I've been able to stick to my writing goals for a big three days so far. I've actually cranked out more than 250%! But it is blazing hot out and I'm not feeling so well today. If this continues, tomorrow could be a bust!
Meanwhile, I startled myself this morning by almost walking into a hummingbird outside my front door. Needless to say the little bugger was even more surprised than me. He did a couple back flips before buzzing off over the house.
I couldn't stop smiling for two solid hours!
Monday, August 8, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
1000 Per Day
It’s a good goal. I need to break out of my writing slump and kick myself back into working my craft. If I commit to writing 1000 words each day, am I asking too much of myself or too little? Some days I can easily rattle off 2000 words. Most days, for the last nine months, I don’t rattle off a thing. I miss being in my Noble Writers writing group. I miss the one in Red Bank too, though it was Wendy that stopped those meetings and refused to let me help her get them going again. The group at the library turned into only two people, and those two spent more time chatting than writing. The other library group seemed cliquey… and unfocused… but with a strong leader... despite the weakness of the writers in the group. Just not a good fit I guess...
So it’s been nine months since I did any consistent writing. 1000 per day: that’s my new goal. Let’s see how far I can get with that. Not here of course. This is a blog; not my most creative forum. But I will try to keep up with this as well, to self-monitor, self-appraise, and to keep a record of what’s going on behind the scenes when I write.
Health Update: Bronchitis gone but still coughing, albeit productively. I’m still having trouble walking after any period of being stationary. This is only the third day that I’m off my statin, but if that was the root then I was hoping to see some improvement by now. If I see nothing after a week, I’m going to have to see the dern rheumatologist. Drat.
So it’s been nine months since I did any consistent writing. 1000 per day: that’s my new goal. Let’s see how far I can get with that. Not here of course. This is a blog; not my most creative forum. But I will try to keep up with this as well, to self-monitor, self-appraise, and to keep a record of what’s going on behind the scenes when I write.
Health Update: Bronchitis gone but still coughing, albeit productively. I’m still having trouble walking after any period of being stationary. This is only the third day that I’m off my statin, but if that was the root then I was hoping to see some improvement by now. If I see nothing after a week, I’m going to have to see the dern rheumatologist. Drat.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Maintenance
Maintenance... I am plagued by a lack thereof. It's not my forte and anyone who knows me could tell you that. I suffer from a severe lack of motivation in nearly all categories of expected daily human maintenance. If only I'd signed up for the military earlier in my life, but by the time I realized I needed to learn some self-discipline it was too late to enlist. I've regretted that many times over the better part of the last twenty-five years. But then again maybe the military would have destroyed the essence of who I am?
I excel at joy... and frolicking... and avoidance of all things mundane but necessary.
Today, for instance, I "should" be doing some dishes, vacuuming the spent flower blossoms that have blown from the deck into the living room, cleaning that bathroom, paying those bills, finishing fixing the skimmer on the pool... The list, sadly, goes on well beyond that and the list has been growing, in earnest, for well over thirty years. It's positively dumbfounding how long I can procrastinate on the aforesaid and all the ancillary duties that everyone else apparently manages to fit into their lives. But how, then, do they ever get to be who they are? Is who they are really reliant upon the accomplishment of changing bed sheets and pulling weeds?
My self-appraisal, currently, is surprisingly tied to my scores at computer games such as Bejeweled, Farkle, and Family Feud. I was thinking about this earlier today when I could not step away from my laptop until I'd won "just one more" game of Hearts. I spent seventy-two minutes trying to stop. If my diuretic hadn't been working so well I would still be locked in a battle with Mr. West, North, and East (North is the worst; I'm convinced he cheats by telling West and East what he has in his hand so that they will know exactly how and when to stick me with the Queen). How can I permit myself to be so absurdly irresponsible?
Forever self-critiquing: I should be embarrassed, but most unfortunately I am not.
I am, however, very disappointed in myself for letting my blogging be so sporadic. My writing is one of the very few things I am certain I am supposed to do in order to be a fulfilled me. My last post (was it March of this year?) left me looking like a scene from "Looking For Mr. Goodbar" and, though there is that aspect to some of my weeks, there is just so much more going on here.
