What's Going On

I may not have mentioned that I've moved into this place with my best friend. Most days I love it. I love having my own space, I love having a washer/dryer literally inches from my bedroom door, I love having a kitchen stocked with things that I bought, etc. I love that we're walking distance from the river, and I love that some nights when I drive home, the air is swimming with fireflies.

I thing I have mentioned that I've been working at this daycare-type place, but it isn't really for me. I've told them that I want to leave, but have not officially put in my two weeks' notice. I don't have another job yet. Some moments this seems incredibly reckless and misdirected; other moments it seems reasonable and necessary. I am not the person they want or need for the program, though I know that better than they do. They are not a program I want or need to be a part of. It plays up my weaknesses and does not utilize my strengths, and possibly more importantly, it does not help or encourage me to move toward my goal, which is to be a counselor/therapist. I will miss the children, though.

I didn't get enough sleep last night, and I woke up feeling discouraged and somewhat depressed. Floundering a bit, where earlier in the week I felt confident. I need to remember how important it is for me to make sure that I don't blow off my sleep schedule, as has been my habit for almost my entire life. When I do, my performance and my mental health suffer. And my attitude suffers. And attitude is everything.

I was browsing Pinterest a week or two ago and saw a link to a video of a commencement speech delivered by Neil Gaiman, who is one of my favorite authors. He's a rock star in my book, and he seems like a pretty wise guy. Toward the end of the speech he said that a woman he knew had called him once, and asked how he thought she should go about doing something that she considered to be quite difficult. He told her to pretend that she was a person who was capable of accomplishing her goal. It can be difficult for me to remember to pretend that way, and it can take some energy, but honestly, this is some of the best advice I have ever heard, and it has been helping me greatly. Attitude is everything.

About Ian: he's not perfect, we don't always see eye-to-eye, and like just about every other relationship I've ever been in I'm not 100% sold, but he is pretty awesome in a lot of ways. He is caring and funny and sarcastic, complimentary and generous, forgiving and flirtatious and attentive. And I really appreciate those things.


But back to the job issue: probably tutoring would be wise for me to get back into. I'm also looking for flexible hourly positions that would make it somewhat easier to a) hold multiple jobs, should I so choose, and b) take classes. Not that I know what I'm doing AT ALL when it comes to researching and applying to graduate schools. So if anyone knows of good companies to work for, or if anyone has any advice re: higher education, feel free to let me know.

Let it rise.

I would wish so hard that the phrase "precious moments" hadn't been co-opted by that god-awful porcelain giant-eyed cherub crap, if I thought my wishing would change anything. The phrase isn't usable for anything meaningful, or anything other than an ad for that line. But the moments I spend with my mother--last week, rearranging the basement; this week, kneading bread and slipping it into loaf pans and pyrex bowls to rise--are precious ones to me. Some memories acquire a glow and a lustre as they age, but these have it straight out of the box. Sometimes I am reluctant to begin--running around removing bracelets and fitzing with an apron, filling my water bottle and tying my hair back with a headband--but the moment my hands touch the dough, it's over. There's no more rush, no more irritation, no more anxiousness. There's just me and my hands and this dough, and my mother and her wise hands and the dough, and the flour, and the kneading board. There is nothing else. It never lasts long enough.

Happy day-after-Easter, loveys.

I haven't really been writing anything lately, except for short little things on my cell phone which are largely about sunsets. Perhaps I'll copy them over here. I haven't decided.

This past weekend though I was in upstate New York visiting my friend Lindsey and my godson (her son) Ian and his twin sister Adrienne, for their birthdays and, incidentally, for Easter. It was tiring and also really good to see them. Also though, it was cold. And when I stepped off the plane tonight into the warm, humid Virginia air, it was almost like a religious experience. And when Jack and I drove home on the interstate with the windows down, and talked the whole time. And when I walked with Miley through the moonless night, under the quietly, constantly rustling leaves of the trees. And when I smelled the wet dirt and the little creek and the hay strewn across someone's lawn. It is emphatically spring, and I love it. I do not ever want to move to the North.


ALRIGHT. Some of the things I wrote on my cell phone notepad:

4/22--This April morning the sun rises like a rocket, drawn up by invisible strings into the low hanging clouds, from the horizon to some unseen place behind the rainswept cloud bank in a matter of minutes. Last evening I watched the spring in the treetops, the sinking sun kissing and melting through the outstretched arms of warm wood, bathing the earth in green light.

4/24--We're flying through the ethereal world between cloud layers, in a perfect palette of muted white and graded blue. Slivers and spots of light from the setting sun spread softly and quietly across the Western horizon.

