Lickety-Splickety Lists
Add comment July 21st, 2010 03:00pm Erica
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Distraction from the Dirty Sock
Add comment July 20th, 2010 03:16pm Erica
I have to distract myself sometimes. Give myself something to pin my dreams on when my current life isn’t giving me enough to pin a dirty sock on let alone a dream.
So I do things like make bucket lists and eat copious amounts of greasy pizza. I read books to make me think about grandiose philosophical theories instead of the things in my life I’ve blown into overgrown elephants instead of their original frog-like sizes. (And also because I want to say I’ve read Tolstoy and Wilde and Proust?) I dive into years-long projects with my eyes squinted half-way shut so I’ll actually leave the precarious edge I’m perched on. If we truly had our eyes all the way open about most of the decisions we make in our lives, we’d never move forward with much of anything.
Before I know it, I’ve got a whole line of overgrown elephants stacked up in my backyard. Taking up space, eating my grass and blocking the sunshine. Even if I wanted to start thinning out the herd, I can’t because I’m juggling all the distractions I gave myself to ignore the original Fatty McFatterson who first took up residence.
While these distractions aren’t a total waste, (Some of them are – when will I ever need to quote Marcel Proust? I find stuffy academic debates to be rather overbearing, arrogant, and boring. Big words don’t impress me; other big things do. Like mountains.) they don’t accomplish what I originally intended. They never do, of course. Distractions simply add more clutter and chaos to mask the original clutter and chaos.
We all do it, I think. Dream up distractions to one level or another. It’s easier that way, for the right now. It feels a little easier to breathe if we can just push off some problems and focus on other things that aren’t quite so difficult. And sometimes it feels easier to add distraction after distraction until life becomes so crazy that it’s impossible to think about anything.
Maybe that’s an ideal place to be, distraction from the dirty sock. Ceasing to think, simply to be.
While I Wasn’t Here
Add comment July 19th, 2010 04:29pm Erica
I’ve been absent for two weeks without really giving any clue as to what I was up to. Partly by accident and nearly completely on purpose. None of yo’ bizzzznesss, dawg! That was my first thought. And then my second was all like – dude, what is your deal? As Jenny calls it at The Bloggess, here’s my list of “shit-I-did-this-week-when-I-wasn’t-here”.
- Bought new shampoo and conditioner. The only thing I don’t like about it is that it’s in a pink bottle.
- Ran, walk, rode. (Anybody else getting “See Spot Run” images in their heads?)
- Ate an entire jar of salsa with cheese. Cheesy salsa. In approximately 2.63 days.
- Learned my grandpa was in the hospital. Called my grandpa immediately, because, AS ALWAYS, I learned about the hospital fiasco after the fact. They thought he would be okay, but they weren’t sure so I looked up plane tickets just in case a funeral was looming in my future. As if funerals aren’t enough of an issue to deal with, airlines try to make a profit. Have some respect, people.
- Drove to 4 Lakes. Where’s that? I thought I knew, but I didn’t, because I got lost. Lost. LOST. I have valiantly fought the good fight against purchasing a GPS monitor dude thingy. It might be time to give in.
- Cried. Don’t ask. I won’t tell.
- Ran the numbers A-frickin-GAIN to determine the best financial move to make in this chess game of life. Money is dumb. I want to pay with rocks.
- Delighted in the fact I’ve taught Mr. Holliday the meaning of “wait”. Depressed in the fact I’ve gone hoarse trying to get through to him.
- Washed White Flash’s windshield. And not just the windshield wiper fluid.
- Painful owner of a festering finger with a sliver of hay creating pus, nastiness and general widespread agony.
- Remembered one of my very good friends and mentor. Two years today of running with the angels.
- Successfully washed the 20 plates I was given a month and a half ago. I live alone. What am I going to do with 20 plates?
- Practiced being a ninja in front of my mirror.
- Learned how to escape out of a bear hug by doing more than jamming a leg into the groin. Although, when in doubt, always – I repeat ALWAYS – go for the groin. It’s bound to do something.
Solo Sunday
Add comment July 18th, 2010 09:09am Erica
Reason #8: I insist on having three different kinds of shampoo and conditioner in my shower at the same time. There is no room for another person’s shampoo bottle.
