I’m posting this un-proofed, raw. To me this is the equivalent of taking a close-up picture of myself without make-up. Only worse.
On my list today: Organize Notes
This means collecting all the bits of paper and receipts I've written ideas, thoughts, etc. on, Notes from my phone, documents I’ve created or added to on my laptop, and compiling them digitally into a either designated folder, or my Writer’s Mission Control Center Excel doc.
The first Note from my phone I open up says: “Incense. Kingdome.” I get up and go to the little jewelry chest that holds the incense I was intending to offer up on Buy Nothing Shoreline with a little blurb about how I can’t burn incense when Joe’s in the house anymore because of the Kingdome Implosion Incident. [expand on incident here in one sentence]. But on my way there decide I need to dry my hair. I dry my hair and admire the result, which I know will never look this good again all day, so linger in the mirror. And think, dammit! I need to exercise, and take better care of myself! Take a Selfie for Joe regardless, delete it because my eyes don’t know where to look when I do a full-length mirror picture. Sexy, flowing-confident look today, but goofy eyes ruin it all. Back to incense. Decide there’s not a hoarder amount, I’ll keep it after all. Then on the way back to collected notes, I get hungry so stop for pizza leftover from last night. Delete first note about incense. Go to the sink to wash my empty coffee cup, but need to put away dishes in drainer before putting the cup in, including returning a metal straw to the side bar, which is where the junk drawer is that I’ve been organizing going on three days because there’s one thing I need to acquire first for the coup de grace of tidying, you know, before I feel I’m clever enough to post on Instagram/Facebook, but that would mean leaving the house to go to a store, in the rain, and I’d have to put shoes and a coat on, and I don’t absolutely have to leave the house until 6 tonight for a haircut, so turn back to the office nook to see the second slice of pizza on the kitchen island. It’s good, but the crust doesn’t compare to Joe’s, so I don’t eat the last bit like the skinny girls don’t, and voila! I’m on my way to a healthier new year just like that. Unless I lied about not eating the last bit of dry crust so I would sound like a better person, which maybe I did, you’ll never know, will you? Though, if Joe happens to look in the countertop compost pail he would see the bragged-about crust remains. Or not. And if not, would no doubt post a comment under this with a simple “No crusts were to be found.” And you’d all know I lied. Exaggerated. Embellished. Pour myself the last of the ginger ale from a couple days ago, that Joe brought home for my dizzy spells, into a stem-less wine glass from a wine festival we went to with my brother and his lovely then-girlfriend now-wife a few years ago, and think that if you’re thinking nice, summery white wine as you look at the liquid in the glass and take that first swallow of pretty-much flat ginger ale you’d swear you were drinking wine. (But wait, this glass is from a chocolate and wine Valentine's festival, entirely different from the Prosser Whiskey one!)
Was thinking about something I wrote a while ago on FB about how some days the only exercise I get is when I’m retracing my steps because I forgot what I was doing…went to FB to see what I actually did write, and was gone for a minute or so, then realized that I’d lost the original train, so decided to just sway my shoulders to the playlist I’m listening to, and type with my eys closed so it feels like I’m making the music with my finers typing. And then I realize: I’m stoned. I forgot about the edible I ate, or edded, a good new word for eating an edible, after the weight of the world, or rather my world with The World thrown in the background, wrapped around my neck and shoulders like an infinity scarf (I’ve been wanting to use that in a sentence for a while), post breakfast and shower, before I sat down to look at my Daily List.
And now here I am. Tingling hands floating in front of me a little farther away than they usually seem. And as I corrected my misspelling of ‘farther’ as ‘furhter’ I thought wouldn’t a ‘live-typed’ story, like you’d see what was originally typed and it’s progression, and the edit-as-you-go fashion I engage in, in real-time (or as ‘real’ as real in quotation marks could be real, because that implies it’s not real, you know? You do.) in certain cases be interesting to watch? I’m enjoying it as I’m dong it right now.