And tonight (and this I did not put into my phone), we flew near a thunderstorm on our way between LaGuardia and my hometown. Though I know I look like a small child and a person who has never flown before whenever I do this, I love to press my face up against the airplane window and watch the lightning in the clouds. The clouds themselves are rather stunning--sculpted shapes of the darkest possible gray filling the sky above the city, and enormous banks of it piling up in the distance--but in the darkness they have no definition. Each lightning strike looks like a tiny sunrise, and it highlights the hidden depths of the clouds for the smallest instant. It's gorgeous.

Newest love:

frybread.

10 c flour
1 tsp yeast
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
enough water to form a soft dough

Mix, let sit for ten minutes, tear off a bit and roll it flat, fry in a pan, scarf.

I wonder how disorganized a post can be?

I fucking hate living here. Lately it's harder every day to deal with it. And I feel like such a spoiled, whiny brat. Why do I get to feel so put-upon when there are other people who can never move out? When in other cultures, multi-generational family living is the norm? I wonder almost daily how the fuck people can stand that.


Maybe there are some people out there who can grieve in a logical, dignified manner--lots of quiet pain and hurt, gradually tapering down to a resumed normal existence after a few weeks or months. Or maybe everyone who grieves, who has been psychologically eviscerated in some way, plays out some variation on the shit I've been pulling: acting sad, acting normal, acting fucking psychotic, acting normal, et cetera. Maybe everyone has moments where they're going about their business and then some horrible thing rears up within them and rips everything to shreds. It's like I have this masochist inside me in whose possession is that card-catalog of images and moments and feelings that will make these intestines that I've been holding in start to spill back out onto the floor again, loop by loop. Tonight it's David's shirt. I want more than anything to grab the sides of his shirt and pull myself against him and cry into his chest. I can feel the knit cotton in my fists. I can feel his chest under my cheek. I can feel him gently taking me by the shoulders and pushing me away, and I can see myself standing in the front yard and crying, and yelling, and throwing things on the ground while he stands there in front of the house.

This evening there was a lot of frustration going on between me and my parents. I hate it. I hate not wanting to be home. I hate not wanting to be around them. I want to want to be here, especially with Chloe about to leave for college in Connecticut. I don't want to miss these last chances to be with her. But I swear, if my dad sees me upset and gets me to talk to him about it and then responds by telling me to sweep the fucking walks one more goddamn time, I am going to stop speaking to him.

I hate this. Hating. Being angry. Fighting with everyone. Being so tired. Regressing to the fucking seventh grade. What is this? Why am I so angry? Why can't I fix it? Why am I writing like a bratty little kid?

I meant to say, before going on the tangent about my father/parents, that tonight was one of those where I kept turning up the music in the car, trying to make it loud enough to drown myself out. I felt like there was a vacuum in my chest, felt that almost-frantic feeling you get when you've dived down deep and you need a breath, but there's no air to take in.



On the plus side,
1. Kelly went shoe shopping with myself and Chloe in tow, and I got gold flats on sale. I wanted these, but I don't really have the money to spend at the moment. Very sad.

2. I watched The Big Bang Theory with Kelly, and remembered that it's a pretty great show. Mostly just Sheldon(?), but I'm okay with that.

3. I remembered how much I like "I and Love and You" by the Avett Brothers.






Whatever I can remember of what I've been meaning to write for two days:

I realize now that I am not even remotely in the proper emotional state to write this the way I wanted it written, but when I drove over Afton Mountain on my way home from Camp on Saturday, I drove just beneath a cloud. I could (and did) literally put my hand out the window and reach up and feel the cool mist of it on my fingers. there was something else I meant to tie in, about friendship maybe, but it's lost to me--at least for now. Still, it was something of a marvel. Magical.

Dinner tonight, ohmygooodness.

Peas with lettuce, AND

Homemade shrimp and alligator savory cheesecake. So good.


And no one cares but I meant to say earlier, I hated to run the dishwasher because there were ants in it. Murdered! But I couldn't think how to make them get out. :o/


Other delicious homemade foods today, none of which had anything to do with me; all of which had everything to do with my mother and with Chloe currently having difficulty with solid foods:

delicious juicy citrusy jello

polenta* yummm















*I am horribly offended by the fact that the Firefox dictionary does not recognize the word "polenta." It recognizes "grits," doesn't it?? This is ridiculous.

Thursday

I've been almost utterly unproductive and sleepy for the past few days, and have felt rather sickish today, though I think that last might be largely to do with the fact that I'm taking care of Chloe as she recovers from her wisdom-teeth surgery this morning. It's difficult for me to see her all swollen and drugged up, but I have to say that it's been significantly easier since she took the gauze out of her mouth.

