I know, I know. Once again I've shirked my responsibilities and left you hanging. It's not that I haven't been thinking about you... it's just that my thoughts have been too random and scattered this week to organize into something worth posting. I get an idea, start chewing on it, and then...oops... swallow before I've gotten the full flavor of it. It's been a rough week - I'm going through a syndrome that Laura refers to as, "Who's at the wheel?!" It's not that I'm a control freak... oh, quit laughing... really I'm not. It's just that I prefer evenness and I dislike ambiguity.
Work has been, well, feeling like work. Usually I'm the one who makes a fun time out of any task, but I haven't been able to pull that off much lately. Between the bullshit head game players in the front office, ranting edicts from The Ice Queen of Oz, and a general feeling that I'm busting my ass for no good reason, my attitude is... shaky.
The only time I've felt like myself the past few weeks is when I've been walking. And I've been doing a lot of walking. It's only two weeks now until The Big Walk - I can't believe the time is already here! I think I'm ready. I picked up some new walking shoes last weekend (thanks HB!) and I've been doing my best to break them in. I've got my list of camping gear. I'm going to finish working on my t-shirt this weekend - if any of you have a name you want me to add to the back of the shirt, send me an email. I'm walking in honor of anyone who has dealt with any kind of cancer. I know it's a breast cancer walk, but I want that SOB eradicated for good. And, yes, I'm still accepting donations as I still have some dollars to go before I reach my pledge goal.
I'm really looking forward to this long weekend ahead. I can use the extra day.
"No one knows what it's like To be the bad man To be the sad man Behind blue eyes"
~The Who, Behind Blue Eyes
I can tell you exactly when it all began to change. It was January 1998; I was 35 years old. Until that point I felt I had nothing to share with the world, I felt I wasn't worth loving, I felt like an outsider, and I felt altogether unworthy of any good thing. I knew I was probably wrong in those feelings, but they were mine and I owned them. Then, in early January, I started to feel restless, very intensely restless... so much so that it felt like there was an electrical current running just beneath my skin. Still, I didn't know what it meant, much less what to do about it or with it.
"No one knows what it's like To feel these feelings Like I do"
~The Who, Behind Blue Eyes
Not long after, I was talking to a friend about it (I've long since lost touch with Dustin, but to this day I think of him and hope he is well). He asked if there was any time at all when I felt really good. Laughingly, I said, "Yeah, sure. When I fly in my dreams. I love that feeling, and it's always such a real feeling. I feel like nothing can touch me when I'm in the air. But, I always feel really disappointed when I wake up and find that I can't fly after all." "Barb, next time you have one of those dreams, hang on to that good feeling when you wake up. Take it with you into your day." Crazy idea, I thought, but what the hell.
"But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be"
~The Who, Behind Blue Eyes
It so happened that I had a flying dream that very night. Upon waking, I at first had that feeling of let down, but I remembered Dustin's words and I hung on to the good... clung to that glorious feeling of flight. I don't know why or how that changed things, but it did. My perspective began to change; my attitude began to change; I began to change. It followed into everything in my life. I found boldness and bravery, and I figured out that my life was worth something - worth quite a lot, in fact. It wasn't long after that I left my ex-bowl-of-oatmeal and moved West.
"If I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat
If I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat"
~The Who, Behind Blue Eyes I don't think Dustin ever knew what a tremendous thing he did. I don't think he understood what his words meant to me, but that conversation has stayed with me over the years. I can still tap into that flying feeling when I need to, even if I haven't dreamed of flight. It's made all the difference.
Not everyone has the great grace in life to experience flying dreams, but everyone has something in their life that makes them feel intrinsically and unequivocally good. Everyone has a laughin' place (or should). Find that thing in your life and grab on with both hands. Hell, wrap your legs around it like the lover it is, and hang on for dear life. I guarantee you the ride will be a wild one, but it'll open paths that you never expected to explore. It will exact change. It will enact a new paradigm.
With Birddog still down for the count I've been taking the bus to work this week. I'd forgotten how much I actually enjoy riding the bus. The constant stream of characters getting on and off are good fodder for my already overly active imagination - the Chinese guy with waist-length hair and Fu Manchu mustache who sat talking biblical prophecy with the driver (as I, ironically, listened to Clapton singing Crossroads); the petite teen girl in the babydoll gauzy black top, brightly colored plastic bracelets, and ballet slippers with glittering skulls on them; the businessman with the pinched and worried look on his face who sat picking at his cuticles; the middle-aged black woman with the old-fashioned lunch pail replete with peacenik stickers; and the cast goes on. My fellow humans are an interesting lot. I wonder what they think of me - middle-aged white girl, long brown hair, glowing blue eyes and a slight smirky grin as I sit studying them and listening to my tunes.
