raybear: (Default)
Yesterday I had to make a phone call to vent and the person I called very nicely reassured me that I had already resolved the situation and its done, which is totally true, but sometimes I need someone to balk with me. Balk at this bad behavior! BALK!!

I am home after a long full day of people and events (pet parade, suburban history tours, going-away potluck), and I was going to watch a movie, but suddenly the intimacy of taking a book to bed seems more appealing. I am enjoying the companionship of simply myself, except for when I'm not. But isn't that most things? Right now is one of those "nots".

I remember a time when things weren't real until I had written about them on livejournal, whether a public declaration, or a filtered one to a select group before going public, or usually some combination of both. Now I hardly ever think to write here, I condense it all into facebook statuses or twitter, though also I have been having lots of face to face conversations with people, funny how that makes the internet's role change in the social functions. I find myself here now, and I don't mean to make a "livejournal is dead" post, it is just hard to ignore the observation when I actually decided to click that post an entry link.

It has been an intense year of grief, or maybe an intense year for grief, as if grief is one part of me that exists in its own capacity, as if that part of my heart could have a string of bad luck over the course of a few months. Which is not to say, I don't feel unlucky about any recent chains of events, if anything my primary reaction in many of them is "it was bound to happen to you soon, so just time to step up and get through it" and mostly this works, but sometimes it doesn't, it bears down on me and I lose all the confidence in my words I had just said aloud hours earlier, things I've been saying for day, weeks, and they seem perfectly true and fine until they aren't and then I falter and think they must not be true at all, ever, I am wrong. Calm down. It is one day, one night, not even -- it is one hour. See me again in an hour and tell me what you know and we will figure it out.

Which is not to say things are all bad, that is not true at all, they are just operating at a different level and place, and that is probably just part and parcel with this period of underemployment and career change and everything else change, that every routine gets pitched or at the very least reconfigured. Still, it is hard to be unravelled sometimes, strands separate on the floor, not touching.

And now to go to my bookshelf and select my lover for the night.......ok, I almost pulled off saying 'lover' in earnest, but I couldn't quite do it.
raybear: (Default)
Sometimes I think, I don't know, maybe I'm supposed to just be working a job that provides a modicum of satisfaction, in the way that solving a long division problem is like itching a scratch in a brain, and then I just go home and do things like sit on the couch and read books and watch movies and get caught up in pop culture phenomenons on television. Maybe that's it, that's okay. That's sort of the model. Oh, I forgot, I should have one hobby. With my father it was golf. With my mother it was sewing/small crafts (usually related to textiles). I woke up today and if I was writing my own horoscope I would say "today is a 3" but I don't think horoscopes ever go below a 6, because that would just be demoralizing. I don't know why today is 3, it just is. It took everything I could, namely tricking myself into only barely getting dressed, and going all the way up to Evanston and I drove very slowly and I found parking and after 45 minutes of copying, my body just stopped working. No more. Who cares about a deadline. Nope. I can fight it a little, but not much. I got back in the car and drove home. I don't really remember my afternoon. I think I swept the living room. And watched some porn and took a shower. Then I came to work and I'm immediately bombarded with projects, I think, this is why I hate working. But it levelled out. I forget, that I'm engaging with people when it is their final hour of the day, they are rushed, they are frantic, everything is pressing, but for me, I'm just ambling up to the plate. Then I have to work with this attorney who I dislike, because he is snotty and full of himself, but whatever, it's typing, who cares. I do it. He comes back and says "you do good work" with a tone that indicates he is both surprised and impressed enough to give a compliment because he doesn't do that often. And I think yes, the plight of the overeducated, the overqualified, I know, I do good work, everyone loves me, everybody loves Raymond and it just makes me feel a little numb when those moments happen. Not that it isn't genuine from them, because sadly, it is, their earnestness is near-deadly. And don't get me wrong, it would sure suck to go into a workplace everyday where everyone hated me. But, still, I derive no great satisfaction in it. And I hate that tone of someone who is shocked to learn that a smart person is working a crappy mindless job. Which leads me back to thinking that maybe I'm not supposed to, it's just about filling in the gaps and paying for a life, except I am one of the many fake low-middle class people/working class people (the category depends on which econmic bar chart you consult) who is tricked into thinking I have more when really I have credit lines and credit card debt and did you know that within the industry, people who pay off their monthly balance every month are called 'deadbeats' and that if you think you are getting lots of credit card offers now, just miss a couple payments and suddenly they will come pouring in even more. Borrowed time, borrowed money. And now I have more borrowed pages to edit so I must end this prematurely.
raybear: (meanie)
The past two days have been like Ye Olde Rustic House. I've been sick with a minor head cold, that started with my left armpit lymph node being swollen on Saturday and then started to manifest yesterday afternoon right before I took off running to catch a tow truck. But also, its 53 degrees in our apartment. Not because we're suddenly concerned about the gas bill, but because the heater is broken and the radiators have stood cold for two days. The regular maintenance guy came today, but it was beyond his expertise and he said a repair person would come today too, but they didn't. Or if they did, they should get their money back, because its still 53 degrees in the apartment. This wouldn't be such an ordeal if this had been one of the global-warming weekends we've been having all month, but no, of course, it's snowed today and it's dropping down into the teens tonight.