Well, there is more but there is also less. I live a soothingly calm and deliberate rhythm akin to less than a waltz, less even than a lullaby: a rhythm sometimes so slow that you might not detect a beat for days at a time. And I'm happy in it. I'm happy to be drifting along masquerading as an insignificant shred of goose down, undirected, unaccomplished, enjoying the ride with no need for choosing my journey's end. I would rather be mired in moments, like this one, where I am sliding from my keyboard to the wall of windows onto my deck. Through them I watch the water churning up under mottled grey skies chopped with less-grey and sometimes-white clouds and patches of almost blue breaks. There is enough wind to make the whitecaps roll into waves out on the open bay. Some of them occasionally reach the shore of the flat green peninsula that juts out for five hundred feet or so into the bay. Their impact throws salty sprays into the air, and then rains down onto the patchy grasses, making the gulls waddle back and forth in search of a better spot to watch.
Isn't this enough to do? Isn't this enough?
Convention would tell us it isn't: not if I want my lights to stay on. And that's where I find my confusion. I cannot help but think repeatedly upon that story about Jesus and the woman who stopped at his feet to listen to his stories while the other woman was rushing around trying to make him a decent dinner and setting a decent table. She was frustrated with that lazy b-yatch at Jesus' feet... but that lazy b-yatch is me... and she's the one that Jesus thought was the better for it. Still, we have to be realistic don't we, because nobody is going to make it through the day if somebody isn't making a meal. We're all gonners if no one brings home the bacon and fries it up in the pan. We cannot all be sitting around watching the waves break on the shore. It is the mundane but necessary stuff that ensures survival. Art, creativity, and playfulness are luxuries, aren't they? Is anyone going to pay me to do the little that I do? My bank account will tell you the answer.
It is obvious to me that I have temporarily lost my place. My entire life I have prided myself on functioning at my highest and best use and I've always been fully cognizant that I'm a supporter, a cheerleader, a lover and an artist who paints with words. I'm the left side to a right, the "better half" of a whole, the veritable wind beneath the wings of birds who died or have flown the nest. I'm grease in need of some squeaky wheels. In their absence I'm just hanging out and calmly, peacefully, happily, slip-sliding away as I await my next opportunity to serve.
Something deep within me knows this is where I need to be. I do not understand that. I try but I don't. How can I be so entirely complacent watching the unpainted windowsill rot? Why aren't I bothered by twenty-four years of unopened boxes in my basement? The question nags at me, but less-so than the answer. Somehow I belong where I am, doing what I am - and am not - doing.
To my credit I did create a nice little women's group this summer. I invited some local gals who I barely knew but who had instantaneously impressed something within me. We've met and kept a weekly date for more than a month. We talk. It's nothing more than a meeting of minds. Yet it has been absolutely marvelous for each and every one of us. Somehow, out of the clear blue, I sensed a need and created a group that it turned out each of us were craving. Last night as we said goodbye to Jill we were all surprised to discover how much we were going to miss her presence among us. She's headed back to China. We will see her again next summer. It is amazing after only four three-hour chats how truly connected we feel. I did this and I am proud of it. As I pulled into my driveway after last night's gathering I patted myself on the back and applauded my decision and action. It brings me enormous jubilation to think my gut moved me to do something so simple and small and yet so splendid. It's the sort of reason I am still here on this planet. I know it.
I excel at joy... and frolicking... and avoidance of all things mundane but necessary.
Today, for instance, I "should" be doing some dishes, vacuuming the spent flower blossoms that have blown from the deck into the living room, cleaning that bathroom, paying those bills, finishing fixing the skimmer on the pool... The list, sadly, goes on well beyond that and the list has been growing, in earnest, for well over thirty years. It's positively dumbfounding how long I can procrastinate on the aforesaid and all the ancillary duties that everyone else apparently manages to fit into their lives. But how, then, do they ever get to be who they are? Is who they are really reliant upon the accomplishment of changing bed sheets and pulling weeds?
