Beautiful

Inspirational song: No Easy Way Down (Carole King)

The original plan was to go see Beautiful, the Carole King Musical last Sunday. Plans changed, and so did our tickets. My buddy and I went to see it today instead, on its final Denver performance. That week delay worked in my favor. I'm not sure I could have handled it had I seen it one week sooner. But I passed a milestone this week, and came at it from a different emotional place. I was able to appreciate its beauty and poignancy. This production is spectacular. It's well-acted, sung beautifully, and staged compellingly. It was funny and touching. I couldn't find a single flaw.

I knew Carole King was a big time songwriter, but I really didn't know her career was quite as all-encompassing as it was. Until I saw this show, I had no idea the part she played in mega-hits like the Locomotion or On Broadway, for example. I mostly thought of the songs she recorded herself when I thought of her. And for most of my life, that was quite enough to impress the hell out of me. I never knew about her relationship with the songwriting duo responsible for You've Lost That Loving Feeling and Pleasant Valley Sunday, either. I felt a little undereducated going into it this afternoon. I know better now.

The best part of it was how it made me feel inspired to keep writing my own words. It made me feel stronger and more creative. It made me believe in the things that I'm already doing. Now it's time to put down the blog and pick up the stories. I've been stuck on them for a few days while I was overworked on other projects. I have time again now. Time to get unstuck.

Thinning Out

Inspirational song: Tired of Waiting for You (The Kinks)

I was right. I needed a recovery day. I can't imagine if I had gone through with the original plan of getting up for the parade, I'd probably be a quivering pile of misery right about now. As it was, I got a jump on the pile of misery part, and stayed in bed as late as I could stand it this morning. I didn't sleep the entire morning away, but I gave it my best shot. Not sure I am what a normal person would consider "rested." I stopped burning the candle at both ends, and that was good enough for now.

Yesterday marked one whole year since we signed for this house. The last year has certainly not turned out like I imagined it would, when I was so optimistic and happy about gaining my new Park. In fact, not a single thing seems to have gone according to plan. The new year starts today. I started sorting stuff this afternoon. It's time to move on and rearrange my surroundings, customized to me and no one else. I've begun emptying closets, hanging up a few more paintings, deciding what will go to charity. I don't have unlimited energy, so whittling down my belongings and streamlining my house is going to go in very small steps. But I'm ready. I had to grieve and I had to find acceptance. Now my skin is a little thicker, my spine a little more stiff. I'm not less angry, but that may come in time. I'll let the anger power me for a little while.

I think I'll go back to the basic house cleaning in the hours before I'm able to fall asleep again. I'm sure Athena would love to help me. It took her less than ten seconds to discover that I'd emptied my laundry hamper. Imagine her joy when I try to remake the bed.

None for Me

Inspirational song: The No-No Song (Hoyt Axton)

After comparing myself to Ado Annie just a few days ago, maybe I should take a moment and pat myself on the back for having found the slightest sprinkling of common sense and saying no. I recognized how thoroughly I have overdone everything for the last week or two, and once I got home from wearing myself out in the sun -- again -- I listened to my body, which was screaming in pain and fatigue. I called up my friend, and I volunteered to be the first person kicked off of our parade float. I would be much better served by sleeping late tomorrow and staying out of the sun (for once), rather than pushing myself one more day in a row. I couldn't walk along side the float, handing out candy, even for the fourteen blocks that the entire circuit will cover. The antique chuck wagon that someone found for our float takes up most of the space on it, leaving very little room for people to ride on it. We already have the executives for the different Rotary clubs in town on there, plus one of our former mayors. I don't need to be there. They all can wave to the crowd just fine without me.

As soon as I made the decision to say no, I felt better emotionally. Unfortunately it was too late to feel better physically. I am so sore and so tired I don't know what to do with myself. My roommate made dinner, and that was a huge relief (and a good meal). What I'd love to do is retreat into some of the old painkillers from one of my surgeries, but the doc told me that I'm not supposed to use any of those anymore, as they don't mix well with lupus. All I have for pain is a daily anti-inflammatory pill that does absolutely nothing to help. I'm still several months out from the anti-malaria drug that they prescribe for lupus from being built up enough in my system to reduce pain. I've more or less sworn off of alcohol, because it makes me feel so crappy with all of these other things in my system. I guess my final options are Tylenol and soaking in hot water. So that's what I'll do. I'd cross my fingers in the hopes that it will work, but since even they hurt, I'll just use that phrase purely metaphorically.

