I’ve been hibernating. Have you noticed? That question is masochistic, right? But maybe that’s the point. There is masochism here—yearning for an audience I can’t control. Blogging in order to have readers. Broadcasting my sins across cyberspace. And there is masochism there—not blogging, stifling my voice in order to save myself from judgment, from silence. From indifference.
Perhaps none of this makes any sense.
Swamp Chicken says just blog already. Cut the crap. So here I am, with a few minutes to spare before it’s time to pick up the kids from school. Have I mentioned they’ve been an unruly handful lately?
SC and I both have been challenged to the hilt, resulting in screaming and tears and slamming doors. Then there’re the kids. Ba-dum-dum. I swear some days it’s like I never went Primal. I have sunk low. Maybe it’s the lack of sunshine, the increased dairy consumption. The cold. Still, through it all, I’ve witnessed my former self-hatred jags mutating into run-of-the-mill self-pity parties that find me curled up in my office chair, face glowing blue in the light of my laptop flickering its images from depraved sites I should steer clear from on a good day. Self-hatred is pure, distilled agony. Self-pity is simply shameful, possibly a stepping stone to the hating.
But between Spike’s obnoxious streak, which runs as deep and thick as a tar pit (wonder where he got that from) to Stella’s steel-edged defiance against anything resembling an authoritarian direction, we’ve been at our wit’s end. The joyful part exists of course. We are not completely broken or even broken down. But it is boring, not worth retelling. Suffice to say no one’s lost an eye (yet.) And we exchange hugs and kisses. I was going to add one more thing too. Can’t remember…My memory is fading. Must be all that pot I smoked in high school.
So yeah. I have been hibernating. It’s been luxurious. Walking the dog whilst enjoying my newish boots. Watching movies on Netflix. Like Crazy Stupid Love. Bridesmaids. Like Dandelion Dust. Reading. I just finished the first book in the Hunger Games trilogy. Now onto a Woody Allen biography. Nothing primal. Nothing about dogs, though I did start taking Nyla to a class at Petco. Our trainer’s name is James, who is a bit of a local celebrity, er, at least a celebrity’s trainer.
James trains Mr. Cuddles. Do you know who that is? It’s Patti LaBelle’s little shih tzu. Patti lives near me. Sometimes I walk by her house. I’ve never seen Mr. Cuddles in her yard, but I have seen a Cadillac Escalade. An indoor pool. Expansive lawn. Tall iron gates.
What else? Not much for now. In hiding. Doing a little writing. Laying fallow, following the season’s lead; feels like biology—stepping in time to the waltz, staring out at the world, peeking from beneath my covers. Seeing what might stick for the next round of creativity.
I passed a tiny flower in bloom during today’s walk. It was white and droopy and Nyla sniffed it. The weather today reminds me of Ireland even though I’ve never been there. The light has that cast to it, makes the grass and moss appear thicker, more substantial. Pregnant. The air is humid for January. Balmy temperatures. The kind of weather that makes you want to walk for miles murmuring to yourself about all the small magical things you’re thankful for—the low-slung clouds. The empty streets slick with rain that stopped falling to let you pass in comfort. The way your dog’s exuberance shows itself in her eager gait, the stiff set of her ears, the way she sniffs every patch of matted ivy as if it were a smudge of heaven. You remark to yourself that you’re thankful for noticing the magic. Because otherwise it would all appear dead. You know the deadness all too well; the yearning it provokes. The pain. You steer clear of it when you can.
Peace out.