My self-appraisal, currently, is surprisingly tied to my scores at computer games such as Bejeweled, Farkle, and Family Feud. I was thinking about this earlier today when I could not step away from my laptop until I'd won "just one more" game of Hearts. I spent seventy-two minutes trying to stop. If my diuretic hadn't been working so well I would still be locked in a battle with Mr. West, North, and East (North is the worst; I'm convinced he cheats by telling West and East what he has in his hand so that they will know exactly how and when to stick me with the Queen). How can I permit myself to be so absurdly irresponsible?
Forever self-critiquing: I should be embarrassed, but most unfortunately I am not.
I am, however, very disappointed in myself for letting my blogging be so sporadic. My writing is one of the very few things I am certain I am supposed to do in order to be a fulfilled me. My last post (was it March of this year?) left me looking like a scene from "Looking For Mr. Goodbar" and, though there is that aspect to some of my weeks, there is just so much more going on here.
Well, there is more but there is also less. I live a soothingly calm and deliberate rhythm akin to less than a waltz, less even than a lullaby: a rhythm sometimes so slow that you might not detect a beat for days at a time. And I'm happy in it. I'm happy to be drifting along masquerading as an insignificant shred of goose down, undirected, unaccomplished, enjoying the ride with no need for choosing my journey's end. I would rather be mired in moments, like this one, where I am sliding from my keyboard to the wall of windows onto my deck. Through them I watch the water churning up under mottled grey skies chopped with less-grey and sometimes-white clouds and patches of almost blue breaks. There is enough wind to make the whitecaps roll into waves out on the open bay. Some of them occasionally reach the shore of the flat green peninsula that juts out for five hundred feet or so into the bay. Their impact throws salty sprays into the air, and then rains down onto the patchy grasses, making the gulls waddle back and forth in search of a better spot to watch.
Isn't this enough to do? Isn't this enough?
Convention would tell us it isn't: not if I want my lights to stay on. And that's where I find my confusion. I cannot help but think repeatedly upon that story about Jesus and the woman who stopped at his feet to listen to his stories while the other woman was rushing around trying to make him a decent dinner and setting a decent table. She was frustrated with that lazy b-yatch at Jesus' feet... but that lazy b-yatch is me... and she's the one that Jesus thought was the better for it. Still, we have to be realistic don't we, because nobody is going to make it through the day if somebody isn't making a meal. We're all gonners if no one brings home the bacon and fries it up in the pan. We cannot all be sitting around watching the waves break on the shore. It is the mundane but necessary stuff that ensures survival. Art, creativity, and playfulness are luxuries, aren't they? Is anyone going to pay me to do the little that I do? My bank account will tell you the answer.
It is obvious to me that I have temporarily lost my place. My entire life I have prided myself on functioning at my highest and best use and I've always been fully cognizant that I'm a supporter, a cheerleader, a lover and an artist who paints with words. I'm the left side to a right, the "better half" of a whole, the veritable wind beneath the wings of birds who died or have flown the nest. I'm grease in need of some squeaky wheels. In their absence I'm just hanging out and calmly, peacefully, happily, slip-sliding away as I await my next opportunity to serve.
Something deep within me knows this is where I need to be. I do not understand that. I try but I don't. How can I be so entirely complacent watching the unpainted windowsill rot? Why aren't I bothered by twenty-four years of unopened boxes in my basement? The question nags at me, but less-so than the answer. Somehow I belong where I am, doing what I am - and am not - doing.
To my credit I did create a nice little women's group this summer. I invited some local gals who I barely knew but who had instantaneously impressed something within me. We've met and kept a weekly date for more than a month. We talk. It's nothing more than a meeting of minds. Yet it has been absolutely marvelous for each and every one of us. Somehow, out of the clear blue, I sensed a need and created a group that it turned out each of us were craving. Last night as we said goodbye to Jill we were all surprised to discover how much we were going to miss her presence among us. She's headed back to China. We will see her again next summer. It is amazing after only four three-hour chats how truly connected we feel. I did this and I am proud of it. As I pulled into my driveway after last night's gathering I patted myself on the back and applauded my decision and action. It brings me enormous jubilation to think my gut moved me to do something so simple and small and yet so splendid. It's the sort of reason I am still here on this planet. I know it.
