Just the Way I'm Supposed to Be . . .

Have been in tears three times already this morning, which you know, might sound like a bad thing, and I do have to admit that it’s been a little unpleasant and caused my ocd symptoms to flare (I’ve already had five cigarettes, and I’ve not been awake long enough to breathe in that much non-smoke-filled air), but the melancholy was just my brain working through whatever it needed to work through so I could reach this point.

I get to write now.

Lesson #3

We're all assholes.

Some of us just have a hard time admitting it and moving the fuck on.

Foremost Expert in My Field of Study

The personal is political. It’s true. Correct. Logical. Whatever.

But the reverse is also true (Read post-structuralists). The political is personal. Just like business is personal. Just like every mother fucking thing that happens in this world both is and is not personal. It isn’t personal because it is just the way the universe works. People die. People get fired. People make laws that have nothing to do with us personally. But it affects us, everything that happens in the universe, maybe to different degrees under different circumstances in different settings, but that is exactly what makes it ‘personal.’

Everything. Every single thing we encounter is processed through our own ‘personal’ point of understanding.

There’s just no way around that.

So when I talk about my own story, talk about my own reactions, reflect on my own understandings, I am not being any more self-indulgent than the rest of you, nor am I filled with an inordinate amount of self-conceit. I am just choosing to converse about the only thing in which I am truly an expert. When we are finally conscious enough, we understand it’s the only expertise any of us really possess. It’s all personal.

Having said all of that, I've been using this blog as a personal sounding board, an open studio of sorts. It's a bit of a departure from where I started when I wrote years ago, but it's working for me. And I intend to continue being self-indulgent and exploring my own thoughts and whims in the hope that I will be able to use my specialized knowledge of the subject to make sense of the rest of the world around me.

Because the rest of the world is fucked up.

Time Wasted

I’m not successful. Which means I must be a failure. That’s the opposite of success, right? I am not successful because I do not have money. Because I could not afford to pay for my own place and a car and insurance to drive that car. I am not successful. I am a failure. Because I don’t have money.

I wasted my life getting an education and raising a child and caring about things and loving people and writing stupid little stories I will never publish, when all this time, in order not to be a failure, I should have made more money. That would have made me successful.

Not happy. But at least not a failure.

Never on Time

Listen, I really want to come down and I am not stalling or just blowing smoke or anything. I’m just doing what you said and taking care of myself. I’m finally starting to feel a bit stable and just trying to tie up some loose ends so I don’t feel any undue anxiety while I’m there. 

We both know how I get when I start to question myself and feel bad about myself, how I try to take care of you to the point of excess and then you get irritated with me for thinking you need to be taken care of which is not actually what I’m thinking because I know better which is actually why I love you so much because you’re so damned independent and don’t need my help, but I just start to feel so worthless and doing good for you makes me feel worthwhile, so when I’m feeling good about myself too and love myself too, then I can offer you what you do need – my friendship and my love – without smothering you with my fear.

See, I’ve been trying to learn.

Growing. Even if it is a year or even ten years too late.

. . . As Crazy Does

So I’m thinking about trying an open mic night. Standup. Yikes! Even thinking about it. But maybe I could do it. Try it at least. Not that I’ve been incredibly funny as of late, at least not on the ol’ blog where I’ve been sorting out thoughts that are okay to have on the page (well, marginally) but when said aloud in polite company get me medicated or hospitalized or at the very least stared at with great suspicion and/or derision. Back to standup – I think I’m actually feeling crazy enough to try it. At least give it a shot.

So now I have to start writing.

It always comes back to the damned writing.

Obsessed

Not a good morning. No phone. Out of contact with most everyone I care about. Feeling annoyed. A little sad. And irritated. And lonely.

Doubtful.

Feeling doubtful this morning. I could deal with the other things, flip them, use them to write or get out of the house and wander the neighborhood, but doubt . . .

Having to convince myself that the choices I’m making are the right ones, even though I’ve already convinced myself over and over again. And then one more time for good measure.

But I have this problem. Empathy and education, the ability to understand the validity of the other arguments – other than what I am arguing, other than the choices I am making, other than the life I am living – these things make me question myself. Constantly. Like I am on some mad dash to eradicate ignorance from my life. A race I know I will never finish because there will always be more to know.  

Always. 

And I will always need to know it. At least that's what my mind keeps telling me. Over and over again. And once more for good measure. 

Flying Chihuahuas

An owl tried to steal Manny’s dog last night. Wicket. The dog’s name is Wicket and he’s had an eventful week, including having his head pried from the jaws of a much larger dog while camping this weekend. And last night right after little Wicket, a cockapoo, had finished his business, he started to wander toward the back of the yard into the shadows when Manny and I both caught sight of something that seemed much too large to be swooping in out of the sky, but did indeed swoop in out of the sky toward the tiny white cockapoo in the shadows, then upon seeing us, swoop back toward the sky and take perch in the neighbor’s tree.

Manny immediately put his dog back in the house and we finished our cigarettes and watched the owl watching us. I’m pretty sure it’s the same owl from our campsite this weekend that stayed in the tree over my tent and called out all night, as if to tell Wicket he was coming for him.

I told Manny this would be a perfect time for the neighbors to let out their dogs, three yipping Chihuahuas. We’d know the owl got one when we started to hear the barking get further away.

“Why does it sound like that dog is in the tree?” he mocked and we laughed at the thought, but our consciences got the better of us and Manny went to inform the neighbors of our new predatory tenant. We’re not always assholes.