It’s been a while, hasn’t it? The summer slipped by so fast with all my medical escapades and whatnot. Kinda sucked, actually, but I did get a bit of warm sunshine. One-hundred degrees is the new warm in Texas, in case you didn’t know.
I spent the past week immersed in physics conversations with like-minded physics folks. I did a lot of walking and ate a lot of food that was really bad for me. It was a nice getaway, and I learned a lot. Met new people. Made friends. Geeked out at the University of Texas in Austin with other geeks. Super fun.
And I go back to work on Wednesday. I’d honestly rather be holding deep discourse with peers than planning for school, but I gotta remember the good parts that come with being a teacher. Just today I got an email from a student from last year asking for a recommendation letter. He reminded me that I did a decent job. That was helpful, as was the refresher last week, given my months-long bout with self-doubt. Gotta let that stuff go already. It’s gonna be okay.
Anyway, T-minus 20. In the meantime, I think I’ll go for a pedicure tomorrow and take a nap in the massage chair at the nail salon. Take a walk. You know. Pretend It’s still June for a couple of days.
I’ve been watching movies. The past three nights I have watched the first 5 episodes of Star Wars. I’ve never seen them back-to-back before. The series is outstanding when watched in order. Even better having watched a bit of The Mandalorian beforehand.
I watched Jaws last Saturday night. I always get wrapped up in Quint’s story about his experience on the USS Indianapolis. He gives me chills when he tells it. And every time I wonder whether the fate of those sailors was punishment. I heard once that Oppenheimer felt great regret for his involvement in the making of the bomb. I wonder whether Feynman did, too. I really like him. He saw the world as a beautiful and wondrous place. How could he not?
No sense wondering whether the evils that combat evil are justified. Maybe Spock was right. You know, “The needs of the many,…”
I have read about the tunnels in Japan. My brother saw them. He felt the evil living in them, and he was terrified.
I don’t like to think about such things. I’m not qualified. I’m more of a Yoda fan.
“Train yourself to let of go of everything you fear to lose.” That’s my favorite Yoda quote.
He told that to someone powerful who felt too much. The man’s fear turned to hate, just as Yoda said it would, and that man’s fear destroyed his very soul.
Fighting fire with fire is a response to fear, is it not?
This is too much to dwell on on a Tuesday night before bed.
Ah the stress. The emotions that pour out as verbal abuse. Not like that. But snapping, Yelling. Someone gets hit with it if they are within listening range. Someone becomes an unintended target. Then on and on until the dog gets kicked. You know the story.
And the things we let get to us that cause the stress…some valid, others contrived. Mostly contrived, but maybe not.
I need a baseball bat and a room filled with fragile things. The inanimate kind. The kind I can smash without feeling bad about afterward. Without feeling regret. Like I do with the snapping and yelling at people who are in the wrong place at the wrong time.
This is why I hide. But hiding doesn’t go over so well, either.
I’ve been walking in 100+ degree heat (that’s 38+ Celsius for most of you) twice a day since summer began. Okay, not every day, but a lot of days. The heat burns off the negativity.
I should have walked longer this time.
I just erased a rant that would rival Scarface. I needed to write it. I needed to erase it. No one should be subjected to that level of anger. No one should feel it, either. I watched Anakin Skywalker turn into Darth Vader last night. I don’t want that to happen to me.
Today I had planned to paint my bedroom. This is what actually happened:
There is tape around the edges, a plastic cover is precariously shielding my furniture and whatnots that were shoved into the center of the room, window treatments are down, and a little bit of paint is visible on few edges. The paint can is closed, and the brush is soaking.
In other words, I spent most of the day watching TV.
In other exciting news, I wrote a flash fiction story! Yay me! If you are interested in reading it, here’s the link. I wrote it in response to a prompt by this guy.
I cried today because I thought someone was dead. The person fell of the face of the planet: no longer worked at his place of employment (the front desk person was not helpful); disappeared from social media; did not return my texts for the last week; just gone. You might be saying to yourself, “He blocked you, loser.” But no, he is my trainer, a person who I’ve known for years, a person who changed my life. I have no personal relationship with this guy other than the fact that he is my trainer and my friend. Not a talk-outside-of-work friend, but a friend. We confided in each other. He made me capable of lifting a ridiculous amount of weight. He empowered me. I was stronger physically and mentally because of him. And then, poof. Gone.
So yeah, I cried. He was dead or in jail or on the run. Those were the options. In the middle of all my crying, he texted back that he was fine, “lol.” Asshole.
