In the Middle

We're moving. Next weekend, we move into our new house. It's bigger, it's nicer, and I pray everyday that it will give us just the right amount of space. Not too much, not too little.

But that is next week. Today, we live like gypsy heathens. My animals eat from empty plates on the coffee table because I have given up trying to keep things clean. My floor is covered in boxes, clumps of dog hair, dirt, and cedar tree bits, and it makes me feel... dispassionate.

Soon, I will move this mess of belongings to a new house that feels void of connection yet has the expectation of home and perfection thrust upon it. It's a tall order that this house will take months to fulfil. Until it does, I will be in the middle of - in between - two homes. I will be without the place where I belong.

It reminds me of when I moved from my marriage to that other home. I remember how it seemed like the connection would never be made; that even though all my belongings where there, I was in a stranger's house. It was lonely.

I thought then that it was because my husband wasn't there, but now I wonder if it will be the same, only we'll be alone together this time.

I make it sound melancholy and  I don't really mean to. It's just something that appears to be there and for that reason alone, I must poke it for more information.

ugh.

It's just that... maybe I also don't want to live this way. Of course, you'll know, I'm talking about work now and not houses. This is, perhaps, the other swollen object in my gut that requires poking.

I'm exhausted. I'm too old for this shit,  this shit of having to put so much of my time to something that bleeds creativity from me. I just want to do it part time - for fuck sakes. It's so demanding.

I'm not sure if I took a wrong turn leaving my last part time job. Then, working from home seemed appealing, and it is cool, but also not cool. And why is it that this job always seems to pulling from me more than it gives?

The manifestation is balance, joy, and contentment (the last two might be one in the same), and I'm not there yet. I find this current job kinda pisses me off. It's great, the people are great, the product is great, the work is demanding - too demanding, at times, in it's relentlessness.

I just need a job that I come to that feels kind and pleasant and where I feel of value and my mind is engaged. A job that fills me up with as much as I put in and leaves me enough time to foster writing and projects. Perhaps I had that before - the money was just a little shy.

So, I tweak the manifestation: balance, joy, financial abundance. I will look to where I want to go. I will focus.

It's good to have goals.

Oh dear god...

I only title this like that because I'm looking for a flare of dramatics over nothing, because isn't it all that? There's nothing wrong, but still, "Oh... dear god" here we go again, she's going to write about nothing as if it were...what?

Beautiful Pieces

I finished a book yesterday, The Storied Life of A.J.Filkry, and it wasn't what I expected. It was shit really. Too simple. But it was really well thought out and well written shit, and only shit because I think the author's ideas are a little before her time still. Tbh, by her picture on the cover I thought she was about 22, I just looked her up and she's 7 years younger than me. Ha ha. 

Still, it was simple. Too simple. 

I don't want that to happen to me. I don't want to think I'm communicating something really super deep in a way that sneaks up on the reader only to find that I was actually too inexperienced of a writer (too inexperienced as a person) to do this, and I laid.it.all.out for them as if I was teaching a kindergarten class. 

That would suck. 

I go inside my swirling guts and ask myself some hard questions like, what are you doing?

I hear, one step at a time, man; to which, fair enough. I guess. 

I see these pieces, the beautiful pieces of the-reality-of-being-human floating about. I smile and then I frown and then I smile. I can't decide if I love the simplicity of blundering or if I hate it. Which, in and of itself is interesting.

I am that guy standing at the street light, on foggy, misty night,  waiting for my mysterious self to deliver a message. While I wait, I just sit back and watch the world.

In the distance, a fog horn sounds unexpectedly and I jump. It takes away from my attempt at a cool demeanour.

Nevertheless, one must expel these spiders of thought, these niggling creatures that crawl in my brain as if they belong there. They are like fruit flies in that they don't have to come from somewhere else, the can just grow where once there was none. 

Also like fruit flies, I can coax them into drowning by laying out the sweet smell apple cider vinegar, the invitation to hedonism, and spill them from my finger tips to their death.

The spiders, the dude me at the street light, the judgy-reader, the wannabe writer, they are all beautiful pieces and when I'm right (as in righted) I can accept them with grace (like a mother lovingly watching her bratty kids fight). 

When I'm uncomfortable, it is because I've become one of them, slipped into their skin when I wasn't looking, in an attempt to feel... what? Young again?

I don't know. And now that I've written it all out, I don't care.