Tag: repetition

Humanity

I like being busy.

Lovelovemotherexpletive

I know. Its with a certain amount of chagrin that I say this, knowing how I’ve been complaining these past few weeks.

My projects wrapped up. and while there is a tiny thing I could do, I’m finding myself utterly at a loss and swept away by emotions. I do blame perimenopause for some of it, yes, but not all.

working for myself, at home, is not an easy gig.

i’m thinking i might go binge on the walking dead, because i can hide from the gratuitous gore and just hang on to the mystery of who is going to survive or what will ever cause things to get better. (i’m on season six somewhere so don’t say a word.)

the kids are also away this weekend and i’ve had them for the past two, so there is this gaping maw sensation. I’ve got some entertainment in my social life these days but i’m thinking i’m going to take the weekend off from that too. and so, its just me, and tv.

never fear. i’ve got a crockpot going and have fed the chickens and things look normal from the outside. but still. this month. tsk.

Its nice to think about cooking good food. I’ve been assigned brussel sprouts and butternut. Plus, mashed potatoes. All will be well. I can actually just live on those, anyhow, so we’re good.

love you guys. hope your search for food will be fulfilled.

-lovelove

My ladies, of Flying Carrot Farm
Humanity

Car dealership. Again.

Lovelovemotherexpletive

Last time I was here, they handed me the keys with the caveat, ‘if it doesn’t work the first time, just try it again.’

The dealership. The guys who are supposed to know every single thing about the make that they sell.

Sigh. They also suspected that I was turning it on wrong. The car I own, and have owned for almost ten years.

Its my boobs. My boobs are so damn distracting that men of all ages are fucking idiots and think I can’t turn on my damn car because I have breasts.

So. here I am again, same place, because you know, i need my car to turn on every time, and my mechanic insists that the keys have to be programmed by the dealer. he wouldn’t do me wrong, i’m pretty sure. he probably knows i have breasts but he might not have noticed. or, it didn’t matter that much. he certainly thinks i can start my own car.

person in grey shirt handing keys
‘ Good Luck Out There’. Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

I’m going to leave here today, hopefully, and buy myself some lottery tickets. One or more, and maybe some scratch tickets, because you know? You just can’t win if you don’t play the game.

also, the coffee machine here is out of order.

I SAY THAT IS OUT OF ORDER!!

love you.

(I’m working on my latest writing project in the waiting room here. only 20 K more to go. Did I tell you the whole place is under construction? It is. yes.)

really, its love, i swear.

  • kate
Humanity

What is in your margins, January?

Lovelovemotherexpletive
  1. In response to an Isabel prompt : some of that quote that brought me to my knees last time, what is in your margins, baby? what’re you constantly underlining, again and again, like new every time?

  1. Colors, always colors. I’m downright a.d.d. when it comes to distraction by beauty. Color, shape, the painting I no longer do, the detraction of value from myself for that. Oh. So much. Slight miss, peeled off, scraped off, value gone, value gone. Not creating, not. Scrape, peel, scrape peel, bare walls left. And more, peeled, scraped down to studs. And then what? Where then? Shelter gone. Zero. And wind. The wind blows through. Again. That’s my underline, right there. the biggest one. over and over. manic. manic. manic.
  2. I keep finding these men, these men who really cannot fit a woman into their lives, and I keep thinking of their loss, to lose me, this valueless non-creator, and then I see again that I am so uncertain I can do this all again and I know I use them to distract, like pretty shiny pennies.
  3. Can I live on macaroni and cheese with an occasional tomato thrown in? Is rickets a thing for me now, on this pirate ship of a pandemic house? Am I at sea now, for months at a time, while the kids take their boats out again and again and I am home… rocking in my chair on the waves.
  4. I’m not there anymore, I’m not there anymore, my chant when I wake from the bad dreams. Still, five years out. Anxieties about something so far gone. This brain, and where she roams when I sleep. Poor thing.
  5. I stick my head in the plants. I run my hand through the rice. I light the tree until I feel the itch for space and emptiness . and it itches. And I return to dreaming of painting.
  6. I woke up at four today. I feel pleasure in this, though I acknowledge that my evening will be affected. I have added another thousand words to the work writing and I am so glad and also, sad that there is still so much more to go and I’m running down my timeclock. Sometimes I think I deserve this, this halfass pride in work that I don’t want anyone to read. You know those cheapass romances that you buy for .99 on amazon? That’s me. I write that shit. sometimes. Welcome to the ambivalence. And return.
  7. The potato bugs have moved in, must be the season of… what? Mate? Coldness? They are everywhere. Slow moving creature of prehistory. I love how peacefully we coexist. I’m not sure when we decided we could, but we did.
  8. I keep meeting addicts. I keep finding them, the sharp, the intelligent, the weak, the traumatized. I find them, I love them. I have shifted away from taking them in, housing them, and that’s the change in the margins. Just a color change, same words, but progress. Big.
  9. I understand how deeply I need winter. This return of the cold, the dark. The stay home. Pandemic or no. this is the acorn buried deep. This is the time I understand how to protect my children. Stay. Warm. Socks. Hats. Lights. This is the time I understand.
green acorn
Photo by Eriks Abzinovs on Pexels.com

