CAN’T WRITE.

I CANNOT WRITE.

I AM NOT ABLE TO WRITE.

I’M UNABLE TO WRITE

NO CAN WRITE.

FUCK WRITING.

I don’t know what is wrong.

I don’t think it is “just” writer’s block.

(as if anyone would ever call that cavernous depth of hell “just” writer’s block, hello….)

It’s more.

There’s a large mass of dark matter surrounding me and I guess I’m going to have to fucking interact with it if I’m ever going to be able to write (or do anything else remotely meaningful with my life, ever)(dramatic? yes. overly dramatic?  fuck no.)

Me:  (long, heavy, dramatic sigh of deep, deep sorrow and exhaustion)  “Oh alright.  Hello darkness, my old friend….”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “Cute.”

Me:  “I’m trying to hide my intense hatred for you by acting playful.  Playful interaction is supposed to be good for me, but it is hard to be playful and fucking annoyed as fuck at the same time, which I am.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “I know.”

Me:  “Is that what you want?”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “I don’t want or not-want anything.”

Me:  “Lovely.  Let me guess:  you’re Vulcan…  I knew there would be some repercussions from obsessively watching all things Star Trek related all my life.  Now my neuroses are alien.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “No.”

Me:  “What does that even mean?  You’re not Vulcan?  You’re not my neuroses?  Can you help me out here?  Why am I doing all the work?”

(Oh, perfect, now I’m having discussions with myself and asking one part of myself why the other part is having to do all the work in the conversation… is this at all normal?)

Mass of Dark Matter:  “You’re creating the work.  Why do you struggle so against me when you created me?  You know what I am.”

Me:  “No, Mr. Mass of Dark Matter with Vulcan tendencies, I don’t know what you are.  And while I want to scream I DIDN’T MAKE YOU and other things that make you feel stupid for saying that I made you, I am aware that you’re in my fucking head, so I GUESS I have some part in your creation.  But I refuse to take total responsibility (that’s what she said…..) AND I’m not at all clear on what you are.  While you’re clearly an ass, you don’t seem to be a Dreadifuss Beast.  Or any other kind of everyday monster.  You seem to have shades (or maybe echoes…) of the RRLM, but that doesn’t explain everything, plus he is everywhere, so that doesn’t help….. OH MY GOD.  You’re not Vulcan at all.  I just realized that you are soooooooo not Vulcan, you, my fucked-up friend, are the BORG.  Which, if you know anything about anything, is WAY FUCKING WORSE.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “Interesting.  I can see where you might conclude that I am more analogous to the Borg than to Vulcans (all of whom are PRETEND, FYI).  This means that you have correctly sensed that I am made up of all sorts of parts/things/issues which were once unrelated, but have now been stored in a huge container, ME, and are now working together towards a common goal.”

Me:  (panicking cuz the Borg are scary as shit and they always win, practically)  “What is the common goal, total destruction of ME?  You’re telling me that my shit got together and formed a coalition to fucking destroy me?  You don’t hear about this little phenomenon in Psych 101, do you?  This is advanced fucking nightmare shit.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “Settle down.  No one is trying to destroy you.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  Our common goal is to hide inside this Mass of Dark Matter so you don’t go around trying to address every single one of us, especially in writing.  That would be a disaster and you would be hurt, or worse.  When we are all together like this we are MASSIVE and TOTALLY UNAPPROACHABLE… at least that is how we want to be perceived.“

Me:  “Mission accomplished, fuckheads.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “Exactly.  Believe me, you do NOT want to poke around in here on account of the gravity and the ever-present slippery slope.”

Me:  “Well.  Fuck.  What am I supposed to do?  Who/what is in there?  Just give me an example.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “What did I just say?  No.  Don’t even start.  It’s not safe.”

Me:  “Look.  You’re probably right, but just give me an example.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “Nice try.  No.”

Me:  (bluffing) “I guess we will just have to go to real therapy then, and you will all be destroyed.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “You can’t afford to go to therapy, or you would totally be there.  Anway. I didn’t want to do this, but I suppose I have no choice but to show you just how uncomfortable it would be for you to continue to try to “playfully interact” with this stuff.  I don’t think you’re going to like it and I don’t think you are going to want to publish it, in any form, to the world.”