Shortly I'll be reading under the down comforter by the warmth and light of a candle. Too bad I'm bored to death of being in the house. This is the problem with being sick. Well, there are lots of problems with being sick. One is that I spend lots of time at home anyway, so I'm rarely in need of more time here, so I get cranky and anxious, on top of the cranky and anxious that sickness does by making me feel all out of control. because my body is doing things I don't want it to do. I also have that thing where I don't want to be around people when I'm sick, because I'm vulnerable, but then I feel vulnerable so I want to be taken care of. Except I don't. But I do. Really I do. Just, do it from afar. Well, except for when you're petting my head.

Instead I do things like bake cookies in my moments of the day of feeling less sick. Plus, being near the warm oven is good.

I was thinking too, earlier, of being sick as a child, and how I will admit now to having a total "wolf-crying" problem, in that two-thirds of the sick days I took off from school were probably the childhood and adolescent equivalent of 'mental health days', so my mother seemed to always question whether I was really sick, while also never totally challenging me on my need to stay home. I appreciate the latter, but the former has some lasting ramifications, as far as not always being an accurate judge of how sick I really am, of feeling guilty or defensive about being sick, of the whole thing mentioned above about wanting to be left alone when sick. And then today I read William Styron's "Darkness Rising", this book which is really just an essay, about depression (a word he hates), meloncholia, madness and sinking in and getting through and what happened to him and how he got through it, sort of despite the 'care' of doctors and his observations of things in the 80s and how some isht hasn't changed or if part of it has, it hasn't necessarily gotten better. And now I'm thinking about the idea of "incomplete mourning".

I don't know. I think the melatonin is kicking in, and the high from the neti pot cleansing is dropping (man, that isht produces some crazy positive effects on me after a really good thorough washing out of the nose and head), and also my fingers are super stiff because, as I may have mentioned, its 53 degrees inside the apartment.

Also, Inga Muscio is getting on my nerves. Well, her book is. She might be a perfectly lovely three-dimensional person, and that is neither here nor there. (I love that phrase.) Ok, for real, I should go because my brain is going to some quirky places at a fast rate and I'd rather enjoy the show under the covers where I'm warm.
raybear: (Default)
I saw El Laberinto del Fauno ([livejournal.com profile] mintwaster, will that title make you go see it?) on Saturday with [livejournal.com profile] drinkasyoupour, and it was pretty fcking amazing, though I honestly had no idea how intense it was going to be. It was kinda like being pushed down a long flight of stairs and getting up uninjured but dazed and overwhelmed by the capacity of human existence. Yeah, that's my weirdo review of the movie. It has a good bit of violence, but none of it is 'gratuitous', in that it all had a purpose and resolved itself in the end. It was just amazing to see this piece of creative work get pulled off so well by this director, the story was both familiar and new. I can't stop thinking about it or feeling it. I should probably stop talking about it though, at least to people who haven't seen it.

On my way into work I feel like a whole week went by since I was last here. I'm not exactly sure why my time scale for the weekend was off. Maybe because I did so much. All you can eat breakfast buffet on Saturday (I'm still dreaming about that fried chicken and mac & cheese). Movie and visit with DAYP. Dinner and dvd and reading at home alone. Sunday I got up and made breakfast, then we drove to Joliet for a wedding, then I came back and went to film group. I feel like having lots of social contact in 48 hours is what's throwing off my time scale. But I don't feel totally exhausted by it, which in these moments makes me think I'm not as introverted as I think, I just hate bullshit interactions of large social gatherings and loud bars. Unless its a karaoke one. Which reminds me, it's been a long time, who wants to go sing soon?

At the wedding, they served family-style Sunday dinner comfort food: turkey and dressing, sliced pork with gravy, mashed potatos, green beans, and pasta with vodka marinara sauce. It was pretty tasty and I appreciate the departure from grilled chicken breasts. I spent the majority of my time talking with [livejournal.com profile] lucyberliner14 and Jyldo, which was the highlight, except for moment when a bridesmaid who I'd never met before in my life, came up to me mid-conversation with someone else and said, "I don't care how gay you are, something's getting stuck up in me tonight." Awkward pause. Then I said, "um, yeah, I don't think it's going to be me. Sorry."
raybear: (collapsed)
After an insightful IM conversation with [livejournal.com profile] limenal (which weirded me out slightly, seeing as saw her just yesterday morning but now she's back in San Fran), I was doing some therapeutic googling -- where in lieu of talking to a live therapist, one googles random psychological issues I wonder about and look into self-diagnosis, even though at this moment I think I've decided I've gone as far as I can right this second on my own and need some additional help, but that's another post. But of course the attorney I was helping that night kept coming up on occasion to give me more pages to edit and my hands kept forgetting how to "alt-tab" and I'm sure my fumbling just drew attention to the various woowoo sites I was on. I could just make the snarky comment about "why should I care? She's working every night past 9 pm and has revealed at other times her own set of quirks and insecurities", but it would be sort of inaccurate. I do care, partly because I kind of like her. She's terribly weird and not my favorite attorney to give me a project as far as her style of working, but personality-wise, I don't know, I sort of connect to her weirdness.

I think I'll do some more prostrations. Perhaps I should finish this glass of wine first.

May 2010

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