I never thought of myself as particularly helpless or weak-willed.  In fact, most people who know me will describe me as determined, sometimes almost to the point of single-mindedness.  Control freak has been used as a description more than once.  I like to be in control - of myself, of the situation, even of others on occasion.

I've never tried illicit drugs not out of some sort of a moral conviction, but out of sheer fear of losing control and being unable to regain it at will.

Willingly giving up control is different. I can and have done that, but finding myself without the ability to regain control is something I don't like to think about.  And so it's all the more galling that I can't seem to gain control over a habit I have.

I hate it.  I hate the sense that something is stronger than my determination.  There's no medication that can help, no X-step program, there's nothing except me and my utter inability to exercise the self-control necessary to stop doing it.

Why don't I just stop?  It's not because I can't.  I'm at least honest enough to admit that.  I don't stop because I don't have to.  I've overcome and conquered challenges before because I had to.  Because it wasn't a choice, it was a matter of survival at least on some level.  In this case, I should do it, I should kick the habit, but I don't have to.

And so I choose not to.

Books and life

I read a book today...

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I swallowed it; devouring pages, choking on the sentences, gulping air in between carefully crafted words and phrases.

It was a difficult book.  A fact that didn't escape my notice back when I first lifted it off the shelf.  The bland description on the back cover hinted, oh so beguilingly, at unseen horrors within and yet the calm and serene cover seemed to promise restitution.  Read me, it seemed to whisper, you may suffer in the process but all will be well in the end.

Seduced by the lovely prose and by the implied promise of happily ever after I picked it up and began to read.

There is no happily ever after.  Just as life tends to provide questions rather than answers, so did this book.  The horror within blossomed, dark and incomprehensible, made all the more poignantly personal by the child's name... Kate. Reading it was like walking along the precipice, knowing you're going to slip down into the yawning abyss but hoping you're wrong.  And as the book unfolded you would admit to yourself that you aren't wrong.

I'd like to say that the book was ultimately uplifting, that it brought comfort and deliverance along with its exquisite pain, but that would be inventing my own ending.

As most good books do, this one left richly painted and complex characters suffering in the wake of the last page closing.  What made it so solid and real is precisely why there could be no happy resolution, no neat tying up of loose ends, no promise of absolute answers. 

Real life carries no promises of happy resolutions to our own personal versions of hell and this book was nothing less than real in all its terrifying and inexplicable monstrosity.

A "not good" day...

This will not be a good day...

I can already feel it and it's not even 10am. My skin feels prickly with dread of a wasted heap of hours before me. I keep catching myself tightening my jaws and grinding my teeth and the fact that I keep doing it is irritating me, leading to more tightening and grinding.

My hands are shaky and want to be let loose on the keyboard but whatever I let them type today will be drivel and I hold them back, feeling prickly irritation flow from the fingertips up through the arms. My shoulders are tense and the worst part of all, the way I know for certain that this will not be a good day is that I can feel my collar.

Usually it's a comfort, a reassuring metal band locked around my neck, heavy enough to stay put, light enough to never remove. But on days like today, I can feel it tightening, pressing on my throat. It isn't, of course it isn't. It's just me, it's the tension, the straining of muscles that makes the skin hypersensitive and turns the collar from a comforting presence into a choking warning to relax.

Except that I can't relax. I don't know what's bothering me, but it's getting worse by the minute and it'll keep getting worse, crushing all my attempts at concentration on my reading or my chores or anything else I would normally be doing today. Music isn't helping, coffee isn't helping, being in a place I love is having no effect. It's the fight or flight tension except I can't pick which one I want to do. And I don't think either one will help.

This will not be a good day.

Dinner Party

Laura taps her fingers distractedly on the table and sneaks a glance at her watch. She picks up her fork and puts it back down again. Her mouth-watering plate of pasta has by now solidified into an unappetizing blob. She picks a bread roll and starts tearing it into tiny bits. She has to tell him. She was planning on telling him tonight but then Carrie called and she sounded so miserable that somehow Laura found herself inviting her along. And now, look at the three of them, sitting there in awkward silence, making strained conversation on topics none of them care much about. Killing time and, to Laura’s annoyance, killing Laura’s resolve.

Maybe I can just write it all out in a letter, she thinks in sudden inspiration. But she and Mark have never been a letter writing couple. To start now would be fake and somehow dishonest. Oh why, why did Carrie have to come along tonight?

~*~*~*~*~

Mark stabs his chicken, trying to avoid looking at his almost full plate. Somewhere between getting to the restaurant and seeing Carrie rush to their table, a halo of copper corkscrew curls framing her face, he lost his appetite. The plate of Chicken Saltimbocca is marooned before him, the formerly succulent meat congealing in a cooling puddle as his stomach gives another lurch.

