Tension

I hate the feeling of undefined tension. It's the sensation of a spring being wound tighter and tighter except that you can't identify the force that's slowly closing the spirals. Whenever I feel this tension I jump to try and identify it.

I know it's pointless, but still I try. And then it turns into a game of "pin the tail on the donkey".

Is it work? No, not quite. Is it my child? No, well, maybe. Is it J? Could be. Is it stress over money? Maybe, but maybe not.

There's no clear source and there's no obvious cure and that just drives me up the wall.

I can't stand the vagueness of this threat to my peace of mind and the more I stress over it, the tighter the spring coils. At times I wish it would just snap and spill the stress evenly over all the little messes of my life. At least that way I could concentrate on cleaning things up and maintain the illusion that I'm in control rather than having my insides tugged by forces that are beyond my grasp.

Being a control freak has its price.

An alphabet story

It all started when Carmen's cup fell to the kitchen floor and instead of shattering into a million jagged pieces, rolled under the beat-up leather couch. Just my luck, she thought. Kneeling down, she reached under the couch, shuddering as her fingers brushed by old bits of cobweb. Lemony scent of the floor washing liquid assaulted her nostrils as she bent her face down to the floor, trying to see into the gloomy darkness. Marmalade, her ginger tabby, walked by, swishing his tail and feigning indifference to her frantic grappling.

"Nearly there," she muttered, as her fingers seized the rounded edge of the cup's lip.

"Ouch!" Panting, she withdrew her hand, staring at it in disbelief. Queue of tiny ruby droplets issued forth from a puncture that looked suspiciously like a bite.

"Rats," she moaned, not in the least bit amused by the unwitting pun. Stifling the urge to strangle Marmalade, who was after all a cat and should have taken care of a critter problem before it manifested itself in her kitchen, she rushed over to the sink. Tepid stream of lukewarm water managed to stop the bleeding though it did nothing for her irritation.

"Uggh," she growled, rooting in the medicine cupboard for a band-aid and throwing Marmalade a baleful look. "Very nice, Marmalade. What a fine hunter you are. X-ray vision when it comes to ferreting out the shopping bag with sausages in it, but not rats? You think hunting is beneath you? Zealous protector of your owner's house, you are..."

As tirades go, Marmalade was apparently not terribly impressed with this one. Bending his head, he leisurely lifted one leg and lovingly licked the silky fur.

Carmen seethed. Dark mutterings about punishment and lack of dinner brought Marmalade's ablutions to a halt. Ears cocked, he glanced at Carmen, then jumped up on the counter, trotting over to where she was still nursing the bitten finger. Fluffing his tail, Marmalade rubbed against Carmen's bare arm, purring until tension left her and she sighed, knowing she'll never be able to keep a grudge. Grinning, she tickled him under the chin, eliciting further contented purrs.

Household peace was once again restored; rats and errant cups notwithstanding.

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Hint: the title refers to the pattern made by the first letter of each sentence.

A snippet

The light is green and cars stream past, jostling for space, angrily posturing at each other to get out of the way. Just one step and it's all over. A single step. Off the sidewalk and into the rushing stream of traffic. Before the brain can register the solid impact and rending of flesh, it's finished.
Just one step.

How many steps does one take in a lifetime? Unimportant, meaningless steps; measuring distance, measuring time. Just one step. Half a foot down off the sidewalk and another foot or so into the street.

The light changes and the cars slow down. They are a restless pack of wolves; biding their time, barely restrained, straining at the invisible barrier. They emit soft, menacing growls, breathless in the frustration of halting in their quest. Seconds tick by and suddenly the light is green again and they're off. The flow resumes, rushing past, extending an invitation to join in the maniacal dance, if only for a moment before the soothing swish of tires stops in a horrifying screech of rubber against the road.

Pictures and words

I like pictures... You might have drawn that conclusion all by yourself if you noticed that every single post has an image accompanying it. Occasionally I'll find an image and then write a post to fit it, but more often than not, I'll write something and leave looking for a suitable image as a final, sweet task. Sometimes this will take longer than writing the actual blog entry. I will sift through dozens and dozens of images, opening the ones I like in individual tabs in my browser, going back and forth until I find one I like. And yet... I almost never feel satisfied with the one I chose.

Just as I'm never completely satisfied with the words I choose when I write. If I don't stop myself, I will edit and polish and edit again everything I've ever written. Sometimes, a phrase or a sentence will pour out of my fingers, perfectly shaped and impeccably complete. I will stare at it, trying to discern flaws, trying to find something to grab on to, something to change. Eventually, I'll tire and grudgingly allow it to remain.

But more often than not, the sentence is not perfect. And then it becomes an endless puzzle, with pieces that can be rearranged and changed and made to fit together. I spend so much more time editing than writing. I'll swap words, change the tense, change the focus of the sentence, play with verbs, tease the adjectives. I'm doing it now as I'm writing this entry. There's a reason why the Space and the Backspace on my keyboard have shiny, bald spots on them. I just can't let it go. How does one settle on a single word when there are so many to choose from?

I don't do well with having choices. Too many choices and I get lost and stressed. Too many images, too many words, too much freedom. I need walls and boundaries and confining circumstances. I need constraints and then I can channel all my energy at breaking them down. Give me all the freedom in the world and I fall apart, mired in confusion.

Tell me to write on the most boring and limiting topic and I'll jump at the challenge, infusing even the dullest concept with humor or passion or caustic sarcasm. But tell me to write whatever I want on any subject and I'll end as I often begin, with a blank page.