Water Cooler Blues

New addition to the homestead relocation program: one slightly used water cooler. Three 5 gallon jugs of spring water will arrive later this afternoon. Yes, I signed up for home delivery service. It is well worth the $3 fee as a full jug weigh 42 pounds, which makes it a bit hard for a disabled woman to haul home via bus.

Someday, the jugs will be delivered to my workshop.

There has been a shift in the paragon. I am more focused now. The only difference between an illusive dream and an achievable goal is a well executed plan of action.

Why did I use that word? What is a paragon?

I had to stop and look it up.  Paragon is a noun that means “a model or pattern of excellence” so yes, I suppose it is the right word to use as there has definitely been a shift in my life patterns since I wrote Sixteen Changes.

The water cooler comes with two taps handled in primary colors: red hot and blue cold.

I don’t have taps inside me. I cannot turn my feelings on and off, cannot make myself stop caring about someone who axed our friendship just because they jumped to a raw conclusion.

Yes, he was hurt because I kept secrets, lied by omission, did not immediately tell him about everything that was going on with me… it was personal, about ME… had nothing to do with him.

Want to talk secrets? Lies by omission?

I lie every single time I say a variation of “okay” in response to “How are you?” Why? Because giving an honest answer feels like asking for pity and I won’t tolerate pity from anyone; refuse to pity my own self. What I deal with is no one else’s business, unless you happen to be my doctor or sleep in my bed, feel me jerk with every spasm. Besides, attitude is everything… how am I supposed to keep a positive attitude about living with disability when those around me look at me with sad puppy eyes or burst into tears because I can’t do what THEY like or want to do?

Everyone lies by omission. Meow. Yes, even that friend lied by omission… hid the fact his kitten survived. Oh well… unfriending me was his choice.

I miss my friend, but harbor no hope for redemption.

I’m thinking this shift in the paragon might be good for both of us. That maybe being each other’s long distant muse was no longer beneficial to him… like texting me was a diversion, a way to pass time, a means to think about doing without actually doing anything… like the man is an excellent poet with performance art experience, but is too paralyzed by depression to go to a poetry reading.

As for me? I will survive.

It feels odd to slam out a chapter on a new story and be really psyched about it and NOT discuss it or toss a printed copy into the mail. But, I read it out loud to my sister in Michigan and I will take it to my local Writer’s Workshop on Thursday.

I went way out on a new limb with this one… jumped right into the middle of a fantasy action adventure story by writing the chapter as it would be if it were a scene in a movie.

I don’t know what chapter it is… it might be 4 or 5 or 18… sis thinks it could stand AS the first chapter, being that it is an action adventure story. I do have a vague idea of what came before; but, this particular scene is what filled my mind. It was the scene I had to write. And it was so much fun! Things happened that I did not plan. I have no idea of how this story will end. I’m just going to write it, one scene at a time.

Then I really went out on a limb… gave a printed copy to a reader (not a writer) because he asked if he could read it. That is scary because it feels like I am exposing a part of me that he does not know yet. Writing about anything, even pure fiction “outside” yourself, is kind of like walking naked in public. When you pour your heart and soul into anything creative, it comes out in the work. Other people might not see it, but the person who made it or wrote it does. On that note, thanks for reading!

 

 

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Nesting Thoughts & Dreams

Drifting in and out of dreams, feeling hot, too hot, slip off my socks, those thickly knitted grizzly socks worn only on the coldest nights. Beads of sweat dampen my breasts and still not quite awake, I fight to shed some layers, or just think of shedding layers to lighten my nest while drifting back to sleep to the sound of the furnace running.

Winds must have shifted in the night as I keep this cabin on the chill side with the thermostat low. Neighbors caulk and plastic their windows but mine are not. I like fresh air so I don’t mind the drafts, perhaps because I smoke. I can dress for the weather.

I do my best thinking at night, drifting in and out of dreams, snuggled in a nest of crisp cotton sheets and soft layers, blankets of fleece and thin vintage wool, loose weave cottons, and fringed chenille. Without rhyme or reason, thoughts sift and sort and filter free to new logical conclusions.

Fresh hazelnut coffee, the last heel of bread toasted and spreaded with crunchy peanut butter, breakfast before dawn on a peaceful morn… and I think back to yesterday’s conversations.

Why do I let those people rain nails on my parade?

Is it my problem? Is is my fault? Must I absorb the misery? What has changed? Is anything different? Or is it the same ol’ same ol’ attempts to pop my balloons, to burst my joy? Should I apologize for not raising my child to hate a part of herself?

I got mad at the gossip because that is exactly what it was, even if the sister who swiped a photo off my daughter’s “friends only” facebook page and texted to my mother before we phoned with the news of his birth calls it “sharing the joy” because there was no joy in curt words, no hint of being happy about anything. No awes or ohhs about a newborn’s photo, just a “his nose is really wide” and “his father is a big man” when I ignore the coldness and talk away, tell her that he was born with big hands. (Which, by the way is not true… unless a slender 5’8″ is a “big” man so she must have got THAT from the sister’s gossip.) There was no asking for details or even how the mother is doing after a cesearian birth, just a cold shoulder attitude. Calling back yesterday, I got one word replies when I mentioned my new grandson, so fine… be that way.

I can’t fix broken people. That sister will always gleam information off the internet to fuel her gossip. She’s done it for years. I cannot make her stop or even call me, must less come talk to me in person.

As for my mother? She’s my mom. I will always love her and respect her, but I kind of feel sorry for her because she is the one missing out… she feels sorry for mixed children, believes they will have a hard life, be shunned by all, and she is the only one who is shunning them.

Want to see my new grandbaby? This photo was snapped at the hospital, when his mama tucked him into a star blankie, lol. Ah, he sleeps… so peaceful in his dreams.