I’ve been numb, lethargic, and nothing has brought me joy lately. The cry was cathartic, and I felt better after pulling myself together when I got his whatever text. “If you need me, I’ll be …” I do need you, actually, but let’s ignore that I asked.
I was in the Home Depot parking lot crying my eyes out in a hot car. I suppose I should thank him for breaking the thick shell that encased the emotions I haven’t had access to. I stopped going to training sessions for the last few months because work was keeping me late every night. I told him we’d start back when school ended. He was his usual, “Hell yeah, we will gym it up” dumb self. He’s not dumb. I only wrote that because I’m mad at him. So it seems I don’t have a trainer anymore, and I’m down one friend. I have few friends by choice. I have too many sides to me, which means I have too many ways to feel what other people feel when I’m around them. Too many friends exhaust me, but I cherish the few I have. He was one of them, and now he is being an ass. Or maybe he is running from the law.
“lol”
………………………..
I am redoing my bedroom. Tomorrow I’m going to paint it a powdery cornflower blue. In a week or so, I’ll be replacing the floors with a dark laminate tiles–you know, the kind that look like hardwood but aren’t.
So much for spending my time prepping for next year. I’m being dramatic. But you know that.
………………………………………………………
I had a conversation with Chat GPT a few weeks ago. I asked it to explain a physics concept that I was grappling with. It gave me a long explanation about basic stuff that not only did not answer the question but was wrong. I tried to guide the program to address the problem while correcting it along the way. Each time, it apologized and agreed with the correction. I finally gave up and thanked it for the attempt. It apologized again. Maybe it learned something. Maybe I’m contributing to the demise of humanity by helping to train AI. Who am I kidding, we all are.
I also ask it things like, “Write a mission statement for a mad scientist in the style of Kurt Vonnegut.” I was disappointed in the response. Again, “… in the style of F. Scott Fitzgerald.” Not great. Then James Joyce. And that’s when it occurred to me what it was doing. The voices were void, but the vocabulary was spot on for each. I then asked it to do the same task in the style of Dr. Suess. That response was awful. AI has no imagination, but why on earth would it. Digression–rhetorical questions should be written without a question mark. That is not protocol, but it should be. Back on topic–I asked it to draw a butterfly using keyboard symbols. Here’s what I got:
I’m pretty sure that’s a dog.
All the responses I got after the Dr. Suess request, regardless of the question, were in rhyme.
Interesting.
Next:
write two stanzas of a poem in iambic pentameter about a butterfly interacting with a dog, then draw a picture in keyboard characters conveying that poem.
In fields of green, a butterfly takes flight, Its wings a kaleidoscope of colors bright. It dances with the wind, so light and free, A delicate beauty for all eyes to see.
A playful dog, with wagging tail and zest, Approaches the butterfly, eager to invest. With curious eyes, it watches in delight, As the butterfly flutters, a joyful sight.
That is a cat and a dog. But I appreciate the emojis for clarification.
…………………………………………………………………..
Write a haiku about writer’s block.
Blank page, stagnant mind, Words elude like fleeting mist, Writer’s block takes hold.
I noticed that most of my first sentences in the last post were a little dark. I like the idea of writing something akin to The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, but I lean toward suspense. I think that means that Coraline is up my alley. Alice in Wonderland, even. A first sentence and a genre. Progress.
A reflection of my life possibly.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
My posts are close to if not after midnight. This post is for June 5, but it is currently 9 minutes into June 6.
Let’s pretend we are on 2015 laptop time. Computers kept time for crap back then. I kinda liked it.
In keeping with my goal to write everyday, I am here at my computer with nothing in particular to say. I need to overcome that. Let’s just write, shall we?
My vacation does not feel like a vacation this year. It feels like time to do a bunch of stuff that I normally wouldn’t have time for. I find joy in my walks in the hot summer sun, though. Today was not hot; super weird for this time of year in the swamp where I live. I used to live in a hotter place, one with no humidity. My lungs would singe with every breath, but my young self didn’t have a problem with that. I ran around barefoot on asphalt that had tar bubbles. We fried an egg once on the pavement. Texas can be brutal, but I love the heat. I’m happiest in the summertime. Even here in southeast Texas, where the air is so thick with humidity that you gulp every breath, I feel joy when I’m in it. And there are alligators in the suburbs–I’ve seen them.
I cheated and went in search of something to post that I wrote in the past in a running document. The document began several year ago and is still going strong. Sometimes I date entries, but mostly I don’t. I don’t know when I wrote the entry below, but it was a while ago. I have exhausted my thoughts for the evening, so I will end with an old post.
