Dear World,

Who would’ve thought I’d be glad to go back to work? Having a week off definitely granted some much needed rest, but the cold, wet weather got me down. The sun is shining again, literally, and oddly I’m not sad to be at work while the skies are blue and the weather is warm. Time to get back into sorts. And shorts. That’s dumb. Pretend I didn’t write that last line.

I’ve gotten into shape before, and I can do it again. I’ve got a little motivation sneaking in. Let’s see how I do. Oh, right, I forgot to mention that I have gotten out of shape. Changed my shape, even. I’m hoping the humility of wearing pants that are too small for me will keep me motivated.

Goodnight, World. Don’t destroy yourself while I sleep. Or while I’m awake for that matter. Be kind.

disasters

Today I’m baking without recipes. I’m not a baker, but I do like taking risks. Mini risks. A baking disaster is a comic disaster. A failed parachute is a true disaster, but I skydive, too. Other than jumping from airplanes, I keep my true risks to a minimum. Actually, that’s probably not true either. But I’m putting forth greater effort to maintain a risk-free lifestyle. I suppose baking without recipes is my way of compensating for the lack of danger in my life. If the lack of adrenalin gets me down, I’m comforted by warm cookies. At worst, I waste ingredients. At best, I feel both accomplished and comforted. Either way, I’m learning how to bake (and how not to).

A cold front has blown in again. Yesterday I took a nap with the windows open and a nice 80-degree breeze blowing through the house. Today I’m in flannel pajamas watching cold rain fall through bare trees from a sunless sky. Winter is trying super hard to make up for the warm weather. Spring themed items are in the stores, but I’m not convinced that winter is done with us. I’m not convinced that normalcy by any means is around the corner anytime soon. I say that because the place I live gets mildly cold in the winter and last year around this time we got snowed in for a week. Things aren’t normal. After the lockdown that began two years ago in March and snovid barely a year later, my subconscious is expecting another disaster to be just around the corner. My anxiety is up, and maybe that’s why I’m baking–it’s controlled risk with a side of comfort.

I have the week off, anyhow, so I can be quietly anxious in the safety of my kitchen.

And now I’ve lost motivation because I brought to the forefront of my mind those things that haunt me.

I’m going to watch a movie now to distract me while I eat experimental cookies.

negatives

Writing stories is hard sometimes. I’m thinking maybe I should just write the beginnings to stories and end them with a …

That wouldn’t make me much of a storyteller. But if I’m writing for myself, then the endings might not matter.

…

I have the week off, and I’m going to spend it as I do every holiday — getting my shit together. Another journal, another diet reboot (excuse me, “lifestyle reboot” <eye roll>), another crack at exercise. I have reframed my habits. Instead of seeing habitual failures, I see healthy breaks in destructive behaviors. I see extending my life another year. Maybe after a while I’ll see those breaks grow longer until they meet up with each other and squeeze out the destructive behaviors. That’s the goal. Getting back to writing is part of that healthy reboot. But it’s a careful balance. Sitting around in a dark space with a computer in my lap does nothing for my physical wellbeing outside of eliminating stress.

I’m also considering consolidating my writing blog with this one. But I like the setup of the other blog and I’ve already established it. But … ack … effort. Maybe I can add a link. HMMMM.

extensive lung capacity

I just started writing again after a long absence. That’s not true. I write little notes on my phone all the time. This particular spot here is about a minute old, so I can’t say that I’ve been absent from here. What I have kept my distance from is sharing anything substantial, partly because I haven’t felt like sharing and partly because I haven’t written anything of substance in a long time. Too long. I don’t feel myself when I’m not spouting absurdities, and I haven’t been myself in a while. I’ve been living some version of myself that the real world sees. I’ve avoided the inner me. She never really knew herself any better than I did, and that’s likely why she writes or why she would write if I gave her the chance. Writing is reaching for words in the dark. It’s finding something that isn’t there and shining a light on it. She was always pretty good at pointing out the unobvious because her blindness to reality trained her to see the details that no one else could. But ~~she~~ I have had to live in the real world the past few years and have lost touch with the yummy details, those nuances that hide around corners and peek between the wooden slats of the fence as you pass by, like smiles in the negative spaces where the silhouettes of tree limbs curl around patches of blue sky.

Nah. I’ve been aware of them. I’m discovering that inner me and outer me are actually the same me. In my second half-century I am finally able to reconcile the two. I’ve just been too busy for a pesky imagination.

That’s what imaginations become when you get busy with real-life stuff: pesky.

Anyway.

I’m considering crawling back into this den of slippery words and making alphabet soup again. I could leave one foot out of the covers to balance my imaginary world with a little cold reality. Give my reality a little warm imagination. No need to be so polarized. Right? I think I need to at least try writing again. Seriously. Inner me needs to come up for a breath.

the struggle

It’s in the dark where words are found. They run from the light where any old fool can pick through them. They like to be discovered and manipulated. They like to manipulate. The relationship between the writer and the words is symbiotic: a mutual benefit between the user and the used. Which is the used is up for debate. The struggle is real.

And yet, writers continually allow themselves to be tortured by the need to seek and find the most elusive words. I often think of them, those words, as imps. But when coerced, when manipulated by the craftiest hands, they are beautiful. I fear the challenge and yearn for it all the same. More often than not, the words best me. Occasionally I win. But the harder the struggle and rarer the victory, the sweeter the joy. Like a drug, the accomplishment of good writing sends shockwaves through my veins. Such a silly thing, really, pining for fleeting moments of joy found in arranging funny symbols into anything remotely provocative to the senses.

What is it like to master the art? I suppose it’s best I never find out. My life would cease to exist in the real world if I do, and I’m told that I’m needed there.