I have nothing else to do but put some effort into this. I am one-handed in the house. I can’t sleep. I have trouble with the network. My mind races regarding home repairs. I start to target my relationship and I want to tear things to pieces.
Returning to the sadness, the persistent sadness. The sadness of short sentences. The sadness of employees. The sadness of elderly eyebrows. The sadness of muted achievements. Of not knowing your place. The bewilderment of multiple remotes.
The fear of not ever having a home. Not at home here.
I am sleepy. I am starting to dream more often, but I believe this is due to sleeping in a too-warm room.
This room does not feel like home, although many of my things are in here. I have my Tarot deck, and some candles. My place for meditation. Some favorite posters on the wall. Art supplies. A little rehabilitated lamp. It’s quiet in here. No speakers. Very little in the way of electronics. An iron and ironing board in the closet. The room is relatively neat. I have control over the neatness in here, which is not true of other rooms.
I am wondering about this work. I was driven to this writing by my absolute incapacity to live comfortably in my home, in my relationship, in my own damaged skin. If I am writing, I am not falling down.
My hosts, my hosts, my experience of hospitality.
The failure of my lights. The utter failure of my many lamps. They wink out one by one.
The eyes of disaster.
Yet not so bad.
I believe I can get home. Go home and—work on my splotch art. Always a tentative on-the-fly effort with permanent, disfigured results.
Discs—Physical Earth energy
Grounded. Material needs. My body. Not being able to take care of myself. Not being able to defend myself from the demands of a project.
Priestess of discs—She’s doing Yoga! Can I still take my Tuesday morning yoga class? I would dearly love to be able to do that. Physical—trainer setup? What about a zafu/zabuton in this room?
Working can be bad for my health, bad for my mood. I don’t want to reach out, make connections. I don’t want to feel over my head again in an extroverted analytical culture.
Six of discs—reversed. Is about this. I don’t want to participate in the madness. I try experimental remarks with Linda, jumping outside the box of her behavior. When I think about healing/leadership, I think—BIG. I want to modify the whole extended team so that we can work well together. My intuition screams at me to modify other’s behavior in situations. I can’t. I avoid participation to a great degree because of this trap.
Son of discs—Goals. One of my fondest dreams is to improve the house. I would love to gradually transform this space into something that would feel good and livable. I don’t dare to wish for what. Seems materialistic. There are poor out there. I am no good at home decorating. Etc. First step—money. Could I feel good about this? I don’t know. I might feel like Michelle or Richie. I might be susceptible to Sam’s criticisms, bound/engaged with his actions or lack of action. I don’t want that.
Demons into Allies—
|->||sharing ->||Blair, Kiva?|
|->||saving ->||401K, pay off debts|
Buddhism really figures in here.
|->||don’t get involved in tempests, gossip. Step up to motivation. Spend time with the winners.|
|two days a week
|->||Discipline. Housework? Chores calling me? Exercise? Errands? I don’t think I can work 8 hours at home. Maybe that’s not the point.|
|Creative time||->||most rewarding projects have been in fragments.|
Sam deserts me often in the evening, sleeping. I can do a lot with a short period of time every day. The daily effort is my ally. I fritter away time on Tues and Thurs, flounder.
I know I’m going to do this.
I am afraid.
It still seems too high-falutin’, don’t it? There’s an etymology for you. Look it up when you get home.
If you get home. Too many layers. Can you layer in the ujjayi breath, she asks? She massages my feet lightly delicately at the end of class. What a slow reception.
How much of me wants to quit.
Wants to quit. Wants to quit.
Wants to quit socializing, the word is far too long and Latinate. I want someone in my home though, my treasure, treasured friend, I want a gleaming golden friend who’s fascinating.
I want to live in Oregon.
There is no book. There is no book. This book of no book. The thought of non-thought. The mystery of transmission. Heartfelt. The girl’s sweatshirt says “Fianu.” I am reluctant to go home.
Animals. Rabbits. Wild turkeys dead at roadside. Flooding. Mouse in the kitchen, a dark brown mouse. Max was outside on the porch. Bill at home under the table.
Trying to make castle, trying to make castle out of foam. Trying to lurk, trying to get home. Trying to write, trying to make room. Trying to elope, can’t elope alone.
why don’t we all go home to the drowned home with the backdrop of garbage the white elite the bored the this the that
Timesheet. Front Porch. Armchair evaluation. Interim Patience.
Guess what? Guesses, guests, ghosts. Gosh, sits down. Gosh, go home. Gosh, stopping on the way home. Gosh prepares. Something on the critical path. Or Dinner. Or for an operation.
This is a house of wax.
I’m going home soom. I’m used to haze and clouds, I find them comforting.