20 Minutes of Insanity: Day Three

Here we are again. Partial cup of bean, whacky hair and fuzzy bathrobe, and fragmenting dreams. Antelopes pranced on the lawn as my friend Dave dealt cards wayyyyyy too slowly. C'mon, Dave. Step it up. This is my hand, I know it. Sound of Steve's truck pulling away as I ante up.

Manic. That's the word I was looking for yesterday. I finished writing and felt like I just played Russell Crow. Playing John (was his name John?) Whatsisname in Beautiful Mind. You know. That wiggling the fingers thing as he mutters string after string of mathmatecal equations? That's how I felt.

I think it's apropos that I'm ... not conquering... attempting this crazy random blogging during the week of the biggest full moon in years. I'm a regular Luna-tic. A full moon junkie. Howwwwwwwwwwl. If I could inject the feeling I get during a full moon, I would. Maybe without the crazy horny side effects. Then again, maybe not. Howwwwwwwwwwwl!

I did the above card in 20 minutes. It was a mad dash, but I made it. Only just. I was gluing the last piece in place as the timer dingalinged. Tomorrow I attempt watercolor and ink. Picasso can probably rest safely.

I expected to feel freed writing like this. I don't. I just feel. Unchained. Like the screaming wild toddler that actually does want some rules.

It's funny. Sad funny. Good parents constantly question their ability to parent. Bad parents don't give a monkey fuck. I know wonderful parents who talk to me in tears, hoping that they're not damaging their children some how. It's a constant struggle with them to feel like they have any kind of balance with their kids. Bad parents... I don't know if it's that they don't care, or just that they feel so overwhelmed they don't know how to care. Love your children. Love them in the best ways possible. Ask them if they feel loved. I ask people I love if they feel it from me. "Do you feel loved? Yes? Good."

Too deep. Come back, Barb. Fuzzy bathrobe, bean, whacky hair...

I also dreamed of the sea. It was teal green and went on forever against the gray sky. So quiet, the roaring waves. I bent to pick up a shell and tumbled into the water. Came up sputtering and laughing. And eye to eye with a lobstrosity (sorry Stephen King). I should have been afraid, but I was too giddy. So I stared the damned thing down and made lobstrosity claw motions back at it with my hands. That only made me giggle more.

Steve says I talk in my sleep. Sometimes I sing. I wonder if I make lobstrosity claw movements with my hands too. Take that Mr. Lobstrosity!

Tick, tick, tick...

Why would anyone want to take a drug that makes them feel manic?

The interesting thing about the past two days is that when I've finished writing, I find I have greater physical energy. I actually cleaned the first day. Yesterday I scrubbed the kitchen. Steve's going to wonder what's wrong.

My blue heron friend came back yesterday. He had much of the field/lake to himself. Maybe he thinks of it as a spa, his own personal retreat. He's beautiful. That blue gray color is heartbreakingly lovely. The color of faded dungarees. No one calls them that any more, but I love the word.

Maybe I'll make it my mission in life to bring archaic words back into existence. Oddsbodikins is another one that needs some daylight.

*ding ding ding* ... time's up... and... "publish post"

PS Happy St. Patrick's Day... so shoot me for taking an extra 10 seconds.