File Away for Later

Inspirational song: Don't Dream It's Over (Crowded House)

It may be time to end the program of unsupervised felines having free range at Smith Park West. Even as I floated for a couple hours in the hot tub, allowing YouTube to feed me a steady diet of Daily Shows, Colbert antics, and Last Weeks Tonight (is that the proper plural form of that one?), it is possible one very naughty boy was exploring the neighborhood rather than hanging out where he was supposed to be. Long after full dark, when I was bribing the Pride to come inside with a promise of just a few more kibbles per mouth, Jackie and I heard a scrambling sort of noise that sounded like claws on a stockade fence. And then out of the dark, Alfred came running to the sound of cat food being shaken in a plastic cup. Oh, Boy, did you have to ruin it for everyone?

I've had a little-bit-of-everything day. I worked, I volunteered, I partied, I gardened, and I chilled out. I was so busy doing things that I never stopped to plan what I would write tonight. It's kind of how I'm running my affairs these days. Not planning, just barreling forward and hoping that something will catch on. I don't know whether I'm any good at improvising anymore. I guess I'll find out as the wake behind me spreads, and it's either filled with good works or destruction. Maybe a little of both.

I have park envy this evening. The party I attended was at a beautiful house that had a small but very well laid out yard and entertaining space. There was a large deck with dining and lounging space, there were cute little planting zones, and there was a four foot deep koi pond that made me seriously consider the logistics of keeping such a thing here where there are four cats who would happily learn to swim. I came away tonight with a lot of decorating ideas. I just can't justify spending the time, energy, money, and spoons on copying them by myself at this stage. For now, such things will have to be filed away in my Dream Park plans. I should start a scrapbook of the surreptitious photos I take of other people's homes, with the idea of recreating them here.

Billion Year Old Carbon

Inspirational song: Woodstock (Joni Mitchell)

I am getting too old to work thirteen hour days, especially when over four of those hours are spent driving on highways. I am so tired I can barely turn my head (which made the interstate portion of the final drive home even that much more sporty). I had a lot of time to talk to myself or my steering wheel, and to ponder the mysteries of the universe. I was feeling like a very small, insignificant speck on the swirling electron cloud of matter that is this earth. I was thinking of the way people come in and out of our lives, how lives come in and out of existence, and how that random crashing of atoms back and forth into meeting and diverging substances is such a force of chaos. All of that, and nary a whiff of the local Colorado delicacies to be found anywhere near me.

I remember being frustrated and rebellious as a teenager, wanting to do something that was morally suspect, and justifying it to myself and my peer group by saying something that amounted to, "In 400 years, who is really going to care what I did here in small town Oklahoma, at this time on earth?" My friends called me out on it, knowing that what I was trying to get away with really wouldn't fly, and it would eat me up inside if I did it. They were right. But at that moment, I felt much as I do right now, like just a random collection of barely-contained atoms, every bit as replaceable and interchangeable as everyone and everything else in the history of time. At times like these, I wonder anew at how a temporary bag of stardust such as myself could possibly become self-aware, any why was it necessary to do so?

I'm running into the same old brick walls. Professionally I'm spinning my wheels in the usual rut, with an offer three-quarters ready to go on a house that three-fifths of the family loved, but aborted because one of the decision makers got seriously cold feet. Personally I'm in limbo, unable or unwilling to move forward but lacking the ability to go backwards. It would be a whole lot easier to survive this collaboration of stardust if it had just been assembled into a chair instead of an Anne. Is it too late to become a chair?

Pretending To Be Normal

Inspirational song: Radar Love (Golden Earring)

Okay, I'm on the clock. I just took half of a muscle relaxant, and the moment it kicks in, I need to be in bed. I pretended I was a totally normal person yesterday and today, and I don't have a scheduled day to officially recover until at least next Monday. So I have to rest up when I can.

My fondest wish from last night came true. As I slept in my friends' guest room, with all of the windows on the lower level of their townhouse open, not only was the air cool, it was downright cold. I'm fairly certain it made it to the high 50s over night, inside the house. I had washed my hair before bed, and the cool air and wet hair made me absolutely chilled. I had to pull an extra blanket over myself all the way up to my ears. It was glorious! After months of roasting and not being able to cool off under my own power, this was like winning the lottery.