Write. At least I can check that off the list. As well as using the infinity scarf simile, though that’s not written on today’s list, just a general mental list. Having ‘use infinity scraf simile’ on a daily list would be odd. Maybe. TO you.O no. Cobweb I just saw when I tilted my head back to laugh. I’m going to get the duster, arean’t I? And then, as I see the words an sentences rapidly ineriorating detioriating, deteriorating, as I have to type slower and slower and I’m kinda swimming in beautiful sound and temperature, like a picture of a backlit hippie girl straddling some guy’s shoulders, sunlight in back, joyful and well, groovy. Dharma is meowing at me urgently, like some kind of Service Cat for stoned writers. “Get out! Get out” she’s telling me, claxon whiskers aquiver. “Stop writing now, because I know you need to write but you’d said you’d publish this raw, as it’s happening, and you can’t seem to stop, but please do. I’m Common Sense, I’m the Cat Who Knows. Trust me.” Swirling hyptonic cartoon eyes like the snake in the Jungle Book. Hip Tonic would be a great home brew name, or a band. The cat went away, seeing I was a lost cause. But the stale ginger ale is gone and I’m feeling thirsty, and I’m grateful for that thirst because I’m hoping it will break me away from this spell of free form writing, because I’m exposing myself. But who should really care except for me? I’m I trying to ommunicate comuic m communicate. I’m sorry I was laughing really hard as I was not able to COMMUNICATE what I was trying to say because I couldn’t spell that word.
After I got the cobweb I whapped the feather duster outside against the Buddha belly of our rain barrel, and he is tickled.
I imagine as I go on here I’ll be starting to normalize soon. Oh hi, Dharma.
Such an excellent Guide Cat. That would be a good job, to train Guide Cats for people who get carried away.
On my list today: Organize Notes
This is going great!
Seriously. I can’t make this tshi up. I’m going to go see if there’s any of that kettle corn left. Dang. What if my alter edo, my uninhibited self, is the real writer. Not me. But that self is really me, too, yes? When did I start doing that, I wonder: ending a sentence in ‘yes’ or ‘yeah?’ or ‘no?’ instead of the old school ‘isn’t it? or ‘right?’ Slangologists get on that, will ya?
Maybe this water should be tea. It’s cilly, chilly here in the office nook (ooo! What if I called this place eht Writer’s Nook! no that’s a group I’m in) Silly and CHilly. The light outside has changed since I first sat down here to type, innocently, I do have to say and did, I’m so sorry real, and fellow, writers; I know you are cringing as you ride with me, ‘Get that sad mess off the stage, she’s making us look bad!’ or ‘ She’s revealing our secret: that all writers are using their alter egos – and now I remember with a not-unpleasant (…I recall a book I just read that used that sort of phrase a lot, to a point of irritation because you have to stop and think exactly what that feeling is: not unpleasant, but not pleasant enough to not have that not. Anyway, there you go), I remember with a not-unpleasant shudder that I used alter ‘edo’ up there and saw it was wrong and just. Left. It. And I still might. I need Dharma, Guide Cat to come back and lead me to a fur nap.
I was hoping this would be short enough to simply post on the Notes From Shorelandia Facebook page, but I’ve gone on for a surprisingly (so sorry, wide-and-rolling-eyed writers) long time, and I fear I’m going to go one ugly step further and post it on my actual NFS website, that does exist on its own, accessible from a web search, I imagine, or stumbled-upon, more likely, but nonetheless there. Don’t know why I would fear. Why have a blog if I don’t want people to share in my writing. That’s what reading is, right? (You saw that, right? Oh no I’m in a redundant loop.)