Yesterday on my mile walk to the bus stop after work, I got caught in a downpour. I mean... it was a-rainin' hard! A real soaker. Deluge. I was sopping wet by the time the bus driver got there - shirt totally soaked, hair dripping like I'd forgotten to towel off after a shower, shoes squishing with water as I walked - but I was smiling big, as I'm just weird enough that I love being out in the rain. As I boarded, the driver said, "Didja get caught in that stuff?" "No," I said. "I've got wicked bad problems with my sweat glands ... here's your sign." Fortunately, he got the Bill Engvall reference and let out a great bellowing laugh, along with a muttered, "Guess I deserved that..."
It all put me in good spirit - better spirit than I've been in lately, to say the least. The difference got me to thinking about my attitude lately, about how much better I deal with things when my attitude is good, and about how I'm the only one who can change my attitude. True enough speech for all of us. It comes from within. No one can make us feel anything - good or bad. (*winks at T-man*) It's also interesting to me that sometimes the simplest things (like getting caught in the rain) can change my mindset, perspective, or perception. Thing is, I've got to be looking for those things and be open to them. This being human shit is such a process... *heavy sigh* My imperfection drives me nuts.
"It's not having what you want,
It's wanting what you've got."
~Sheryl Crow, Soak Up The Sun
I'm not a wealthy woman (*sardonic snort*) - not even close! Still, I have much. So much. I have a rich life, and that's really all anyone can ask for. I've got love and good paprika; an only slightly amorphous sense of my own style; a life filled with music, words, art and creativity amid this constant stream of entertaining stuff in my braincase; a solid (if somewhat perverse) self-preservative sense of humor; and a fine circle of honorable folks that I call friends. Apart from the paprika (and I know where to get it cheap), none of it can be bought. So, yeah. I'm rich.
I took the day off of work yesterday. It was much needed and long overdue. I spent the day playing tourist with Jonathan and watching the interesting people in Seattle, particularly at Pike Place Market. I'm also stocked up on good paprika again - for me, that's a feeling of wealth. (I think Frank Herbert was talking about paprika when he wrote Dune. After all, I do have blue eyes now, don't I?! Gimme the spice.)
Jonathan and I noshed our way through the market, beginning with a sack of hot, freshly roasted cashews, samples of leek soup with truffle oil (I think my taste buds had their first ever orgasm), chicken gizzards (those were Jonathan's idea, not mine! *makes retching noise*), nectarines so juicy that I pretty much bathed in the thing as I ate it, some really killer, wicked good bean, a Malaysian spring roll, and a few pints of Kilt Lifter ale at the Pike Place Brewery.
Then we went to dinner. Sushi... ohhhhh yeah, baby. Like we needed to eat again. But, it was sushi - how could I possibly refuse?! Although, taking the bus home after and having to hike up that damnable hill near my house is a fine lesson on Why Barb Should Never Overeat! I was hurtin' for certain. *cue unladylike burp*
It was a wonderful day, spent in the company of a young man I greatly admire - Jonathan is so articulate, intelligent, witty, worldly and open with who he is. Often, as we passed the time talking about anything and everything, I'd catch myself thinking, "Dang, but we did a good job with him." Yes, I gave myself a little bit of credit (only a little), mostly based on some of the references he made to my influence on his childhood. In fact, as we sat sipping ale and he pondered with all of the things he'd been through, he wondered how it was that did he turn out so well. I told him it was because as a child he was allowed to be exactly who he needed to be; self-expression was never questioned in the Simon household. In fact, it was invited. Plus, he had three intelligent and caring adults from whom to draw knowledge and wisdom. Top that off with his own inherent curiosity about everything in the universe. Finally, there was love - huge love. Given all that, there was no other path but a destined lane to greatness. Me? All of that has given me some measure of satisfaction within my mortality. The sense that if I die today, I'll die knowing something I did mattered. How many people ever get to say that, much less see the evidence firsthand? How many get to see the full circle? I'm so utterly blessed.
Shel Silverstein said it best, "There's no present like the time." And I was given a tremendous gift 21+ years ago. The gift of time to spend in a meandering river of days with two beautiful boys - each as different as any two pebbles in the stream; each who brought a startling, shining beauty to my life.