I feel pretty certain that the Universe is smiling at me today. I just wish it would send someone to clean the toilet, return that letter from the IRS, and deposit some cash into my checking account.
Maintenance: mundane... but necessary. The trick has always been in finding a balance.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Disturbing Evening
After last night I cannot help but wonder if I haven't been working the online dating scene too long.
I've done my best not to become jaded. Indeed, somehow I manage to talk myself into approaching each date with enthusiastic optimism. Of course I do believe unreservedly that I am a great "catch", but my assumption is that there are a lot of great male catches out there too. For that reason I am willing to meet with potential suitors who do not necessarily present themselves well in their online profiles. I mean, heck, I'm a writer so of course my profile is fabulous! But I can understand that not everyone possesses the communication skills that I take for granted.
This is not to say I don't have some minimum criteria that must be met prior to scheduling a first meeting. They need to indicate financial stability. They need to not look like a serial killer in their photos. They need to at least pretend that they are not angry and embittered over the life and relationships they've had so far. (You'd be surprised at how many guys that eliminates from the starting gate.) If they do that then, yes, I'll come out for coffee or wine.
I prefer not to come out for a meal. Most women on these dating sites seem to think that a free meal is the goal. I don't want or need a free restaurant meal. I'm happier to stay home to eat my own healthier food. My goal in meeting these guys is to see if there is any potential. I've learned that it only takes about fifteen minutes of chitty-chat over a beverage for me to know if I want to spend more time in this person's company. My time is valuable and I've no interest in taking advantage of any man's wallet.
That said, last night after painting my nails and applying mascara I went out to meet a guy who appeared to have potential. I asked to meet for a drink but he took one look at my gorgeosity and immediately asked the hostess to seat us at a table. He was mildly charming so I didn't resist. I set the menu aside and ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. He got a Miller Light (clearly not what he normally orders or he wouldn't be those 45 pounds overweight that made him struggle to slip into the cozy booth we were given. The waitress returned three times before we finally ordered two appetizers.
"Fine," I am thinking to myself, "he hasn't said anything too bizarre and he's come straight from work and he's gotta be hungry and we seem to be getting along... so sure, why not?"
It wasn't until about an hour into the conversation that things got really weird.
I don't know this guy. Absolutely nothing about him seemed even vaguely familiar. Nothing. I swear. Like too many first dates, he was consumed with talking about himself. He'd told me about his job, his commute, his education, his ex-wife, his son, his son's girlfriend, the reason he didn't like his son's girlfriend, the crazy things his son's girlfriend has done... He was going on and on about himself and his son with very little room for me to insert anything about me, but I've seen this plenty of times before and I am a patient soul. After all, a lot of that can come from sheer terror on the part of the guy. They are so afraid of lulls in the conversation that they fill up the space with blather that borders on embarrassingly inappropriate self-disclosures. I've heard a lot of that. Really, so far this guy last night wasn't any worse than the norm. I even managed to politely ignore the food that missed his mouth and came to rest where his belly bulged at the buttons of his crisp blue oxford shirt.
And then it happened. He began to tell me a story that I had heard before.
It wasn't just similar to a story I'd heard before, it actually was a story I'd heard before. He was telling me this story - about why he'd broken up with his last serious girlfriend - and he was telling it in words that I had, verbatim, heard before.
My stomach tightened up so much that I put down the bite I was about to take and pushed my plate away. I had just slipped into the Twilight Zone.
He didn't notice my reaction at first and continued to recount his tale. I listened, knowing precisely what he was going to say next, but hoping somehow I didn't. My mind bounced back and forth trying to explain what was happening. Had I met this man before? Was this a prolonged flash of déjà vu? Is there a book all the men read on "Stories to Entertain Your First Dates"? How could I possibly know this story?
Earlier in the conversation he'd mentioned how his marriage had failed after the death of their youngest son. I hadn't picked up on it then, but now, hearing this story about his ex-girlfriend, I could remember exactly how his son had died. Good golly, I've heard all of this guy's stories before. I know this guy. Why don't I recognize him? My mind was in an absolutely dizzying whirl. My upset had become obvious by now, even to this self-obsessed talkaholic. But aside from his noting that I'd stopped eating, he continued to tell me more things I already knew as I struggled to neutralize the expression on my face.