I could freakin’ roll in this chair to make myself tea, but I haven’t yet. The water is still bitter. I think about the turns-out-to-be-vegan dinner I’m making tonight. Forget why I thought that. And I thought I was getting better. Where are those purple cashmere (why is it called cashmere? is it like baby wool?) I’m not Googling it on purpose. You do it and tell me. Cashmere fingerless gloves, with the little velvet strip and button?. Because my hands are still cold. Which is not-entirely pleasant. So. Just pleasant enough not to do anything about it. So not dangerous. The song I’m listening to said “black eye” but it sounded like “black guy” and it worked either way in the song. I wonder if I’ll read this over before I let it loose. Do I trust myself? And if I do, do I trust my self that would naturally do at least a mild, off-handed looksee, or my self that would be true to myself (sigh), and do as promised: exposed, unedited.
Had a pee, made some tea. Retrieved gloves. (If you left out the tea, I’d sound like a smart dog.) Remembered it is harder to type when you wear gloves without fingers. Ha, ha! I mean, not like you don’t have any fingers and you’re wearing gloves, which would be I’m going to risk saying, nearly impossible, but fingerless gloves, which I would have said in the first place but I was tired of using hyphens, so worded it differently.
Seeing this picture I just took of my hand I am bitterly reminded [insert story about internship and the hand model].
Impishly raw: I think that might be a definition of my writing style. A New York Times Book Review blurb on the back of my first book. Or…wait for it…. a band name! Or a drink. That tricky trio. Drunken Sailor? A drink, a writing style, or band playing at the Tractor? Dirty Divorcee Up Against the Wall? Drink (and style of drink, Up against the wall, like shaken not stirred.) writing style, or band? I need a more positive drink example, but Neil Young is on my stream right now and that might not happen. Crzy Horse: Band name, drink, or writing sytle? Dharma just walked by, slowly, shaking her head. Not stirred.
Let’s see. It takes about 50 minutes to make the Cuban Quinoa Buddha Bowl, – I’m a little nervous about the avocado being too far gone (poor lass), though – but I have leftover quinoa I can use, so that’s got to shave off (which should just be shave, because how could one shave ‘on?’) some time, so if I want dinner to be ready by, say, 6 o’clock, or 5:45 so I have time to eat, when do I have to start making it, that’s a different time than now?
I’d buy, even at the age of 57, a tee-shirt printed with Impishly Raw. As long as the fabric was in black. And a woman’s tee, not a man’s tee. Nothing against the men, but the woman’s one just looks better on this woman’s body. All I’m saying.
Nearing 60, stay-at-home mom, (though the kid is 37 and not currently living with me, but has an uncertain future, which brings me full tilt around – which is gyroscopic, I think – to why the weight of my world was on these linebacker shoulders, way back this morning an hour or so before I opened this up to write), budding, late-blooming, whatever might happen or be happening…. I don’t remember where I wanted this to go, but I don’t want to just delete it because there has got to be something in there that is important to me.
I was just noting that I could make an em-dash with no problem in the paragraph above, yet my fingers struggled to recall where the parentheses keys were. Traitors, these fingers, I tell ya.
Yesterday I had so many of the boxes on my list filled. A nice sense of accomplishment. Today, the boxes are mostly gaping and empty, but I feel like I had a transformative massage; one of those that lifts you out of your self, your physical pains and mental worries, and let’s you float, warm, safe, not-unhappy, and free. Of course, unless the massage is at home you’ll always have to redress, and get home somehow, which will break the spell at one point. It always does. It’ll happen here too, but much more gradually.
As I sieve my way through the kettle corn dregs at the bottom of the bag I wonder will those un-popped kernels, the misogynistically named Old Maids of the vegetable world, really compost?
I keep sneaking over to Facebook to see if I’ve been selected as a giftee in my Buy Nothing group for this gorgeous little set of wooden and leather library stairs, so exciting to me I’d purposely shelve books higher just to use it. Not yet. Still hope, though. Then I got distracted by the first post I saw. And realized I do have a little mouse life right now, and am so grateful. I know it can’t last much longer, money is such a handy thing, but I am extremely appreciative to the one that’s keeping us going, in financial ways, and oh so much more. Thank you, Joe.