I stumped for participants for our big pie throwdown at the early morning Rotary meeting in the mountains. My friends are totally on board, and there were a lot of people who talked like they wanted to play, but no one wanted to sign up to make a team. There will be some arm-twisting to come, and some out-and-out bribery. We will get them to come down.

After my second Rotary meeting of the day, I stuck around to talk to the planning committee, and to volunteer to take on even more responsibility for this project. I just don't like to say no. Who's the girl in Oklahoma the musical who can't say no? Ado Annie? Oh, the irony.

And then, like a glutton for punishment, I ran errands, I pulled weeds, I cleaned up after the cats (two days overdue... sorry, roommate whose bed is right next to the cats' potty!), and went out to the writers group. By the time I limped out of there, I was exceptionally rude to the person standing outside the library door asking for signatures on a petition to regulate fracking, and I whined the whole drive home. This has got to stop. Or at least slow down. Maybe in September.

Nature Walk

Inspirational song: Misty Mountain Hop (Led Zeppelin)

I have been saying for months that I needed to come stay with my friends, and visit their Rotary meeting (that happens at seven in the freaking morning). There were always reasons that I couldn't make it up, while all the stress of the breakup and my illness was overwhelming me. But now things are settling down, and the reasons to come up here were much more compelling than any dumb excuse not to do it. Not only do I get to check another item off of my new members checklist (visiting another Rotary club), but I get to spend the night in the gorgeous mountains with some of my favorite people around. This evening is thoroughly in the win column. And if things go according to plan, I will sell some tickets to our Throw Down at Pie Noon fundraiser, and get a gold star from the leaders of the organizing committee when we meet tomorrow.

I walked all over downtown with my co-conspirator, trying to get more businesses involved in the pie throwing event, to put together teams or at least buy tickets, and we are hitting a lot of brick walls. I don't know what more we can do here. This has the potential to be a whole lot of fun, but I don't know how to get people to sign up a month in advance. I really think this will be a spur of the moment decision for most folks, a day or two ahead of the event. They have at least allowed that we'll put up a table the night before, when there is already a downtown art walk or something planned. I think foot traffic is our best resource. And I don't mean MY foot traffic. I think my days of walking all over town are limited. I can barely sit with my feet on the floor at this point.

This evening's walk was of an entirely different nature. We strolled gently along the river, taking in the much cooler air as the sun started to set. We stopped in for drinks at a small coffee shop, and put our feet up by a pond, to watch the fish eat bugs off of the water's surface. That was really the only wildlife we saw, other than the "Canada goose" by the coffee shop's pond, and the "deer" by the river... that appears to be a little worse for wear after a rave. It's the only explanation we could find for its broken antler and the glow stick draped around its neck.

And now if you'll excuse me, I've traded Smith Park for Rocky Mountain National Park. I am going to relax in the mountain air. I hope it gets really cold tonight. I'll make sure the windows in the guest room are wide open.

Lazy

Inspirational song: Too Lazy to Work, Too Nervous to Steal (BR5-49)

I tried to write today. I really did. I carried my notebooks with me everywhere I went in the house and on the patio. I read over things I'd written so far. But I just couldn't add any real new text. It doesn't make any sense. When I work on expanding the Jade Slipper Suite, it should be easy. I already have a complete story from the first three-page piece of flash fiction I wrote in May. How is this not flowing at all? I've stalled out about fourteen hand-written pages in. I'm barely to the second movement of the suite (although I'm not relying on the musical gimmick as much in the expanded version), and I'm just stuck. This happens to me all the stinking time. I can have all the scenes lined up in my head, a complete story with a logical conclusion, and I just can't get past that first hill. I have more story beginnings than I can count, written longhand in spiral notebooks or lost forever on dead computers. I have at least two on my big laptop (the only one with Office on it). But I haven't ever finished a single manuscript in my life. It's hard to feel productive when I have this problem with follow-through.