Me:  “It can’t be that bad.  I’ve shared a lot of scary stuff in my writing.  Show me what you’ve got.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “Alright, but keep in mind that you asked for this.  Also, this isn’t even the thing with the biggest gravitational pull in here, so, if you think this is bad (and you will), imagine what the worst stuff is like…

Me:  “Just do it already.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “Okay, well, part of what is in here is your fear that you can’t have a life of your own as long as your Mom is alive.  Which is horrible enough in itself, but then you have the corresponding, heretofore silent, fear that even if your Mom’s illness weren’t an issue, you wouldn’t be having a life anyway.  You’re worried that your time is up — you’ll never find work again, you’ll never fall in love again, you’ll never have the relationship with your son that you want, you’ll never participate in life.  You think you’ve had your chance and you squandered it and at the ripe old age of 46 it’s all over.  Done.  You think your destiny is to end up with nothing and no one.  You act like this is not what you think, but deep down inside, it totally is.  A year ago (when your contract ended) all you wanted was to be hired by a group of mean women practicing bullshit semi-law/social work.  That is how “big” you allowed yourself to think.  Now, because those women didn’t hire you (which would have been a fucking disaster) and you stayed in child welfare so long that you’re totally burned out on ever practicing law again, you think you’re unemployable.  And even if you were employable, you don’t think you can work with other people ever again because somehow you’ve lost every single social skill you had ever acquired over the last six months of not working.  Sounds far-fetched, but that is what you think.  You say you want to be a writer, but you don’t believe that it can happen.  You think you’re too old, you didn’t get the right education, you’re not motivated enough, you’re not interesting enough, your imagination sucks and the truth is too difficult to write.  Especially while your Mom is alive.  And you can’t really imagine doing anything else, which makes you worry that you’re just lazy/dumb/lazy.

Me:  (pregnant pause)

Mass of Dark Matter:  “I warned you.”

Me:  “That’s heavy.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “Hence the “Dark Matter” part of my title.”

Me:  “I’m not sure how to playfully interact with all that.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “It’s too big and too heavy to interact with at all, much less “playfully”…

Me:  “I wish it wasn’t really my stuff.”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “I know.”

Me:  “GAH!”

Mass of Dark Matter:  “Exactly.”

THE END

and/or

STAY TUNED…. (?)

xoxo

kim

p.s.  this little conversation has been EXHAUSTING to write/read/think.  which usually means something useful will come out of it — just not right now.

p.s.s.  it seems like i write the same fucking blog post over and over, just using different things to describe my brain.  is that true?  or am i exploring different things?  i need to go read my own blog to figure this out….

 

 

Do cats even *have* orgasms? Anyway. I’m really relaxed.

Admission:

I did a totally decadent thing recently.

(No.  I didn’t have a multi-million dollar wanna-be “royal” wedding/festival of gaudiness.  That was the other Kim.)

I had a two-hour massage.

TWO HOURS.

When I went into the massage, my right shoulder-blade was on fire, my right elbow had been aching for days and I was having shooting pains from my shoulder to my forearm. 

Oh, and I wanted to cry on account of the pain.

Two hours later I was a total noodle.

I don’t even really remember the end of the massage.  I just remember somehow finding my way to the dressing room and being somewhat amused by the fact that I looked positively post-coital — messy hair, pink cheeks, bemused smile.

You know how cats get all relaxed and sprawl out and purr and you’re kind of embarrassed to even look at them because it seems pretty obvious that they just had an orgasm?

I felt like that. 

Except do cats even have orgasms?

And how would we know if they did? 

They look like they totally have orgasms.  All the time.

Anyway.

Part of the reason why this massage was so good is because of my new Favorite Person, John the Architect turned Massage Guy.  Turns out John was fresh out of massage school and was super-excited to explain to me how my back muscles work, etc.

I didn’t really understand all the fancy medical terms.

