Three notable things: I found a thumb drive from 2007 which has some of my writing on it, although I haven’t delved into it too deeply since I’ve had it in my car stereo. I’ve found live versions of Tool’s Sober, A Perfect Circle’s Counting Bodies Like Sheep, as well as something that may or may not be Paul McCartney and George Michael.
Also, I have wrapped my first Christmas present. I had bought it last year, maybe? The year before, perhaps? Lost it. Found it. Wrapped it.
And I’ve managed to clean out a drawer in my bedroom. I realize that, as I clear out more room, I’ll be rearranging stuff to make the stuff that I keep even more organized. I’m actually experiencing anticipation at this.
A side effect of this (or perhaps Enbrel, or a combination of the two) is that housework is no longer loathsome for me. Sure, there are definitely ways I’d rather spend my time, but there’s a sense of sanctification that comes with cleaning that I don’t think I’ve ever experience before. There’s a satisfaction in it.
I am reducing the chaos around me–it’s one of the very few bits o’ chaos I have any control over. And it’s not so much about control, or even accomplishment (although those two feelings are definitely nice), it’s more about preparing the way for better things.
When I bought the house, I dubbed it the Harmony House, but, sadly, it quickly proved to be anything but. Harmony for me, isn’t perfect stillness; it’s the gentle lapping of the waves on a shore.
This is harmony. Things, elements, seem to be moving in a way beyond my understanding. I’m just happy to move with them.
So there’s that. 84 things out (plus one pending Christmas present). I’m loving this.
I do not want this blog to be about RA. Not constantly, and not as its focus. I want it to be about writing and good stuff and chipotle and unrepentant cats. I currently have 86 drafts: half-finished (or barely started) posts about everything from current events (not so current since they’ve been stashed) to writing to celebratory stories of pure awesomesauce.
It’s a big, big world out there, and something is always happening.
If my writing delves into RA, which it is apparent that it will, I want it to be about the inner transformation that is possible because of it. What happens through RA it is far more important to me than what happens from it.
And so, I have started a list of ways that my life has changed for the better since my diagnosis. I am writing them to post over a few “Fabulous Fridays.” (The first of which is here.) I was officially diagnosed about 5 months ago. It is still new. Things are still unknown, still changing. I suppose they’ll always be changing, RA or not. Just when I thought I was becoming accustomed to this new life and comfortable in what I could expect, things change again, and I realize that I have no idea what to expect from life any more.
I’m living in the vast ocean of the unknown.
“46 & 2” was the song of the week. The one I needed to hear over and over and over. It’s the song of change, of transformation, of excising “what could’ve been.”
I’ve been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could’ve been.
I’ve been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions
For a piece to cross me over
Or a word to guide me in.
I wanna feel the changes coming down.
I wanna know what I’ve been hiding in
I spent many years digging through and picking scabs, believing that I must get to the root of “it,” the “whatever,” the root of the issue, the root of the problem, in order to burn it all away.
I’ve always been a “Why girl.” Why’s the sky blue? Why does my cat hate me? Why are people hypocrites? Why did this happen to me? To them? To us?
Something has happened, though, and I have either moved through this stage or I have found it’s no longer necessary. Not for everything, at any rate. I no longer require a “why” in order to choose my “what’s next.”
It’s the difference between spending endless energy on pondering “Why is the sky blue?” and being more solutions-focused. “Okay, so the sky is blue. Is this something that needs to change? If so, what do I do about it? What can I do about it?”
When it comes to issues like dropping things, much like changing the color of the sky, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it, other than focus on getting replacing my dinner plates with plastic.
I’m still clearing out what could’ve been. Perhaps that’s part of my de-cluttering challenge. There are some things that “could’ve been,” but will not be. I’ve accepted that. There are other things that may yet still be, but cannot be right now. Swimming with dolphins, for example. Or road trips. I’ve accepted that as well.
As for my list, I’m going to go ahead and skip to the end. The last item on my list (saving the best for last and all that jazz) is, quite simply, I’m straight outta fucks to give.
What this means for me is that, if someone gives me the shifty eye because I’m on crutches or use my handicap parking tag, so be it. I’ll smile and keep on stepping. It means that if someone attempts to draw me into their drama, I’ll swing my London lilac-coiffed, steroid-inflated moon-head toward them and say, quite calmly, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”
It also means that if I’m gonna have to use a cane, I’m going to have a rocking-as-fuck cane.
Rocking-as-fuck Sun-and-moon-and-stars. I’ll just call her Khaleesi.
What this means is that I’m not as accommodating as I used to be–I simply can’t be. It’s not that I have given up the notion of service or of kindness. My day job title is secretary; my self-styled job description is “Serving People Who Serve People,” and I’m fiercely proud to do so.
But I am learning my limits, and I’m learning a whole new kind of exchange rate. My energy is my currency, and I’m learning not to spend it haphazardly. Everything has an energy price-tag attached; everything has a price.
And, as I write this, I have a treble-flare: my feet, my jaw, my neck.
But I’ve gotten exactly what I wanted:
I wanna feel the change consume me, Feel the outside turning in. I wanna feel the metamorphosis and Cleansing I’ve endured within
This is what change feels like. This is what the outside turning in feels like. This is the metamorphosis.