Ahhhh... a long awaited day off. On top of that, the temperature here in the PNW has dropped 20 degrees and the rain has returned. I feel nearly normal again. Or at least less like a stranger in a strange land.
I was struck by something Jonathan said last night (he, fresh off the Bourgeois Alaskan cruise). He said, "I thought I wanted to be a writer, but I find that I can only write about thoughts and principles that are important to me. I think real writers do it for the sake of writing alone." I said, "Huh. I never thought about that. I like to write just because I like to write." "Well," he responded. "There you go."
My biggest obstacle is time - the time to let myself dive into the pond and stay swimming for a while. I have a zillion ideas and don't implement them because I don't want to start something I can't be devoted to. Of course, some of that is my fault in terms of prioritizing. I need to make time. I need to get some of the stories out before I'm gone and the stories are gone with me. Particularly, in looking at the bits of memorabilia that my Grandma gave me, I want to get her story "out there." It's well worthy of the telling, and who better to tell it than me, her greatest fan? Who better to lay it down than the Gypsy girl with paprika in her veins? I've got the story. It's been written and rewritten in my head a hundred times over.
I've begun to realize that the men I'm most attracted to are men who can tell a good story, guys who can paint a picture so clear that I can smell the air in their scene. Sure, some of it's the sound of the voice, the timbre and tumble of the words. But it's more than that, it's the ability they have to take me with them where they've gone. John had that ability mastered. So does Scott. So does Jonathan. Never having been there, I've felt the heat of the dusty desert John grew up in, I've heard the chattering street vendors as I've walked the streets of Tibet with Scott, I've felt the stinging blows from the drunken thugs who beat up on Jonathan in St. Petersburg. I'm not nearly as skilled as they are with spinning a verbal yarn, but with putting words on a page? Yeah, I think I can do that. I've been told that I can do that. Hell, I've been told that I should do that. Aim small, miss small. Find the target. It's a matter of focus and locution. "If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster." ~Isaac Asimov
"Oh! There is always time for lubrication!!!" ~Evolution
The Universe is on a decidedly nasty streak lately. I'm about at my wit's end (let's face it... it was a short hop no matter how you look at it). Birddog is down for the count - has some kind of leakage that I don't know how to fix. All of my mechanically minded pals are currently out of town.
Murphy and his friggin' sense of timing never sleep. I've also received notice that my lease is being terminated and I (we) will have to move by September 30th. Do I have the funds for a deposit on new digs? Hardly. Do I have a clue where to go or what to do? Nuh-uh.
On top of all that, I'm so completely mired in stuff at work that I don't have time to breathe.
I'm not sleeping well, and when I do my dreams are chaotic, stressful and scary.
Oh, and we're shooting up to 90 degrees today and holding there for three days. Yay. You all know how I just love hot weather. (Mind you don't slip in my oozing sarcasm... it's everywhere.)
*heavy sigh*
The Gypsy whispers, "Sell it all. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. Joke 'em if they can't take a fuck. Come with meeeeeeee......" I hear ya, G-girl. Trust me, it won't take much to convince me at this point.
Jonathan says I should go back to Hungary. Oh yeah. There's some solid grounding. I could see that. Easily. Smart lad, that one. Go live where the heart of the gypsy beats the strongest? Go to where the very ground reaches out to wrap me in an embrace, to the place my heart has never really left? Go to where the people speak my language? Where an appreciation for aesthetic (both in art and in nature) is standard? Where the very food on the table hollers, "You're home!"? Where it all began with Rose Nemes in 1903? No, even before her, with the woman whose shawl I have in my possession, and who knows with whom it began before that? Go there? Yeah. Oh, hell yeah.
Maybe the Universe is just trying to get my ass in gear.
Could I be any prouder? I don't think so. These two amazing young men are the result of the boys I helped raise. Jonathan, Ben and I spent the better part of yesterday together, and although I've seen them both in recent years, this is the first I've spent time with them together in the past 10 years. I'm stunned. Dazzled. Profoundly struck by who they are now as compared to who they were then. To watch them relate to each other as grown men is nothing short of hilarious. They are such fun together - I don't know where they got such a sarcastic twist to their senses of humor. Can't imagine.
I've watched my nephews grow up, change and become fine men, every one of them. But I've never felt whatever influence I might have had in their lives. I've never seen my footprint on the who of them. With Jonathan and Ben I do. I can see things in them that are a direct result of me being part of their lives. It is... heavy. Heavy in such a beautiful way. I feel so honored to know them.
