beginning again is always a pain.
no, that�s not right. That�s not what I had in my mind to start saying or journaling.
alright, here it is, I woke up late again. I don�t like waking up late. I don�t like again (not usually). I�ve wanted to change my habits because I�m really too old for this behavior of mine, this laziness, this hole I�ve managed to sink down into.
so I woke up to the mild sound of the teevee, as usual (because I sleep with a movie and/or a channel turned to something). I wake up and can�t find my glasses. I wake up to my lower back hurting and curse my mattress or my overweight situation or the size of my chest or the fact that I don�t exercise as often as I say (or think) I do. I�m waking up and bothered by bodily pains and I�m hearing some self-help show or network that is focusing on women and their anger and how they have to learn to channel their angers and fears and insecurities. Hmm. I decide that they�re pathetic and I�m pathetic and I no longer want to be pathetic, nor do I want to become even more pathetic�at least not to the point where, like these women, I�m grouped (or roped) into an active therapy session that requires me to draw out my fears with a sharpie and taping it to a punching bag and begin beating it to shreds. Some symbolism is healthy. Some metaphors are not hackneyed. That was an example, to me, of corn straight from the cob. No thanks, ladies.
my aversion, then, stumbles into the bathroom with me as I wash my face and brush my teeth and inspect my awful exterior. Ick, no. perhaps this is unhealthy, this negative thinking/viewing. I then proceed to make myself angry. Why? Because I�m really sad. And that in itself is pathetic.
so I decide I�m going to write because that�s what you�re supposed to do when you first struggle out of dreaming and land harshly onto the waking plane. I know it isn�t what everyone does the first thing in the morning but it has helped me a great deal to make it through the morning �oiling process� as one fellow/former student called it. I�m quite inconsistent when it comes to the ritual of it so I thought now is a good time to back to �owning� the writing, as one published author who has a day job once advised. It was my understanding that she was telling us to own it (that is to say, whatever we are) by making a habit of being active in what we are from the moment our conscious minds start churning�from the first moment of our day�. yadda yadda yadda.
I�m really not a cynic. I�m just not comfortable with laying out the habits and the unmysterious and inglorious step by step by insecure step of this whole process. I�m not comfortable with it but I�m doing it. I don�t know what that says about me but there it is anyway.
so I come out of the bathroom, newly brushed teeth and all, and I say to myself that here before me is the first of todays fork in the veritable road. Shall I write or shall I exercise? Of course I have a full day of millions of other decisions to make and that should be more pressing and overwhelming than this silly this or that question I�m asking myself while the light is quickly turning into gray and the chance of rain. But I have to do these things. I have to do all of these things and its just a matter of order. P.S.: I�m just glad I have this time, this brief respite, before I have to plunge myself back into the intensive summer and oncoming fall quarters (before the inevitable and long awaited end to my college career. hahah. career). And so because I have this time, I should make the most of it. I should not fritter it away or sleep or become consumed or side-tracked by too much email, too much uploading and downloading and overloading and staying out till all hours of the night. I need my energy back. I need my pep back (if I really had any to begin with). I need my strength back. Because I do believe that there was an inordinately long stretch of time that I truly felt invincible. The kind of invincible that only children feel when they�re playing or running or still truly trying to lift off the ground and fly. I�ve missed that feeling. I thought I could live without it, grow up and live without it, but I know now that I can�t. and I have to do something about it.
today was a start. A very very small start, I�m not going to kid myself. But a start is a start anyway. I told myself that because I so desperately wanted to write (and avoid exercise) that I needed to devise a simple way to both.. to be excited to do both, thereby eliminating the roadblock known as laziness (otherwise known as sloth). Alright, I said, hitching up my pajama pants and raising my chin. You will have the chance to write once you go out into the world and raise your heart rate, feeling the appropriate burning and gasping and thirsting that goes with that kind of exercise. so that�s what I did. Excitedly (and believe me even that was a surprise) I found the appropriate exercise clothes, laced up my sneakers, stretched out the necessary muscles and headed for the door, and the stairs, and the car. Driving up to the marina, worried over the wet ground (evidence of rain) but would not or rather could not be stopped. �Hang the rain!� I shouted and pushed onward.
and that�s how I came to be here, writing out the minute details of my morning and ignoring what I was originally excited to write about in the first place. What I wanted to journal about was fear because fear and anger were the two questions and concepts that met me when I woke up late and pained, old and prematurely dead.
the woman on the tele kept talking about what she feared. All the women talked about such broad fears. I�m afraid I won�t reach my potential� or ..i�m afraid of not being able to give my heart�. WHAT?! Who are these women? I have very specific fears. I�m afraid of what is not familiar, of feeling suspended in air, in the dark. I�m afraid of people changing their moods, their lives, their codes that they live by. I�m afraid of losing something irreplaceable and unrepeatable.
my dad just phoned and said that he just went to have a roll of prints developed and that something terrible happened because the negatives were either lost or damaged. He said, that the people wanted to give him a new roll of film but my dad is upset over having lost �the shots� he said, the photographs I took of these people, my family, events that will never be repeated again. People that may never be around again. He sounded upset. How do you fix something like that? How do you let go of something like he must, resigning himself to�to what?
this is not the kind of day that should go wrong. Not for him or for me or anybody dammit.
it can�t�. I can�t let it.
this morning, this is the image i held in my mind:
Recent entries:
oday.html">the 3 month countdown begins - 05 May 2018
anothrburst.html">another burst - this used to be my playground
newlife.html">begin at the beginning. - 10 April 2008
moody.html">a blanket for a bad mood under the sun. - 25 March 2007
emilludwig.html">...kissing a fool... - 05 December 2006
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