I'm even more stuck with the latest story I started, that feels like it should be important, but right now is all character development and no plot. My daughter helped me think up a little conflict last night. It still feels like a side plot and not the main event. This is the same daughter who challenged me to write 500 words a night, and here I am struggling to add in ten or twelve to what I've already done. I'm letting her down. It's not on purpose. I'm always thinking about these stories. I'm not trying to be lazy. There has got to be a way to make it go from my head to my fingers.

Now here I am at the end of the day, with no new scenes written. We're just hanging out on the patio, gossiping and snacking, and enjoying the coolness. I brought my notebooks back out here too. They are sitting on the other side of my plate of nachos, untouched. I feel so lazy. Maybe I am.

Inclusions

Inspirational song: Love Over Gold (Dire Straits)

While we were out yesterday, my daughter and I, on our trip to Dairy Queen and mindless shopping at Target to get my mind off of the unpleasantness, she gave me a gift. She had been intending it to be a prize for my first house sale, but since my quest for a sale is starting to resemble Leonardo DiCaprio's long wait for an Oscar, she decided it was better as a consolation present to cheer me up. It was an oval peridot pendant, one of my all-time favorite stones. She pointed out why she chose that particular pendant. She said most of the others were clear and nearly flawless, but this one was full of inclusions. It was so much more interesting to look at, because it was imperfect. I smiled and said, "It's me." I am so flawed, and I desperately want to think it makes me more interesting.

I've spent most of my life trying to be perfect. I wanted to be the smartest. I wanted to be the most artistic. I wanted to do everything exactly according to the rules, and get it all right. I wanted to have a perfect body. I wanted a storybook marriage. I never got any of those things as well as I hoped, and I beat myself up for it for my whole life. When I looked at myself, I forgot my number one rule for humans, that I made up and voiced when I was a teenager. To be perfect, you have to carry some scars. I've believed that as long as I can remember. But why couldn't I apply it to myself? I thought I had to be flawless to get anyone's attention or respect. I was backwards.

It is at the times I confess my worst pain and failures that I garner the most attention. In some ways, it's healing to have the support and sympathy of so many people, at the same time that it is ultimately humbling, facing my shortcomings and making a public spectacle of myself. The battle rages inside of me, loving imperfect people yet wanting to be a paragon myself. I don't know where to go with it. If I don't constantly struggle to improve, I will stagnate. But if I never accept myself for who I am, I will never be happy. It feels like a trap.

What I Wanted

Inspirational song: Cruel Summer (Bananarama)

He asked me what I wanted, while we argued as I drove home from the hearing with the family court facilitator.

I wanted not to go to that meeting. I wanted him to have the courage to be there in person rather than calling in from not so far away that he couldn't have been there, if he had been willing to be in a room with me. I wanted to throw my unfinished financial disclosures paperwork at the facilitator and scream that I wasn't going to complete it or cooperate anymore. I wanted not to be the agent of my own destruction.

I wanted it not to happen at all. I wanted to go back to when my world wasn't falling apart.

I wanted to be loved like I should have been. I wanted him to mean forever when he told me that he loved me, like I meant it every time I said it to him, all the way to the moment he climbed in the RV to leave. I wanted him to accept me as the human that I am. I wanted him to understand that my limitations weren't an open insult to him. I wanted him to see me as I am, not as he decided I was thirteen years ago when he was angry and decided that he didn't want to love me anymore, or tell me those words that I needed to hear ever again. I wanted him to say it out loud if he thought I was beautiful, at least one time in the last sixteen years.

I wanted not to be ignored, in public, in private, or online. I wanted him to see me as I actually am, an evolving, flawed but sincere person. I wanted to see the tiniest spark of empathy anytime I lay in a hospital bed. I wanted him to be able to see that the happy times were far more numerous and extended than the arguments. I wanted him to be able to calculate that math. I wanted to be wanted.

I wanted him to know that those times I forgave him it wasn't because I was weak or had low self-esteem, but the opposite, that I knew I had value and was allowed to go for what I wanted in a partner. I wanted him to understand that I considered him an equal partner, not a servant and not a master.

I wanted to go on this cross-continental RV trip with him like I had planned to two years ago. I wanted to be invited, or at least not actively uninvited. I wanted to be able to make it all the way up to his claim in the mountains, on my own power or on an ATV. I wanted to be the old retired couple he saw on a hop flight years ago, coming from some European destination on a military transport for cheap, looking at each other with love and excitement.