Last night I had the great pleasure of sharing a meal with Jonathan, Ben, their father, Bill and grandfather, Burton. It will go into my book as one of the finest evenings of my life. We looked at my old "nanny" pictures, talked about life, travels, wisdom, food, wine, stuff... it was a treasure... a gift beyond what I could wish for.
So, here's to you, Burton, Bill, and especially Jonathan and Ben. You're the best family a girl could stumble into.
I was having this discussion
In a taxi heading downtown
Rearranging my position
On this friend of mine who had
A little bit of a breakdown
~Paul Simon, Gumboots
When Ben and I were out for dinner the other night I asked him what kinds of music he listens to these days. I was interested for two reasons - one, because I think that the music people listen to tells much about them; two, because I wanted to see how much my predilections for various artists had influenced his life.
I wasn't disappointed on either count. In fact, I was quite pleased to find out that Bruce Springsteen is one of the artists he still likes listening too. I was definitely a Boss freak back in my nanny days. I still enjoy listening to his stuff, although in my old age my tendencies turn more toward a bluesy-rock sound. Still... Da Boss can rock it, and the poetry in his lyrics always, always revs my engine. 'Sides, ain't nothin' like cruisin' down the street with Thunder Road or Born to Run rockin' at full volume. I digress. The song that unfailingly reminds me of Ben, because I used to sing it to him and dance him around (when he was only 3 feet tall and picking him up was still possible) is Little Feat's Dixie Chicken: "If you'll be my Dixie chicken, I'll be your Tennessee lamb. And we can walk together down in Dixieland." Another favorite of Ben's is Paul Simon's Graceland CD, which is also still one of mine. I listened to that one more often than I care to admit while I was with the boys. It was in the early morning hours
When I fell into a phone call
Believing I had supernatural powers
I slammed into a brick wall
~Paul Simon, Gumboots
It got me thinking about the musical influences in my life, especially because I have such an eclectic taste in music. One such was my eldest brother, Mike. I know I got my love for all things Jim Croce (R.I.P.) from Mike. And so many others... CCR, Buffalo Springfield... all the good "oldies." I notice a difference in my musical tastes that are very obviously linked to me having older siblings - differences that don't seem as prevalent in my peers. After all, at 4 years old, I probably would have chosen Cap'n Kanagroo over The Doors (Riders on the Storm used to scare the bejesus out of me... "there's a killer on the road, his brain is squirmin' like a toad").
I was thinking of all of this as I was driving down the road yesterday on my way out to Issaquah. Ironically, just as I started contemplating it, the song that rolled onto my iPod was Bruce's Born to Run. Even more ironically (gave me the heebie-jeebies, in fact) was that it was immediately followed by Croce's Lover's Cross. Keep in mind that I have almost 1000 songs on my iPod, by at least 150 different artists. My brain is currently too overloaded to work the odds, but... weird how stuff like that often happens to me. Makes me wonder if I'm living in some movie script with a really good soundtrack. (And you wonder why I wonder if I'm crazy!) I was walking down the street
When I thought I heard this voice say
Say, ain't we walking down the same street together
On the very same day
I said hey Senorita that's astute
I said why don't we get together
And call ourselves an institute
~Paul Simon, Gumboots
"I call you Far Rider, not because of your great races and your fine pony, but because you are one who rides far from himself, and wishes not to look home."
~Chief Eagle Horn, Hidalgo
Last night, after going out for a fine meal of fish tacos, Ben and I returned home and he picked Hidalgo for us to watch. Having seen it before, and with all the nostalgic rumblings racing through my braincase, I viewed it from a slightly different angle. I watched it from the vantage point of the idea that the journey is the thing. Some things in this life we can't control - winds of change will come and go, our best intentions are championed or foiled, the sun will blaze and night will fall.
We don't have a whole lot of control over the ride. Not really, not so much. Our job is to hang on to the horse, show some care, and try to arrive (with any luck if we've lived it well) somewhat disheveled, dusty, a bit bruised, and totally spent, but... better for it. We can try to urge the horse, we can cajole and even curse, we can try to speed it along or even beg for rest. Ultimately that pony's gonna do what it wants to do. It is a wild mustang after all. So, sometimes it's best to just grab the reins with all we've got and whisper, "Ok, brother. Let 'er buck..." Then hang on and enjoy the ride.
Preston Webb: I didn't join this race to finish in second place!
Frank T. Hopkins: Why did you then?