Yesterday I sat around writing--even more than I posted here--and today I'm sitting around reading and making milkshakes, changing ice packs, and delivering hydrocodone every four hours. I have applied for a couple of jobs via craigslist though, so I suppose that's something. Currently listening to the Fellowship of the Ring audiobook, ftw.

March at home

Outside tonight there are suddenly moths and peeping frogs, and a whispering breeze that doesn't bite, but caresses and soothes. It may be still March, but the spring is coming.

Inside tonight I've been reading Neil Gaiman, which is always a treat, and cooking frozen fish. A little while ago my mother came upstairs and enlisted my help to make tostadas. She shows me up without even thinking about it. She is frying tortillas, handing me long-memorized ingredients for homemade guacamole, spooning leftover made-from-scratch black beans and salad with the practiced grace of a mother and an artist. Meanwhile, I am burning my knuckle to a blister trying to flip Gorton's fish fillets without removing the tray from the 425 degree oven. She hands me a plate of tostadas and directs me to the aloe she has growing in the bathroom.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but... FML.

I applied for a writing/editing position today, and eventually received this reply:


 "You need to know that when you send an experienced editor a resume, any spelling or grammar flaw is going to be noticed instantly."


I knew this! I know this! I proofread! But, evidently, not well enough to catch "Universty."

fmlfmlfml

I am mortified. I nearly cried.

dammit.



edit:
Scratch that, I did cry. Good and hard, but as quietly as possible, considering that there are other people in the house, and I don't want any sympathy or anyone around when I'm crying, generally speaking. On the upside though, I was able to wash my face until it cooled down enough to pass without notice at the dinner table for a good ten minutes, and by then I apparently looked normal enough to shrug off the one comment that was made.

I've given myself this pep talk: I will not believe that I am a failure. I will not believe that I am worthless. I will not allow myself to believe that I will never get out of this. I will not despair.

The Ropes

Sometimes I feel like I'm walking a tightrope trying to figure out what I really want in life and at the same time trying to pretend like I'm a non-sociopathic, functioning adult member of society. Or maybe several tightropes.

Rope 1: David. Not at all to suggest that he isn't fantastic--only to suggest that I am an emotional moron, and allowing myself to feel and think whatever things I would normally feel and think, without banishing uncomfortable items or forcing other items into view (is the only way I will ever have any hope of knowing what I want ever, and also)is not particularly easy for me, especially when I am also trying to not be a complete bitch.

Rope 2: Living arrangements. Currently I am living with my parents again--super cool. Again, not to suggest that my parents are not super cool; rather to suggest that living, at 23, with the people who raised you, is not always simple. And my uncle (a very good guy, actually, but not very timely, but yes very underpriced for family so I shouldn't complain at all) has had my car for four or five months, so I share with my really wonderful, but MUST PARTICIPATE IN EVERYTHING sister. And I have my own stuff to take care of (needs and wants), but living in a group dwelling requires things like cleaning up my own and other people's messes. Especially since my mother and sister seem to tend to look to me as their organizational savior when I am home, thanks to my occasional bursts of Cannot Stand This Mess. This opinion of theirs stands despite the fact that my normal mode of operation is "What mess? Leave me alone, I am reading. And later when you would like me to help, I will be out of town."

Rope 3: Money. No excuses here--money is absolutely a bitch and I am not a big fan. Probably this is because I am in possession of very little of it, and I would like to have a lot of it, only without working very much. It's an issue. But I've just been hired to do exciting science experiments with the aim of convincing kids that science is awesome (which it of course IS), so that's good. It's only part time though, duh, so I'll still need to find another gig.

And finally (?), Rope 4: Ignorance. I majored in English, without particularly wanting to teach English. Also, I didn't work for the school paper ever at all. Even given the fact that I'll probably apply to go teach ESL in South Korea, this wasn't the best plan, and I should probably go to grad school. The problems here are A)I cannot afford grad school at the moment, and I don't really want to add any more loans right now to the $10,000 or so that I'm still paying off, and B) I cannot decide what to go to grad school for. Majors in consideration are Creative Writing (terminal degree makes that somewhat less useless, actually); Anthropology; Sociology; some sort of physical therapy--not Physical Therapy I mean, but massage therapy or chiropractic something or another similar thing; some sort of emotional/mental therapy, like Art or Recreational therapy, or plain old Psychology or Psychiatry; Environmental Studies type things. If I think for a few more minutes I'll probably come up with another handful. Best to stop here. Problem(s) illustrated, anyway.