I let the conversation run its course, doing less to encourage him than I'd been doing before my revelation. In time his food and banter ran out, the bill came, and we made our way to the door. He was none the wiser, though I myself was grateful for the cold night air as we stepped outdoors and parted company. I watched his brake lights as he backed up and exited his parking spot. I sat still in my car, completely unsure of what I'd actually just experienced. Is it possible that I had dated this man and have zero recollection of his face? Is that really possible? It would have had to have been within the last three years, since that's when he told me he moved back to NJ. Could I really have met someone within the last three years and have no memory of it whatsoever, save the stories that he'd told, then and now?
I have no explanation. If it had been déjà vu, wouldn't I have recalled his face? Every other déjà vu I've ever had possessed precisely identical scenarios. Those few déjà vu’s were incredibly clear: the faces and conversations were exact replicas. This hadn't been like that. I'd heard the story, but had not been in that same restaurant booth when I'd heard it. And it cannot have been a story that guys want to use for first-date conversations since it wasn't a "good" story; it was unhappy, and strange. So all that's left to conclude is that I had, in fact, met this guy at some time during the last three years and I have absolutely no recollection of it. I’d be concerned that I was having early onset of Alzheimer’s, but he clearly doesn't recall meeting me either. How can two people both not know that they have met each other within the last three years? Or is it possible that this guy was "gaslighting" me?
Twilight Zone indeed.
I had a hard time falling to sleep last night. With all of this still churning in my head this morning, I went to my email inbox and saw that after nearly three years of silence I'd received correspondence from Carmine. My heart fluttered. Oh Carmine, is your swim in the dating pool exhausting you too? I opened the email with a grateful resurgence of sunny optimism, only to find Carmine's email account had been hacked and some schlock web sales pitch had been sent to me, along with everyone else in Carmine's contact list.
Sigh... Is the universe sending me a warning that it may be time to take a break from dating?
On the upside, apparently I am still in Carmine's contact list...
My oh my, how can I continue to be such a cockeyed optimist in the wake of such a bizarre episode? What will it take to crack my rose colored glasses?
I've done my best not to become jaded. Indeed, somehow I manage to talk myself into approaching each date with enthusiastic optimism. Of course I do believe unreservedly that I am a great "catch", but my assumption is that there are a lot of great male catches out there too. For that reason I am willing to meet with potential suitors who do not necessarily present themselves well in their online profiles. I mean, heck, I'm a writer so of course my profile is fabulous! But I can understand that not everyone possesses the communication skills that I take for granted.
This is not to say I don't have some minimum criteria that must be met prior to scheduling a first meeting. They need to indicate financial stability. They need to not look like a serial killer in their photos. They need to at least pretend that they are not angry and embittered over the life and relationships they've had so far. (You'd be surprised at how many guys that eliminates from the starting gate.) If they do that then, yes, I'll come out for coffee or wine.
I prefer not to come out for a meal. Most women on these dating sites seem to think that a free meal is the goal. I don't want or need a free restaurant meal. I'm happier to stay home to eat my own healthier food. My goal in meeting these guys is to see if there is any potential. I've learned that it only takes about fifteen minutes of chitty-chat over a beverage for me to know if I want to spend more time in this person's company. My time is valuable and I've no interest in taking advantage of any man's wallet.
That said, last night after painting my nails and applying mascara I went out to meet a guy who appeared to have potential. I asked to meet for a drink but he took one look at my gorgeosity and immediately asked the hostess to seat us at a table. He was mildly charming so I didn't resist. I set the menu aside and ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. He got a Miller Light (clearly not what he normally orders or he wouldn't be those 45 pounds overweight that made him struggle to slip into the cozy booth we were given. The waitress returned three times before we finally ordered two appetizers.
"Fine," I am thinking to myself, "he hasn't said anything too bizarre and he's come straight from work and he's gotta be hungry and we seem to be getting along... so sure, why not?"
It wasn't until about an hour into the conversation that things got really weird.
