All I can legitimately talk about is my own process—in whatever. It’s presumptuous to assume everyone’s process will be the same. However, talking too much about one’s own process is talking too much about one’s self, so it’s something of a No-Win.
Conspiracy theory is just another form of denial.
I just realized I forgot to take the poem out of my pocket from Poem In My Pocket Day. But at least it’s in “my other pants.”
In May it’ll be two years since I last worked on my last novel. I’d say where did the time go but I know: down the whirlpool of caregiving. I was born to take care of people, apparently. My life has no other meaning. There’s just no time for anything else. I can’t help feeling much of the time as if my life, everything I valued about my life, is over. I’m so tired most weeks I wonder if I’ll make it through to the other side. There are good days, but most days I just grind it out as best I can. Some days, it just piles up. But I’m still moving.
And being free of caregiving means someone I love is gone. There’s no happy ending, as my friend Lisa says.
There are millions of people out there just like me. Caregiving is the unrecognized and unacknowledged crisis in this country
My friends tell me my creativity will come back, that everything is cyclical, and I believe them, but it’s sometimes hard to see that from here. I keep trying. “I’ll just read a chapter a day, or part of a chapter.” But something always happens. And writing from scratch? Unthinkable at this point.
Okay, enough of the self-pity party. I took the time to reread the first chapter of that last novel and tweak it. Holds up well.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
Jacob’s Dream was playing in the cafeteria so I just had to tell everyone about the Lost Children of the Alleghenies: http://bit.ly/ZPZC4t Everyone was properly riveted and scads went to You Tube and the links I provided.
Back at the ER this morning. Mom got an IV of antibiotics. Now we’re waiting to see if we can go home.
Even in stressful times there are compensations in this world: hearing David Sedaris sing the Oscar Meyer bologna song as Billie Holliday. Laughed so hard I cried. The guy in the car next to me looked concerned, like I might be having a fit. I was. The good kind.
So my printer and my dishwasher went belly up the same night. I’m sure there’s a pattern there but I’m too tired to figure it out.
Leaving Mom on mornings when she’s not doing well are heartbreaking but if I didn’t leave on those mornings I would have long since lost my job.
I find it absolutely hilarious that Hitler was a vegetarian. Even funnier? The ardent vegetarians that try to backpedal that fact. I know many fine human beings who are vegetarians but there’s a vocal minority that do seem to have something in common with Nazis.
“Dammit I’m mad” spelled backwards is “Dammit I’m mad.”
I guess the house is officially mine. I’ve just had my first plumbing disaster. This time it was the 50 gallon water heater that went belly up.
John Hancock Life Insurance is dicking around about paying me the money they owe me. I guess that’s why they have cock in their name.
It’s a morning for people saying stupid ass stuff and I am not in the mood to be nice about it. That tenderness of a few days ago is still there but having a harder time swimming up from the cesspool. That’s in the nature of this process, though. If you don’t like the mood you’re in wait an hour and it may change.
Now I know what was wrong with the opening of that novel: I put a gun on the mantelpiece and never used it again (figuratively). How many years did it take me to figure that out? I really love that opening (and it works in so many other ways) so I’ll have to find a way of using that “gun.” Although I do seem to recall another writing truism about using that gun to murder your something-or-others…What was that again?
My old, beloved neighborhood that I grew up in, has become the Shrine of the Unknown Hipster. You may have heard of it: Silicon Beach? I literally grew up on 4th Avenue near Rose, the very heart of Hipsterville now. I way preferred it when it was the ghetto: funky, beloved ol’ Venice.
You don’t get to be a crone just by getting older. There’s a experiential component to it. And man, is that a bitch. Which is also a separate thing from being a crone.
I’ve just come up with the last line for my novel, Carmina. I guess it’s a real story now.
Well, at least I made it down to the final 800 submissions. :-/ Probably just as well. I don’t have time for a writing career right now.
John Hancock Life Insurance, the company that isn’t giving me ma money, mistakenly informed the state of California that Mom is deceased—but only on one of numerous policies they have in her name. The others are still in force. Also, they told us a few months back that no other policies existed. Now all of a sudden they’re breeding like rabbits. Do not use John Hancock EVER.
Social Medea is the name of my next band.
I’m halfway through chapter six on the read-and-clean final of that novel I didn’t touch for two years.
Mirrored from Better Than Dead.