I Don’t Want To, But Here I Am
Add comment July 16th, 2010 04:15pm Erica
Usually I write a little note when I take a hiatus from blogging. Some short quip about how I need to lie on a beach somewhere, sip on frosty drinks and ogle eye candy with washboard abs. About how I need to sleep, rejuvenate, eat greasy pizza and drive aimlessly. About how I need to take a break so I can remember why I have a blog – so I can remember that I like to write. Yes, usually I do that.
But this time I didn’t. I couldn’t. This time has been different than the past few times I’ve taken a blog-vacation. The past few times, I knew all I needed was what I just described above. I knew I just needed to give my writing brain a rest so it could come back with renewed creativity. But this time…I fall asleep at work in the afternoons. Did you know that? I’ll be sitting at my computer working on very important, life-altering agricultural documents when I crash into slumber, waking myself up 10-15, sometimes 20 minutes later with an extra-loud snore and a puddle of drool on my shirt. I’m not narcoleptic, and while I’m probably not getting enough sleep for physical me, I believe my brain is also very tired. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually – it is as tired as I’ve ever seen it, I think, and I don’t know that even the most amazing set of washboard abs can make a dent in that.
So I stopped writing two weeks ago. I haven’t written a single word of anything remotely creative and non-work-related until this post. And you know what? I have not missed it. I haven’t missed writing. I haven’t had even a ghost of an urge to put words together or shuffle them around until they fit together just so. The fact that I haven’t missed writing frightens me – mainly because, up until this break, I’ve always felt like a part of me was gone when I wasn’t writing. Even when I was rearming myself with creativity, I missed writing, and I’d anxiously wait for when my insides were ready to jump back into an ocean filled with words.
What would I do if I didn’t want to write anymore? I mean, obviously Shoelaces would fall off by the wayside. Having a blog when you don’t want to write is a waste. But more so, how would I live if I didn’t want to write? I have hundreds and hundreds of pages of writing that I’ll never show a soul. I don’t even show them to myself. They are strictly off-limits. I started writing these pages six years ago when I was facing some very difficult times. Grammar, form, beautiful phrases and flow are not a part of these pages. They are raw, painfully honest and honestly true. They are all the thoughts and ideals, dreams and emotions that chase themselves around inside my head all day long. Writing them helps me escape from them; writing them is my release. And so I ask again, how would I live if I didn’t want to write? Spontaneous combustion isn’t how I want to go, folks.
And so I’m here today, because I was at a fork. I’ve always been the sort to move forward with decisions rather than sit on my haunches and wait for some magic droplet from the answering bag to fall on my head. I’ve been sitting at this fork for two weeks – not having the desire to keep writing but digging in my heels about any other alternative. I would still be sitting at that fork if I hadn’t realized that by sitting there, I was effectively moving closer and closer to the alternatives.
Even though this post has been a struggle for me – both because the content is of a personal nature and because I still don’t want to write – I’ve decided I have to fight for what I want, to battle through this strange, “I-don’t-want-to-write-and-I-don’t-care” place I find myself in. I can’t let go of something that is such a part of who I am without attempting to toss a loop around it and reel it in. Some things are too important to let go of. Some things are worth gritting your teeth and fighting for. Some things…some things are, and this is.
These Words
Add comment July 2nd, 2010 04:32pm Erica
These words…they beat along the edges of my brain. Rising in cadence and power from the slight tapping of a tack hammer to the body-shaking grind of a jack hammer. Ebb and flow. Sweeping, swirling, swishing with one thing in common: always there, setting up house, not going anywhere.
These words…they echo in the far reaches of my memory, never fading into silence. Resembling fireflies caught in a mason jar, glowing in pain, glowing in tears, glowing when they shouldn’t be at all. Are they coming, or are they going? Always coming, never going. Round ‘em up! Circle ‘em! Shove ‘em through the gate! The gate…where’s the gate?
These words…they live in the bottom of a bottle, the windows of a car, the tiles of a ceiling. Living on a steady stream of thoughts and emotions, memories and reality. They need to vacate the premises, be escorted to the door, thrown out on their scraggly behinds.
These words…I don’t have any more words for these words. These words have landed a one-two punch to the gut. These words have proven to be more difficult to wrangle than a wild mustang. These words have exposed nerve endings thought to be cauterized.
These words…suck.
The Men From the Boys
Add comment July 1st, 2010 02:48pm Erica
“The difference between a man and a boy is, a boy wants to grow up to be a fireman, but a man wants to grow up to be a giant monster fireman.” ~ Jack Handey