I wanted to be healthy. I wanted to be strong and active. I wanted not to hurt during the day and lie awake in agony during the night. I wanted a gentle hand on my shoulder during those times when the pain was too much. I wanted him to know that on those days when I had nothing left in the tank but I still got up and made an elaborate dinner, that it was because I wanted to share my very last spoon with the man who meant the world to me.

I wanted forever.

I wanted to know why.

Apparently all the things I wanted were impossible for me to have, even though people get most of those things every day like they are easily obtainable. I never got a complete answer to the last one. It's the one I needed the most today.

Sleepless Night Ahead

Inspirational song: Under Pressure (Billy Joel)

So hard to write tonight. Tomorrow is a family court date, halfway through the 90 day waiting period of the legal separation, and I just have no idea what to expect. I will be the only one to show up for a separation I never wanted. He literally gets to phone it in from the road. I have to face a bunch of people who expect me to understand the implications of everything, and I really just don't. My stress levels are too high, and my ability to absorb all the changes has dried up. I don't want to go, but not going is just too cowardly. I wish there were something I could do that would allow me to relax and unwind afterwards, but lately nothing, not a soak in the hot tub, not an ice cream binge, not even a fine whiskey appeals to me.

I keep trying to find little things to smile about. They're few and far between. This evening, daughter number two sent pictures of the new dog who lives in the nursing home where she works. This tiny little dog who is roughly the size of Athena is the replacement for naughty Daisy, the old facility dog. Daisy was obese and constantly breaking into the kitchen, when she wasn't fouling the carpet. So far, the reports about new dog's behavior have been good. But my daughter has a problem with her name. They call her Sugar, which she says is all well and good for a nickname, but she needed a much more formal name. Almost as one, my daughter suggested "Glucose" at the moment when I said it should be "Polysaccharide." If that isn't a reason to smile, that eerie synchronicity, then nothing is.

I wonder whether I'll sleep tonight. If the rest of the week is any indication, no, I won't. It'll be like Arlo sang about, when he talked about showing up when his draft number was called. He said he "got good and drunk the night before, so [he] looked and felt [his] very best." I'm sure I'll look like a million bucks tomorrow. Red-eyed, snot-nosed. Bitter, depressed. Yeah, it will be a blast.

Sleeping Dogs

Inspirational song: Pilate's Dream (Jesus Christ Superstar)

I had a dream a few nights ago about my dogs. I heard a fast, rhythmic tapping against a screen door, and recognized it as Elsa's tail hitting said door. In the dream, I let Bump and Elsa come running inside, but instead of Murray, the third dog was some tiny little purse dog I didn't recognize. I don't know what it means, other than that I miss the dogs. I am enjoying not hearing incessant barking, and my garage and back yard smell much better. But nonetheless, I miss them. Beginning on the morning after I had that dream, I started getting more photos from the road, of dogs running in very tall grass and snoozing in their new RV home, unimpressed with the goings-on of Mr X who was taking time to repair and customize the RV. I wonder whether they think of me as well.

I spent almost the entire day out back. I gave myself an extended-soak mani-pedi with plenty of Epsom salts and hot pink nail polish, and I finally finished reading the book Mr X asked me to check out of the library when he left on his first cross-country tour with the dogs in May. He couldn't believe I'd grown up in Oklahoma and never read Cimarron. It took me a few tries to get through it, what with all the drama making it hard to focus on the way Ms Ferber played fast and loose with her timelines. It's currently about $3.50 worth of overdue to the library now. I suppose I'll take it back tomorrow, if I remember. Mr X and I have had a few exchanges that seemed metaphorical over the last several weeks. I wonder whether I'm getting the message he intended off of this book, if he intended one at all. I sure am finding a lot to ponder from this reading choice.

This week is going to get harder before it gets better. If it gets better at all. Tomorrow and Friday each have unpleasantness scheduled. I may just worry about pretty pictures of flowers and dogs for the rest of the night, and not documents and courts and veterinarians.

Unexpected Treats

Inspirational song: It's My Life (Talk Talk)

I have ceased knowing how to recognize progress. Is busyness progress? Or is it taking me away from the things I need to be doing to accomplish all that I need to do? I spent the day in my various kinds of meetings today, and I did a whole lot. But did I do anything? I haven't suddenly found a steady income or finished one of my novels-in-progress. I talked to a lot of people, and felt less like an outsider than I have in a year. Maybe that is progress. But progress toward what goal, I have no idea.