Why didn’t Carrie come before he ordered dinner? The guilt of eating “flesh”, as she calls it, in front of her is making him irritable and hungry with no desire to keep eating. Why didn’t she come on time for once? He could have ordered a salad and… He feels his neck flush a dull red as he throws a nervous glance at Laura but she’s not watching him. She doesn’t know. Of course she doesn’t know.

~*~*~*~*~

Carrie picks delicately at her beet and arugula salad. A piece of gorgonzola cheese slips out of fork’s reach and the tines skid on a patch of oil, dislodging a leaf onto the crisp white tablecloth. She picks it up without really looking, her eyes glazed with disappointment. She was so hoping for a long chat with Laura, how stupid of her not to have listened when Laura suggested dinner together. She must have mentioned that Mark would be there. She must have. Lately she could never seem to get Laura on her own. She was busy with work or at the gym or planning outings with Mark. Carrie bites her lip, trying to stop the hot pressure behind her eyelids from resolving itself in a flood down her flushed cheeks.

She hates feeling so weak and needy, but damn it, Laura was her friend well before she even met Mark. Carrie wills the tears back and grits her teeth. Is there a way to suggest dessert but make it clear that Mark isn’t invited? She has to talk to Laura, she has to tell her what she’s decided, what she’s finally come to realize. She has to…

~*~*~*~*~

“May I take this for you, sir?” Mira is already reaching past the man’s arm to remove the barely touched food. This does not look like a successful meal and she sighs. She can already see the look of disgust and annoyance on Alberto’s face when she'll bring the plates back. Alberto hates when food makes its way back into his pristine kitchen. He always takes it as a personal affront and then takes his anger out on the hapless servers. Maybe I can sneak it past the sous chef, she thinks in sudden inspiration. Get Pietro to dump it before Alberto goes ballistic that one of his personal favorites was mangled and left to dry almost whole. Mira sighs and bites her lip. I don’t need this tonight and I bet the tips will be lousy.

“Would anyone care for some dessert?” she hazards, fairly certain of the answer but still hoping she can salvage Alberto’s mood and her tips by suggesting the chocolate soufflé.

“No,” the man is abrupt, pushing his chair back from the table and fishing in his pocket as if to pay. Mira’s face is impassive, her hand already reaching into the pocket of her black apron for the check. Definitely a lousy tip, the guy looks pissed off.

“Actually,” the red haired woman shakes back her curls and dimples up at Mira, giving her a sweetly shy smile, “Actually, I’d love some dessert.”

The other woman looks up in surprise, her fingers stilling for a moment as her eyes travel between her dining companions and up to Mira’s face. She looks lost, as if unsure of why she’s still sitting at the table.

Mira halts, glancing from one diner to another. The man is already on his feet but he’s not looking at either of the women. His face has a closed off look that Mira has long learned to recognize as that of someone who has already left the restaurant in mind if not in body.

“I’ll give you a minute?” Mira allows the end of the sentence to trail off just enough to spur a response.

“No, it’s all right,” the dark-haired woman speaks, her voice growing more assured with each word now that a decision has been reached.

She turns to address the man, “Mark, you go on home. Take the car,” she hands him the keys, pressing them into his hand when he looks like he’s about to sit back down.

“Go on, you said you had some work you wanted to catch up on. Carrie can give me a ride home later.” She looks at her friend whose face lights up as she nods.

“Just go.” Her tone is impassive and she is not looking at the man anymore. Instead, she turns to Mira and gives her a dazzling smile.

“How is your chocolate soufflé?”

Hands

Hands… Touching, caressing, gripping, pushing, hitting, pulling, soothing.

Do they ever do something on their own? Something unexpected? Something you thought they didn’t have in them? Gripping hard enough to cause pain when all you intended is a firm touch? Does it seem sometimes that anger and frustration flows directly from your heart to your hands, bypassing your brain?

Ever wonder how hands can be so expressive without your permission? Ever sit on your hands to stop them from shaking while you pretend to be brave and not care that the world is crumbling all around you? Ever reach for something even when you knew you shouldn’t? Ever force your hands to slip something into your pocket and walk away pretending it didn’t really happen?

Ever have your hands tell you something before your eyes did? Hands breaking out in cold sweat a moment before you saw the car in front of you stop suddenly as you were still reaching for the brake pedal. Did you really think the rash blossoming on the delicate inner wrist was just an allergy? Was it?

Touch… welcomed, desired, rejected, indifferent. Or lack of it. Which is more painful? My hand gripping yours; unable to hold on, unable to let go. Hugs, handshakes, waves, hands talking without ever saying a word. Can you control what your hands say or do? Would you even want to?

Unusual Pet

Not sure which blog this story belongs on... Let's see how it does here. As always, comments are welcome and appreciated.

------------------------------

The play of wooden wind chimes from his dream translated into persistent knocking on the front door as Richard reluctantly opened his eyes. For a moment all was quiet and then the knocking started again, more determined than before. Grumbling, he pulled on a pair of sweats and glanced at the alarm clock. Two thirty in the morning.

“Someone better be dead, Kira,” he growled, opening the front door.