Then he actually looked at/messed around with my shoulder/arm and said “Wow.  This is totally jacked up!”

I understood that medical term.

I also understood that John was a little too excited about the fact that I seemed to have an actual problem with my shoulder/arm.  I’m pretty sure I saw him rubbing his hands together with glee. 

Then he used them to simultaneously torture me and make me groan with pleasure.

(No, I’m not becoming an erotica writer.)

(As far as you know.)

(And I did not have sex with the masseuse.)

(Although he is the only man who has touched my bare skin since the dawn of time, practically.  So there’s that. He is also 32, short and not into girls.)

It was just a really good massage. 

Note to self for the next time I have a male masseuse:

• Shave your legs, Kim.  Honestly.
• Don’t wear granny panties.  It’s horrifying when the masseuse turns down the blanket and tries to tuck it in at your waist but can’t because your panties come up about 2 inches above your waist.
• Maybe don’t moan out loud with pleasure.
• Also, grunting is not cool.
• Try not to get excited when the masseuse whispers to you; he’s not sex talking you.

xoxo,

kim

p.s.  i’m pretty sure this is what they call “phoning it in”… sorry!  this is all i could squeak past my multiple Dreadifuss Beasts.  i promise a real post is coming soon.  i think.  i hope.

I’m feeling totally bitchy anyway, so I decided that today I am three.

I don’t even really have the vocabulary to explain how downright bitchy I’ve been feeling (and, ummmm, acting) the past few days.

“Super fucking bitchy” come close.

But mostly on the inside, because I’m 46.  And 46 year olds aren’t allowed to act as bitchy on the outside as they feel on the inside.

Unlike three year olds, who can let it all out under the guise of “age appropriate behavior”….

Apparently.

I was reminded of this fun fact of life at the (normally quiet) cafe where I go to write sometimes. 

There I was, just sitting in my booth, minding my own business and slamming my head against the table trying to force myself to write when this band of unruly and seemingly terroristic three year olds arrived.

(There were only two of them.  But they were frightening, in very different ways.)

And all hell broke loose.

First, they were wearing sparkly tutus — with boots — in the middle of the business day. 

Which made me think “have they no sense of decorum?” and “fuck you little kids who get to do whatever you want all the time.”

Then they start fucking singing, for no apparent reason.

It was downhill from there:

Noooooo!  Stop singing!  I’m singing, you can’t sing. Moooooooommmmmyyyy, she’s singing and I’m the one who sings, not her!  STOP IT HANNAH — Don’t touch my napkin! (shrieking) I WANT A NEW NAPKIN (sobbing)  shetouchedmynapkinandthat’snotfairmommy I HATE YOU, Hannah.

Hmmmmm.

Then:

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  “Jessie, do you want lemonade or milk with your lunch?”

Jessie:  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” (falling apart)

Hannah:  (sweetly) “I love lemonade!”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  “Honey, I gave you a choice, lemonade or milk.”

Jessie:  (still crying/shrieking) “I HATE YOU, MOMMY!  I don’t want that.”

Hannah:  (smiling sweetly at her mommy, who is probably also medicated) “We never say we hate people, do we mommy?”

Hanah’s medicated mommy: (smoothing little Hannah’s perfectly coiffed hair)  “No, sweetheart, we don’t”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  (unnaturally calm) “Jessie, I’m not understanding why you are upset, honey, I’m giving you a choice of drinks with your lunch – lemonade or milk.”

Jessie:  (takes it up another notch)  “NONONONONO I hate LEMONADE I hate lemonade I hate it…”  (falls out of booth onto the floor, writhing in pain at the torture being inflicted upon her)

Hannah:  (continuing to suck up) “That isn’t good restaurant behavior, is it, Mommy?”

Hannah’s medicated mommy:  (a grim/concerned look on her face) “No, pumpkin, it isn’t.  I’m glad you’re making better choices.”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  (losing a little of her calm) “Jessie, you need to pick your body up off the floor and sit down in the booth.  If you don’t want lemonade, you can have milk.”

