to blog or to work more on nothing because there's nothing left to do outside of packing boxes, which is not advisable as the strained back is a direct result of said activity.
to journal this morning or to play solitaire for over an hour because I was afraid of what the words that came out of my pen would be.
some few things make more sense. the words in my head, because I believe that words have power, are becoming more clear. meaning that they make enough sense to me that I can see myself saying them out loud to a person, one for whom they would be intended. nothing specific, just clarity and understanding. without these things I am lost and floundering in a sea of mismatched vocabulary and there is nothing good about that.
daydreams about punching people again. not just random people, specific ones. the same specific ones that i've always had, although I have lost the need to deck joe. pete is still open game. and there are a few girls whose heads i'd love to bash in. I figure anne can take care of her own ex-boyfriends, so i'm not waiting around for just any old opportunity. now, the fact that I probably would not be physically able to perform said smack-downs is a huge factor as well. so, instead of feeling weak and unable to live up to my own expectations, I read books.
two more of the Camilleri mysteries featuring the lovely moody grumpy forty-something Inspector Montalbano. While talking to a co-worker yesterday, we started describing him as a Sicilian version of Greg House. I love House. Love the show, love him. Haven't seen fit to get the whole thing and watch it obsessively, I seem to be hanging on to the fringes of detachment at home, but I love it just the same.
Another co-worker overheard parts of our conversation and asked me later if I am dating said Sicillian version of Greg House. He said he couldn't visualize it. I'd like to be able to say that I agree with him. But, I like grumpy ego-maniacal men. I am grumpy and ego-maniacal at times, and it's nice to be able to be around someone who gets it. Although, they usually don't. They tend to be all shocked and weirded out by it. And then they go away. With something much younger and totally yuck.
This has happened over the years more than once, I am sorry to say. (for the naysayers: I historically marry against type, allowing myself to be the grumpy one in the relationship.) I like people who are what they are, and who are willing to speak their minds, and whose minds are even goofier than mine. And I have respect for people who can be angry at the world and not expect me to do anything to fix it. Because that's not my fucking job. When I love someone, it is because of who that person is right now, not chipper or sleeping or sweet or wounded or in the future or in the past, right now, moods and all, breathing here in the space that we are sharing.
I suspect this has more to do with my commitment-phobia (did I mention that I have one of those? yeah, that was a fun morning) than any romantic ideas I have about acceptance and adventure and the nature of true love. Because how can you share a life with someone who cannot bring himself to share his life with you? It's a built-in exit strategy. Only, I don't want out of the relationship I have with myself, so I think I have to do something about that.
In other news, new self-help book coming out called Feel Good Naked. I think I might have to read it. The whole point of it is that if you can feel good about yourself in the raw, you can feel good about yourself in the not-so-raw (would that be cooked?) and that does nothing but help the spiral of goodness and light that lead to salvation here on earth (not a religious version of salvation, just that whole "happiness" thing. Speaking of, did I write about the blurb I read from an interview with a psychologist who has written a book about how stupid humans are about what will make them happy and how we never seem to think about the fact that just as sadness with pass, so will happiness? cool stuff)
Someone got Shot in downtown Lincoln last? What?! What the fuck city do we live in?
Andrea Camilleri. I recommend him.
No comments:
Post a Comment