——————————————————————————————–
I have decided to practice writing first sentences…
It was a dark and stormy night. (jk)
The new keys were springy and danced beneath her fingertips.
She shrieked with a magnificent look of glee and terror as she careened toward the ground through thin clouds in a blue sky.
And that was that.
“So far, so good,” she thought, as she spun the dial of the lock to ensure nobody could get into the vault—or out.
It was a pleasure to burn. (Okay, not mine, but maybe my favorite so why not see what it’s like to write it.)
Day faded into night, releasing the moon and the eyes that it lit in the darkness.
The shovel made a thud on the ground as she brushed her hands together to wipe away the dirt and blood.
Indignation dripped from his downturned mouth and down the back of his throat as he nearly choked on the words that he allowed only his hateful glare to convey.
***No more “as he/she’s”***
“We’re lost, aren’t we?” He whispered so the dark couldn’t hear the fear in his voice.
They stood at the edge of the precipice and waited for the last sunrise.
Only the bones of their love remained.
The second time was even better.
He was mesmerized by her audacity.
High noon follows the sun around the planet every second of every minute of every hour. But the sun chases midnight and never catches up to it.
Driving home this afternoon in the misty grey, I listened to a song by an artist that someone shared with me a lifetime ago, and I was transported–not to that other time but to another realm. I was a living a surreal scene in a movie, floating through the trees down a narrow and winding road. Everything became clear during that drive. The world as we know it is spinning around as though flowing through a funnel, faster and faster, headed toward one inevitable destination. I’m not sure what that destination is, but my bones tell me it’s something wonderful. All the sorrows of my past and even my day dimmed in the light of this realization. I felt an overwhelming sense of hope and calm. Of peace. That no matter how badly things go between now and the end as we know it, everything will be okay.
A long time ago I found myself, figuratively in every way, swimming in formulas and ideas, buried happily in a vast ocean of mathematics and physics. Drowning in dopamine. Today, after many days of foggy thinking, I re-wrapped my brain around rotational motion and all its fine intricacies, and everything came flooding back. The power of who knows how many minds ran through my veins, as music written by a genius is played by another and fed into the ears of an artist’s hand. I wrote, I dissected, and with that orgasmic victory of accomplishment and validation, I solved. I understood and proved to myself that I am what I thought I might have been once. That I am a part of something greater. I am not the amalgam of my experiences nor even a product of them. I am a part of something greater than I. I am the music that flows through the artist’s hand. I am the result of inspiration and a part of its formation. I am the ocean I drown in. I am Archimedes, Newton, and Mozart. I am the music of Phillip Glass, the keys on which his music is played, and the heart of the player though which his music is felt.
And around with you I flow, as though through a funnel, spinning faster and faster into a singular moment, a singular existence. Yet, myself, I am. Because He made me. And everything that streams through my mind and fingers and even onto this screen is made for me for Him and by me by Him because all of it is a part of who I am as He made me to be. As He made you to be a part of my story as you read these words. As together we narrow in on a destination of His design, returning to a singularity and bursting through to the other side where a beautiful new world awaits. As I did today when I found myself. Again.
When cleaning my house I begin with one task. Generally picking up all the trash. Then when my house is fully clean, I assure myself I’m going to keep it this way. How hard could it be? And inevitably, the house is a wreck by the end of the week. But really. How hard could it be to throw the trash out in the first place? To put something back? To sweep a room at the end of the day?
I have a big house with only two people living in it. We aren’t lazy, we are busy and tired. But honestly. How hard is it to get up and throw that napkin away?
These are the things I think about when cleaning. Then when I’m living in my newly cleaned house, I am so comfortable that just one napkin on the side table isn’t doing any harm. Leaving my shoes tossed on the floor next to the couch is an easy fix. Putting that dish in the sink? So simple to deal with. Later.
My house doesn’t get fully clean until I’m on vacation because I clean in chunks. I’ll get up and do a couple things, then go about my day doing whatever it is I want to do, which usually involves nothing at all, and then I clean a couple other things. I keep this up until the house is worthy of visitors and, frankly, of me. This process takes a long time, and it can’t happen when I’m not on vacation because the energy it takes to throw even that one new napkin away is too much to handle. But it’s not really. I just take advantage of my evenings to do nothing. And therein lies the problem.
If I do just one thing a night, I should be good.
This is where my past self would link the keeping of my house clean to something else, making a profound statement about life. But I don’t have it in me today. I’m just going to sit here and take advantage of my time to do nothing. I can write later. After all, what is writing but tiny words strung together? So easy.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Another Writer, Another Blog 