Jessie:  (doing the breastroke on the floor and kicking one of her boots off)(enraged) “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO  I hate you!  I hate lemonade!  I hate milk!  I hate this place!  I hate lunch and I’m NOT taking a nap, MOMMY.  Because I DON’T CARE what you say to me.  LEAVE ME ALONE and I’m NEVER going to be in that booth because Hannah is mean to me and I hate her.”

Hannah:  (flaunting her superior emotional control)  “Jessie thinks she hates me, Mommy, but we know she is just having a hard time, right?”

Hannah’s medicated mommy:  (barely concealing her feelings of superiority at this point) “Yes, dear, Jessie is having a very hard time.”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  (deciding to use physical intervention, like a normal person)  “Jessie…..you’re so tired…..let Mommy hold you and then you can calm down and eat lunch…. I know you don’t hate me and you don’t hate Hannah.  It’s ok, sweetie, let Mommy hold you.”

Jessie:  “DON’T TOUCH ME!  I do too hate you and I hate Hannah and I hate lunch and you’re mean to me and I DON’T CARE!!!!  (shriek, shriek, shriek) YOU’RE HURTING ME WITH YOUR HANDS, MOTHER.  OUCH!  STOP IT! HELP!”

Hannah:  (shaking her head in disappointment) “Look, Mommy, Jessie’s mommy is putting her hands on Jessie.  We don’t do that, do we Mommy, we use our words.”

Hannah’s medicated/superior mommy:  (also shaking her superior head) “We never put our hands on other people…”

Nice/Patient/Medicated Mommy:  (finally overcoming the medication) “Fuck you Hannah.  You don’t have better behavior, you’re just slow and everyone knows it!  And fuck you, Jessie.  Stay on the floor, see if I care.  Hopefully one of the people staring at you while you writhe around on the floor will want to adopt a bratty and ungrateful three year old who is covered in glitter and god-knows-what kind of shit from the floor and who can’t even fucking decide between having a lemonade or milk with her lunch.  But I’m keeping that damn tutu, Jessie– you can go live with the strangers, but I get the tutu.

OH ALRIGHT.

I made up that last part, but wouldn’t that be kind of awesome?

My point is this:  That little kid Jessie gets to wear a sparkly tutu — with boots — and throw a major fucking fit in public, but because she is three, other people are all “I wish that kid would shut up, but what can you do?  She’s three.”  And the other little kid, Hannah, gets to wear a  sparkly tutu with boots and be a TOTAL BITCH and act all superior and totally manipulate the adults around her and, even though it’s sickening, everyone kind of nods and smiles because, you know, she’s three.

I’m totally bitchy and superior enough to be three, dammit.

Here’s how my day might have played out, if I were three and/or not pretending to be a non-bitchy 46 year old:

• I would have worn my magenta tulle skirt with my comfy lesbian shoes and maybe a baseball cap and my sparkly bangle bracelets.

• When my Mom came crashing into my room at 2:30 a.m. looking for the narcotics (she has cancer, you know, and sometimes forgets that she already took the  pain meds and then wakes up and thinks “yay! more pain meds!” even when it’s not time yet) I would’ve said “WTF?  Go back to bed, drug seeker!” instead of “Mommy, it’s only 2:30, what is going on?  Are you in pain?  Let me put you back to bed.”

• When I walked out to my car this morning and was reminded of it’s utter crappiness by the duct tape around the brake light and the passenger side mirror I would’ve thrown my shit down on the ground and screamed/cried “What is going ON with this car??  It’s not fair!  I hate this.  I can’t afford this.  I don’t want to deal with it and I WANT MY DAD and why does my Mom have to have cancer and why is my kid ignoring me????  WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH I’m not moving from this spot until things fucking change, dammit!”  Instead of, “Fuck…”

• When the lady at the car repair shop started talking about how they needed to check my timing belt I would’ve screamed “What?  I came here to get a new fucking brake light and side mirror, how does that even relate to my timing belt you crook?  I knew I couldn’t trust you, I hate car repair people!  All of you!  You’re just mean!  Don’t you fucking come near my engine, bitch, I will make your life HELL.”  Instead of, “My funds are really limited right now and I just need to get the brake light/side mirror fixed at the moment, thanks.”