Change has never been painless for me. In order for change to occur, for movement to occur, something must be lost or killed or moved away from, and something else must be found or birthed or moved toward.
Change always involves loss.
This is a cleansing, a wiping away of all that is not necessary. It is liberating, and it is consuming.
Despite the steroids, I’m not angry. I know that I tend to use the word “fuck” quite a bit when I’m angry, but this more…something. Pure. Unadulterated. Fuckery. It is a bit frustrating at times, but it seems that my fury has burned away, destroying with it the false self, the petty little bullshit and concerns and distractions that left me listless and directionless and stole away my energy.
I am not angry. I am joyful. In a halle-fucking-lujah sort of way.
I AM fabulous-as-fuck.
I could be better–I could always be better, but right here, right now, I’m fabulous-as-fuck.
Thankyouveryfuckingmuch.
Credits:
Cat on Fence: My own cat who never had any fucks to give.
See my shadow changing, Stretching up and over me. Soften this old armor. Hoping I can clear the way By stepping through my shadow, Coming out the other side. Step into the shadow. Forty six and two are just ahead of me.
So I was talking to a recently acquired friend about my love affair with Chekhov. God help us all when I get to talking about Chekhov.
I don’t even know a whole lot about Anton Chekhov. I only know “Lady with the Pet Dog.”
Actually we were talking about what I would consider “good literature,” but even that was after the point of origin. We were talking about passion. Yes, that was it, indeed.
We were talking about passion, about living a passionate life, about what made one passionate.
So I started discussing literature, which, is as far as I’m concerned, started for me with Anton Checkhov’s “Lady with the Pet Dog.”
Anton Checkhov’s story is all about passion, or rather, it culminates in what I consider to be the perfect example of passion. It’s a rather unoriginal story when reduced to its plot: man meets girl, man gets girl, man loses girl, man summons courage to get her back, and the end is left open, while optimistic (at least in the mind of the lovers) it is open ended and ambiguous.
So it’s 2:04 am, and I finished my second draft. I’m 4 whole hours early.
It’s powerful, I think, much more powerful this time around, but I don’t think I’ll be able to enter it into competition because it has lyrics in it.
I’m not sure how that works. I could take them out, but the way I put them (at least in my mind, who knows what a reader will think) explains a lot of the back story in three or four small lines.
But it’s done. Even if I don’t submit it, I’ll have at least one piece (after another revision) to begin an actual portfolio with.
…I’m not sure that’s what I meant to say, but it sure does sound cool.
I had my first story workshopped last week (week before that? I have no sense of time these days), and to be honest, I am really, really into this story. It’s called “Monkey Killer,” and it’s about a woman who goes to a Tool concert.
(Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?) In fact, the story was inspired by this blog post about the concert: Nothing Else Matters. In fact, I may have stolen from myself because the story starts off with almost the same line:
Congratulations. You are not too old, too unhip, too fat, or too phobic to go to a rock concert.
This one, though, is about a woman who attends the concert with her 25 year old son. She is 40, which is a story in itself. She’s also a recovering alcoholic, and her son is an active one. I’m playing with several elements of the story: how to characterize without “telling” too much, how to show their relationship as mother-and-son without saying it straight out, things like that. I’m also playing with point of view.
I will say that, after having the CD, 10,000 Days, for a couple of months now, tonight was the first time I’d listened to it all the way through.
What an awesome, awesome CD.
Wait, I wasn’t going to talk about music.
When I first began blogging, Brahnamin was one of the first people I met in the blogging community. I was impressed by his humor and graphics; I was inspired by his rawness.
This time is normally a time of reflection and writing for me. I accomplish more non-school related writing between the middle of December and the middle of January than any other time of the year.
I haven’t done my normal end of semester activities: devoured movies, gone to the country, or driven all over hell and back. I’ve mostly slept and sneezed.
I looked at the blog entries: inconsequential things, really, and not at all reflective of what’s been going on.
I thought when I’d finally get around to doing a New Year’s blog entry, I’d be full of optimism or, possibly, pessimism. I’d cry “I’ve taken stock and this is what I want, where I am, yoohoo!”
Instead, I’ve found myself thoroughly lost within a song.
You are not too old, too unhip, too fat, or too phobic to go to a Tool concert.
You are, however, too old to deal kindly with the pot-smoking drunks below you.
You didn’t say anything, actually, to them, but you didn’t try too hard to stifle a giggle as one began blowing chunks onto the guy below him.
You did feel sorry for the other guy, however. You are, after all, a decent person.
“These damn kids these days,” you complain to your concert mate. “Most of these people weren’t even in elementary school, if that, when Tool first came out.” You gasp as you realize you’re experiencing the sublime metaphysical act of channeling. You’re channeling an ancient, ornery Irishman who calls you such endearments as Swampy and Gypsy and Daughter of the Cock Lady.
Despite my newly found calf muscles, I doubt that I’ll be doing that much walking.
It’s been over two years since I stood outside the Monteleone on Royal Street, listening to blues and realizing that I really, really had no clue what I was going to do with my life or my fear.
Pacing and talking with the Frazzle on the phone, watching the street musicians and drunkards stumble and tumble down the street like dragonflies–darting, dipping, and rising again.
“It’s just love,” the guy with the bad breath told me.
A lie, but a convenient one, and one I thought held the answer to everything.
Lyrical Fool 