~Hidalgo
"It's a fool looks for logic in the chambers of the human heart." ~O' Brother Where Art Thou
Once upon a time, circa 1987, this gypsy packed her belongings, left Michigan and headed to Maryland to be a nanny for a family she'd never met. I knew I'd be working for a dad, a mom, and their two sons. What I didn't know, and didn't expect, was that I'd fall madly in love with all of them or that our bond would span decades. I never would have guessed the importance of them becoming part of my life.
The youngest of my nanny kids, Ben, is here visiting right now. Ben had just turned 2 when I met him. He's 23 now. It is a profound thing to me, to have been a big part of this man's formative years, to have watched him journey through his childhood, and to see him now as a young man. We determined that it's been 8 years since we saw each other last.
To say that I'm proud of who he's become is an understatement. He's grown into an intelligent (highly!), caring, compassionate, articulate, witty, self-assured man. The ease with which we passed the evening, talking about everything under the sun, had me feeling rather... oh, too many things. I shouldn't be so astonished - Ben was always an easy kid to relate to, and both he and his brother were raised in an environment that allowed for good learning and conversation of all kinds. Still, to see this young man, so accomplished already, and to know that I played some part... I dunno. It's a gift, and one of the finest I've ever received.... evidence that my impact on someone's life was worthy.
But, it's hard to reconcile the 6'3" grown person with the little boy who used to climb up on my lap. It was just yesterday, wasn't it? Surely I haven't aged twenty one years since then?! Time is a fiercely marching son of a bitch. Still, some things turn out right.
Some things turn out just fine... even with all their bittersweet residue.
Never fails. I make light of something and I speak my own demise into being. The gods get such a kick out of feeding me Humble Pie. Yesterday I was joking with someone and made the comment, "Gravity sucks." I told him I wanted to illustrate a picture of a guy falling down, add that as the caption, and make a t-shirt.
John said it best though, "Gravity never sleeps."
After an appointment last night, Scott and I were walking through the thankfully deserted hallway of Evergreen Hospital, when I caught my sandal the wrong way and, splat, landed flat on my face. As I went down, both of us said simultaneously, in two part harmony no less, "Oh shit!" Scott, being the kind and caring man he is, immediately helped me up. To his great credit, he really did try (albeit failed miserably) to suppress laughter as he asked me if I was okay. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Dammit." I grumbled. "Good job we're in a hospital. I think my wounded ego needs a surgical procedure." At that we both laughed - me, rather shamefacedly; he, with abject delight at my stunt, and at the new prospect of looking for the Ego Surgical Ward. ("Is that out-patient?") Brat. Scott later said (with that killer smirk of his) that he thought I'd hurt my face... because it was so red. (Did I mention, he can be a brat sometimes?)
If anyone cares to offer sympathy, I did bung up my left knee pretty well. Got a nice, beautifully colored bruise (I never do anything without some inherent artistic quality, eh?). My friend Shelley once said, "No one over the age of four should ever fall down. It's just wrong." Amen to that. Any older than 4, and it's just too damned embarrassing.
the music fills the space between
the deities and the prophecies
of our bodies pressed seamlessly
silent in the shade
she looks at me so fearlessly
and i take it all too seriously
but it all becomes so clear to me
and makes me understand
that she's mine, she's mine, she's mine, all mine
yeah she's mine, mine, mine, mmm
~Brett Dennen, She's Mine
I've been having deep philosophical conversations with The Gypsy again. Well, actually, she talks, I listen... but I had to conjure her first. Seemed she decided to take a leave of absence without first getting clearance from me. Bitch. Left me hanging for a few days. She thought it was funny...
Sounds a bit psychotic, eh? Mayhap so... mayhap. But that's the way it works. I've heard that those who question their own sanity are sane (sane enough, maybe?). Here's hoping.
But, this is all preamble...
This weekend I visited a friend who is stuck at a "behavioral health" institution. He's doing well enough, in fact he's doing quite well, but his fellow asylum mates were... um... interesting. ("Take your pill, Mr. McMurphy!") It got me wondering... where's the cutoff point to insanity? Where's the line that says, "You no longer have control of the weirdness in your head." And how frightening would that be? I mean, I wander down some wild paths in my head sometimes... enough so that I do occasionally question my hold on the threads of sanity. So far though, I know my feet are planted and how solidly. I think a lot of that comes with having creative releases for the stuff that might otherwise send me leaping off a precipice. I talked to my friend about that (he's a brilliant writer). We agreed that if there wasn't some kind of outlet, we'd both be "gone for good."