• When the teenager at the cafe brought me my croissant sandwich that was so over-toasted that it literally crumbled apart when I picked it up (therefore I was holding onto the egg and cheese directly with no “sandwich” around it) I would’ve just slid to the ground and started crying, loudly, “God. Damn. It. that’s. not. a. sandwich.” and “I hate you, stupid teenager who doesn’t give a shit about the food he serves” and “all I wanted was a sandwich, is that so wrong?” Instead of “excuse me, sir, this seems a little over-cooked, would you mind very much redoing it?

Anyway.

I think I am going to spend the rest of the day embracing my inner three year old.

Oh look, I just got a message from the car repair place, it’s probably the estimate…..

This should be interesting.

xoxo

kim

*i found that cute picture on pinterest.com and the “source” is listed as www.twigandtoadstool.blogspot.com

** don’t worry, i’m not going to unleash the three year old on my poor mother, if i can help it.

Is it just me, or have you noticed that there appears to be a circus in my head?

Or, to put it a little less delicately….

What the fuck is going on in my three-ring circus of a brain?

And when I use the term “circus”, I don’t mean it in the Cirque du Soleil perfectly choreographed and organized and synchronized and beautiful world of make-believe and love and excitement and wonder and “oh my gawd, that is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen done with a huge gerbil wheel and motorcycles and sparkly unitards!” type circus.

(which sounds kind of dirty now that I see it in print and, hello, I know exactly what you’re thinking, pervert….)

I mean it in the kind of dusty, faded, circus tent thrown up out at the fairgrounds by inexplicably happy people, somehow holding within it hundreds of clowns and worker-guys and bored girls who spin on those rope/cloth thingies (which, by the way, I always wanted to do, like, as a career) and huge animals who are hot and tired and wondering what the weather is like back home in India and looking for any opportunity to bolt the fuck out of that tent and hightail it to somewhere with a happy hour and air conditioning, for the love of GOD.

That kind of circus.

Oh, and my circus also has extremely loud and falsely chipper music blaring from speakers whose ability to play bass blew out in about 1972, or 73.  And there are at least three rings with lots of sparkly action in each, but no overall coordination most of the time.  Which makes it hard to concentrate.  Also, there is cotton candy here and drippy blue sno-cones (and, anyway, what the fuck flavor is “blue” sno-cone?)(actually that is a dumb question, as all circus sno-cone flavors are SUGAR or SICKLY SWEET + PERMANENT STAIN)

I know what you’re thinking, Doctor Blog Reader, Psy. D.  “Hmmmm, perhaps Kim should rethink her “I’m going off all antidepressants!” strategy, which I, for one, knew was a horrible plan from the very beginning, for the record.”

Thanks Dr. “I have an opinion, after the fact.”  You’re the best….

But I think you are wrong.

The circus is kind of freaking me out. 

There is lots of noise + lots of crying + deep sadness + more crying + bursts of domesticity (YES, you read that right, I’ve been positively domestic, ha ha motherfuckers!) + noticing of  beautiful things + crying at the beauty of  the beautiful things + cringing at the sounds + overwhelming love + something that looks dangerously close to “happiness” + eating like a starving meerkat (you know… jerking my head around at all times to make sure no one is coming to take my food away, just like a meerkat, right?) + intense sugar cravings + at least one whole day without a drop of Diet Coke (but 2 gallons of iced tea, which is fine, because it is sans aspertame) + river kayaking (again, NOT A MISPRINT, and yes, the river was outside, in nature)  + laughing + bursts of creativity (like, ummm, a whole nother blog?!) + reaching out and/or thinking about reaching out + being pissed off at our government + wondering who invented music (who figured out that if you bend wood and stretch some strings on it and pluck at them in different combinations you will get “music”??  seriously, it’s kind of a big deal. that shit didn’t just appear.) + did I mention the crying?

But it’s not like being in and around and under OSCAR.

For one thing, the circus doesn’t hate me as much as Oscar does.

Huge.  Fucking.  Relief.