I found out where my volunteer aspirations need to be aimed, and I need to drum up participants right away. I am going to be asking all Front Range friends and acquaintances to help me on this one, and I'm going to talk about it frequently. I'm pretty sure I've said already that all of the local Rotary groups are banding together to hold a mass pie-in-the-face "event" called Throw Down at Pie Noon. To raise money for all of our youth programs, we are trying to bring together roughly a thousand people into one closed-off city block to break a Guinness record for the biggest pie fight. This will be on August 27th. What I need (other than participants... I will be stumping for that too, so be prepared) is a team of volunteers who are willing to help prepare the pies (putting whipped cream on paper plates), or help set up and transfer said pies from refrigerators to tables to participants' hands. I am still working on specifics, so there will be more coming. You've been warned.

I have found myself moving better in the last few days. I can't tell whether it's due to the medications kicking in, to me handling stress better, or to the "cross fiber" work that my massage therapist did Saturday. Whatever is going on, I am walking more, and taking longer, more relaxed strides. I had been knotted up with stress and pain for so long (since January) that I had forgotten I was capable of normal motion. It's making the rest of my life with autoimmune seem much less daunting, knowing that periods of remission, when I move like a normal human, are actually going to be possible. I had had my doubts.

Maybe as my life starts to move forward again, without all of these roadblocks, I will find my fiction flowing again. For the umpteenth time in a row, I've arrived on a sharing night at writers group with no new tales to tell. We even had a series of photographs for prompts that were quite provocative, and I couldn't string two words together for them. I've been bone dry for flash fiction. Once I'm done with the drama in my own life, the imaginary drama may return. My fellow group members were in fine form this evening, with dark and poignant works. I'd like to be able to keep up with the Joneses again.

Until then, I guess I'll just take what the others offer: their words and their treats. Who knew that day lilies were delicious, with a little cream cheese? (Oh, right, the bunnies in my back yard already knew.)

Park Ranger

Inspirational song: Welcome to the Jungle (Guns n' Roses)

I keep thinking back to the horrors of that summer two years ago. It was so hot, and I was so stressed out and ill, that the original Park just became too much for me to handle alone. Even before the population explosion of the golden orb weaver spiders (ah, I remember you, seven-legged Carlotta), it was rough for me to be outside then. The grass in the back got to be over a foot tall on a couple occasions, before my neighbor's grandson took pity on me and cut it all with his riding mower. I tried so hard to keep it under control, but I'd barely make it halfway through before I had to go inside and cool off on the couch... for two or three days... It was all I could do on my own to mow paths for Bump to run around the back yard and for Elsa to be able to pee without risk of encountering snakes. It was incredibly humbling to realize that it was all out of my league.

This new Park is half the size of the old. The back yard is a third the size of the one in Charleston, because the house sits more centrally on the lot, unlike my old pie-piece shaped property. But today I found myself having to mow the yard in stages again. It was easily fifteen degrees cooler than the average temperatures in South Carolina in July (at 9:30 this morning), and the humidity was half of what it was there. On top of that, the lot here is completely level, unlike that big hill I had to fight two years ago. Despite all of the advantages, I could only mow a third of it at a time before sitting down and cooling off, hoping that my heart would stop feeling like it was exploding. I had to try to do it. I had to know whether I was capable, and the grass was easily seven or eight inches tall in a few patches, where the water and sun levels were just right. I think what my experiment has shown me is that while my drug therapies may send me into remission and make me have fewer flares, they are making it even more difficult to be in the sun. I was totally covered this time, with long sleeves and long pants, and the big floppy hat I swore I would wear. Stamina just doesn't exist.

Things were much better later this evening, when I arrived home from a movie to find overcast skies and a little zing of energy in my step. While my daughter, foster daughter, and I chatted, I pulled weeds from the Unless garden. A few sprinkles of rain even fell on my back while I pulled out great heaping gobs of unwanted growers (that I appear to be allergic to). We made good progress in a short amount of time. Why can't it be overcast with a breeze more often than not? Yeah, I know, because I moved to a state with over 300 days of sunshine a year. But still, why?