The mind is such an intricate maze. I could post a rant, "why do we shun those who have mental issues?" (People run from that faster than roaches running from daylight, and my hunch is that it's the inherent fear-factor.) But that's not my purpose today. I'm just trying to understand how much is too much, and why. Show me the line that gets crossed. I've known some whack-jobs in my lifetime - some who obviously needed some sort of restraint, some who were quite functional, some who were just off enough that I had to wonder, "how much more 'til they split?" But those were my opinions. Ultimately, I guess, my question is, how long before someone takes a good long look at your favorite gypsy-possessed gal and says, "Hoooo doggies... woman should oughta be caged." Instead, I get "you're so creative" or "gawd, you're a riot!" or (my least favorite) "you can be a little intense sometimes..."
Just do me one favor, huh? Don't numb my head with anything. I kinda like my internal disconnect/reconnect jaunts. Tie me to the bed posts if you must (to keep me from harm, sillies!), but let my mind wander where it wants. Deal? life is so precious it's as fragile as a dream
and in a moment we all grow our wings
I wish to sing as if no ones listening
I wish to dance as if no one is watching
I wish to dance as if no one is watching
and I, give thanks for my dreams
you can rob me of my sight
and you can poison my blood stream
but as long as I can dream then life is worth living
nothing last forever
not even the mountains
someday they will be swept away and swallowed by the sea
we all shall be blessedly released
~Brett Dennen, Nothing Lasts Forever
Nothing like some hard work to cure the blues. Nothing like some creative energy to chase the gremlins from the brain. I put myself to task yesterday after my sad little post, and it made all the difference. Plus, my backyard doesn't look like I'm trailer trash any more. Double bonus.
So, I was watching the news yesterday and a report came on saying that "in these troubled times, more and more people are turning to the paranormal." I found that curious. Really? When there's nothing to rely on, nothing to be sure of, we turn to a total unknown? What an odd, perpendicular species we are. Why count on something totally intangible? Why seek out something undefinable for comfort? I don't get it. 'Splain that to me.
Is it, like Dorothy, that we go looking for something beyond our own backyards to fulfill ourselves? Have we learned nothing? Sure, we might end up on a long, strange trip, but does it solve anything? Don't think so. Rather, we end up in bed with a nasty headache and some whacked out friends hanging around. Wait. That's my life already. Hmmm. It'll take me a coupla vodka n' tonics to set me on my feet again....
"So goodbye yellow brick road
Where the dogs of society howl
You can't plant me in your penthouse
I'm going back to my plough
Back to the howling old owl in the woods
Hunting the horny back toad
Oh I've finally decided my future lies
Beyond the yellow brick road"
~Elton John, Yellow Brick Road
The question was put to me the other day (twice by different people): Who is taking care of you?
Me. I am. I think so. I try. I'm not sure I'd recognize being taken care of (by another person) if it appeared. I'm not sure I could accept it.
I'm a caregiver by nature, and clearly (at the moment) the poster child for the axiom: A quality is not always an asset.
I need refuge, shelter, a place to lay my weary head - a calm voice to say, "it's all going to be ok." Because just now? I don't feel like it is, and I am overly tired of clinging to the frayed strings this Universe keeps offering me.
Shit. I'm ok. I think I'll mow the yard. C'mon Gypsy... my little deus ex machina... *heavy sigh*... *deep breath*... I'm ok.
It's been a while since I used this one: Thank ALL the gods it's Friday!!! If ever a gal needed a Friday, it's me. It's been a hellishly fast-paced, grueling, stressful, (just name it) week.
And, it's a new month too. Happy August. SeaFair begins this weekend - I heard the Blue Angels doing their fly-by stunts yesterday. I love the sound - that heartbeat rewiring rumble that pervades everything. What is it with me and my love of loud engines?! My across the street neighbor has a '67 Shelby that he likes to work on and rev in his driveway. I love hearing him start it up. Love it even more when I hear him pull out onto the street and give the ol' girl gas.
"I remember we were driving driving in your car
The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder
And I had a feeling that I belonged
And I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone"
~Tracy Chapman, Fast Car
I know, I know. Once again I've shirked my responsibilities and left you hanging. It's not that I haven't been thinking about you... it's just that my thoughts have been too random and scattered this week to organize into something worth posting. I get an idea, start chewing on it, and then...oops... swallow before I've gotten the full flavor of it. It's been a rough week - I'm going through a syndrome that Laura refers to as, "Who's at the wheel?!" It's not that I'm a control freak... oh, quit laughing... really I'm not. It's just that I prefer evenness and I dislike ambiguity.