The crying is a little hard.  It’s starting to feel excessive.

On the other hand, I’m feeling my feelings.  Which is good.

And a lot of those feelings are straight-up sad. Which is what it is, turns out.

 It’s sad when people you love are suffering.  It’s sad when someone says to you “I’m not ready to die” and you have no good response, except “I’m not ready either, please don’t go” and they say, “You’re going to be fine” and you want to scream “I don’t want to be fine without you!” but instead you say “I know.  I’m ok.  Please don’t worry about me.”

 It’s sad to invest 20 years into a career that ultimately left you feeling worn out and exhausted and like you’ve given every single thing you possibly had to give to help people but all your work added up to was relieving a teensy-weensy portion of the awfulness that substance abuse/mental illness/domestic violence wreaks on it’s most helpless victims.  And then you have to defend yourself from criticism for your excessive kindness.  And then you feel like you’re slinking away from your career with your tail between your legs, instead of a sense that you did something that changed people’s lives for the better.  Plus you worked your ass off and you missed out on some pretty important shit in your son’s life and where is all that money you traded off for your son’s childhood?

It’s sad when your baby is suddenly a high school graduate and you can’t remember all the tiny, sweet things about his childhood that you promised yourself you would remember.  And you don’t know if he remembers that you used to be his favorite person in the whole wide world and how he cried when he was five and you told him that you couldn’t go to college and live with him because he only ever wanted to live with you and that was Not Fair.  And then he grows up and he says “I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Mommy” and you feel like your heart will break from happiness.  And then he says “I hate antidepressants, they took you away from me” and you know for a fact that you will die from this irretrievably broken heart.

And there’s more where that came from.

Living with Oscar is like trying to hear underwater — everything is muffled and you aren’t sure which direction it is coming from.  He is doom and gloom and pointlessness and guilt and second-guessing and loving but never allowing love and paralysis and ruminating and hide, hide, hide and never stand up for yourself because whatever it is, you deserve it (as long as it is bad) and sure you can laugh about things but behind every self-deprecating joke is the truth because you are the joke and the disappointment and the fear and the need that never gets filled.  And there is no music.  At all.  Ever.

The circus is a whole different deal.

The music is fabulous, even when it is awful and tinny and too loud.  The circus isn’t perfect, but it tries to be sparkly and alive and other-worldly and daring and take-your-breath-away-ish and there is family.  Huge family.   The circus is  kind of everywhere at once, but it’s also contained and everyone sees the tent differently.  It’s faded!  It’s fabulous!  It’s playful and whimsy and furiously happy, even when the storms rage outside.  It’s home and it isn’t.  It says “show up!” and “sparkle your pants off!” instead of “hide hide hide” and “don’t say a word!”  It has space for the sad.  Without judgment.  And it seems to coax the happy.  The jokes come from a different place — one that doesn’t believe in your utter awfulness.  The circus has hope.  Sometimes it crumples down on it’s knees, but then the inexplicably happy people come and put it back up.  There is always another show and it doesn’t have to be just like that last show.  Things can get better.  Applause helps.  I’m still concerned about the animals, though.

 Anyway.

It may not be Cirque du Soleil in my head these days, but it’s starting to feel a lot more like “living” than it has in a long time.

Woo-hoo!

xoxo

kim

p.s.  Mom started a clinical trial of a new cancer drug yesterday and we were all “OMG will we ever get to leave this fucking hospital?” but we learned today that at least two other ovarian cancer patients are on the trial and their tumors are shrinking!!!!  So we’re bitching a little less.

p.s.s.  I’m torn about the theme.  I love it, but it seems too busy.  Ugh.  Back to the drawing board.

p.s.s.   Is it weird that I started another blog?  Is it weird that it is anonymous?  What if I want to be a big deal on the internet?  Can you do that with two very different blogs?  What if I don’t care and just want to write like a motherfucker?

p.s.s.s.  Turns out there is a fat lady in my circus….ME…seriously!  Mom thinks I’m retaining water.  I think I’m retaining fat.  Either way it isn’t making anything easier, fyi.

bye again!