Humanity

There is nothing wrong, January.

Lovelovemotherexpletive

“The pleasure of abiding. The pleasure of insistence, of persistence. The pleasure of obligation, the pleasure of dependency. The pleasures of ordinary devotion.
The pleasure of recognizing that one may have to undergo the same realizations, write the same notes in the margin, return to the same themes in one’s work, relearn the same emotional truths, write the same book over and over again – not because one is stupid or obstinate or incapable of change, but because such revisitations constitute a life.” –
Maggie Nelson

This quote. This thing settled down on me like a net, slicing through me in geometries.

Its not, repeat and repeat until you finally learn the lesson, its not ‘cycle after cycle of the same lesson’ because you just cannot get it, you are so thick you fell for another addict…it is the revisitation that constitutes a life.

i’m not stupid, i’m just living.

JESUS. Pleasure, not trial.

PLEASURE.

I mix my hedonism with practicality, i do. but i wish more people could lighten up. get earthy with themselves.

there is so much in there, and i don’t even know how to begin to dig it up, to unearth it for you.

PLEASURE.

go find some.

i’m going to organize another raised bed for myself this spring. I might go wild and plant all flowers again. my kids don’t flipping eat vegetables, so what is the point of spinach? Maybe a pepper or two? I’ll have lavender to sell this year, barring pestilence.

Sigh.

Pleasure. run your hands through a bowl of rice if you have to. climb under the weighted blanket, or lover, or dog. whatever you got.

that quote. man, i am sliced.

slices of red orange on white background
Photo by Any Lane on Pexels.com

there’s nothing wrong with you. you’re just living.

sigh.

-me

Humanity

Misses (our lists are long)

Lovelovemotherexpletive

I miss being able to go to a diner and have someone pour me questionable coffee in a white ceramic mug that I want to steal, each time.

I miss smiling at people with my whole face at the grocery store.

I miss putting my hands on my mother.

I miss LM, but I think its still right, because I missed myself, too, and hadn’t realized the depths to which I had gone missing, again…

I miss not feeling sad sometime each day.

I miss not worrying about the health of my kids, in a death-fixation way.

I miss browsing tangible things, and buying something I can’t assess from a practicality perspective.

I miss being lazy about food.

I miss school busses.

I miss editing and proofreading other people’s stuff. in quietude. in a timely fashion. without interruption.

I miss being able to not go to a yoga class when the kids are away. I miss the choices I didn’t make.

I miss the potential of meetings, to offer more choices in writing, in expansion of subjects, in simple conversations.

I miss coffee rolls.

I miss spontaneous visits.

I miss opening the door to let someone into the kitchen.

The world is going to be different, for quite a while. and I miss the old one, with all its problems, because at least I knew it.  Now I’m missing something I don’t even know. and that gets complicated, this not-knowing of the world.

peace be with you,

uwmfHouseplants Unwifed MotherExpletive