I don't know this guy. Absolutely nothing about him seemed even vaguely familiar. Nothing. I swear. Like too many first dates, he was consumed with talking about himself. He'd told me about his job, his commute, his education, his ex-wife, his son, his son's girlfriend, the reason he didn't like his son's girlfriend, the crazy things his son's girlfriend has done... He was going on and on about himself and his son with very little room for me to insert anything about me, but I've seen this plenty of times before and I am a patient soul. After all, a lot of that can come from sheer terror on the part of the guy. They are so afraid of lulls in the conversation that they fill up the space with blather that borders on embarrassingly inappropriate self-disclosures. I've heard a lot of that. Really, so far this guy last night wasn't any worse than the norm. I even managed to politely ignore the food that missed his mouth and came to rest where his belly bulged at the buttons of his crisp blue oxford shirt.
And then it happened. He began to tell me a story that I had heard before.
It wasn't just similar to a story I'd heard before, it actually was a story I'd heard before. He was telling me this story - about why he'd broken up with his last serious girlfriend - and he was telling it in words that I had, verbatim, heard before.
My stomach tightened up so much that I put down the bite I was about to take and pushed my plate away. I had just slipped into the Twilight Zone.
He didn't notice my reaction at first and continued to recount his tale. I listened, knowing precisely what he was going to say next, but hoping somehow I didn't. My mind bounced back and forth trying to explain what was happening. Had I met this man before? Was this a prolonged flash of déjà vu? Is there a book all the men read on "Stories to Entertain Your First Dates"? How could I possibly know this story?
Earlier in the conversation he'd mentioned how his marriage had failed after the death of their youngest son. I hadn't picked up on it then, but now, hearing this story about his ex-girlfriend, I could remember exactly how his son had died. Good golly, I've heard all of this guy's stories before. I know this guy. Why don't I recognize him? My mind was in an absolutely dizzying whirl. My upset had become obvious by now, even to this self-obsessed talkaholic. But aside from his noting that I'd stopped eating, he continued to tell me more things I already knew as I struggled to neutralize the expression on my face.
I let the conversation run its course, doing less to encourage him than I'd been doing before my revelation. In time his food and banter ran out, the bill came, and we made our way to the door. He was none the wiser, though I myself was grateful for the cold night air as we stepped outdoors and parted company. I watched his brake lights as he backed up and exited his parking spot. I sat still in my car, completely unsure of what I'd actually just experienced. Is it possible that I had dated this man and have zero recollection of his face? Is that really possible? It would have had to have been within the last three years, since that's when he told me he moved back to NJ. Could I really have met someone within the last three years and have no memory of it whatsoever, save the stories that he'd told, then and now?
I have no explanation. If it had been déjà vu, wouldn't I have recalled his face? Every other déjà vu I've ever had possessed precisely identical scenarios. Those few déjà vu’s were incredibly clear: the faces and conversations were exact replicas. This hadn't been like that. I'd heard the story, but had not been in that same restaurant booth when I'd heard it. And it cannot have been a story that guys want to use for first-date conversations since it wasn't a "good" story; it was unhappy, and strange. So all that's left to conclude is that I had, in fact, met this guy at some time during the last three years and I have absolutely no recollection of it. I’d be concerned that I was having early onset of Alzheimer’s, but he clearly doesn't recall meeting me either. How can two people both not know that they have met each other within the last three years? Or is it possible that this guy was "gaslighting" me?
Twilight Zone indeed.
I had a hard time falling to sleep last night. With all of this still churning in my head this morning, I went to my email inbox and saw that after nearly three years of silence I'd received correspondence from Carmine. My heart fluttered. Oh Carmine, is your swim in the dating pool exhausting you too? I opened the email with a grateful resurgence of sunny optimism, only to find Carmine's email account had been hacked and some schlock web sales pitch had been sent to me, along with everyone else in Carmine's contact list.
Sigh... Is the universe sending me a warning that it may be time to take a break from dating?
On the upside, apparently I am still in Carmine's contact list...
My oh my, how can I continue to be such a cockeyed optimist in the wake of such a bizarre episode? What will it take to crack my rose colored glasses?
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