The woman on his doorstep attempted a smile but what came out was a tightly twisted grimace.

“Oh, I hope so,” was all she said, pushing past him into the house.

Before he could say anything, she turned to face him.

“The bastard had a heart attack,” she spit the words out, hands balled into fists at her sides. “He’s in intensive care and mother insists I come immediately. He couldn’t just die and get it over with, could he?”

She rubbed her arms for warmth and glared at him, “Anyway, you know how my mother gets, so I have to go…” She muttered something unintelligible under her breath.

“Kira, you could tell her, you know,” he attempted. “If she knew what he did…”

“Stop it, Rick, “ she cut him off, waving her hand, “I’m not having another one of those ‘truth is best’ conversations now. This is between me and that bastard and anyway, that’s not why I’m here.” She inhaled and continued, “I need a favor…”

In spite of himself, Richard grinned. Kira’s fiery nature was one of the reasons he fell in love with her even when she told him straight out that he had the wrong plumbing. The two became friends and Richard ended up on the receiving end of many rants involving Kira’s father, or “the bastard” as she referred to him.

“A favor?” Richard’s grin widened, “Do ask…”

Kira set her jaw and glared at him, “I hate asking.”

“Yes, I know.”

Kira turned and prowled around the living room, picking things up and putting them back down. Finally, she stalked back to where Richard was leaning against the wall.

“I have…” she hesitated, searching for the right word, “a pet that needs looking after. I’ll only be gone for a couple of days, three max, but I can’t leave Sephi alone. I need someone to stay at my place during the day and look after her.”

Richard raised an eyebrow, but Kira continued, “You can write from anywhere, right? I have WiFi, food, coffee… You can bring your laptop and you can even sleep there if you want. God knows it’s warmer than this icebox you call home.” She shivered, waiting for his reply.

Richard frowned, “No offense, K, but does your kitty need a constant companion? Can’t I just drop in during the day and feed it or change the litter?”

For the first time that night, Kira’s expression cleared and she gave him a dazzling smile, “I didn’t say Sephi was a cat… Look,” she added before he could interrupt. “Just promise me you’ll do it and I’ll leave you to get back to sleep.”

He opened his mouth to protest but Kira had already seen the agreement in his eyes.

“Great,” she leaned in to give him a quick hug. “Feeding and care instructions are on the kitchen table. I’ll give you a call tonight to see how you’re getting on. Thanks!” and with that she was out the door, leaving him holding a key to her loft.

Driving to Kira’s loft the next morning he tried to recall any previous mention of a pet but came up with nothing. Shrugging, he concentrated instead on the problem with his current freelance assignment.

Still deep in thought, he opened the door and heard rather than felt his breath leaving in a hiss. Folders and papers slowly tumbled from his nerveless fingers as he contemplated the incomprehensible image before him.

In the middle of a sparsely furnished living room, on a soft Persian rug, stood a giant folding dog cage. Its occupant appeared to be asleep on a dark mauve cushion. As he cautiously approached the cage, the oak planks creaked and he stopped. The naked girl in the cage lifted her head and tilting it to the side, regarded him. Arching her back, she stretched gracefully and sat up. The tight black leather collar gleamed darkly against the pale skin. The name tag read Sephi.

“Uhhhm…” he swallowed, “Uhhm, I’m Rick. I…”

“Meow,” said Sephi.

No name

Blue eyes, caramel blond hair, heart shaped face. Bored expression of a seven year old playing reluctant witness to adult conversation she doesn't understand. Unwilling to stay, unable to leave. Too old to play in the kids' corner of the quiet cafe, too young to be allowed to wander off on her own. Harassed mother on one side, sleeping baby brother on the other, pile of papers on the table, and across it a pair of strangers talking about boring things like mortgage and inspection. This isn't how she pictured a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Sunlight filters through the window and she shifts on the padded bench, watching as the sparkly sequins on her jeans catch the light and wink at her. The strangers across the table ignore her, intent on the papers and her mother's droning voice. She's not used to being ignored, although with Billy's birth it's been happening more often. She sighs and twirls the tiny silver heart charm on her bracelet. She reaches for a pen lying forgotten on the table, but her mothers snatches it back, glaring at her and simultaneously smiling at the other couple.

She shifts again, trying to get comfortable and bumps the table, earning another glare. Now the other woman looks at her and gives her a bright fake smile.

"Are you bored, honey?"

She scowls back and mumbles, "No." The mother sighs, a familiar sound of frustration.

"Why don't you go play in the kids' corner? We'll be done here soon."

She looks at her mother, incredulous. The kids' corner is for little kids. She doesn't want to play there. Tears of frustration and anger well up and she's about to protest when she realizes that the door is right next to the toybox. Sliding out from behind the table, she wanders over to the toys and glances back. Her mother is pulling Billy's carrier closer, obliterating the space where she sat just a moment ago and is already back deep in conversation.

She pauses then slowly pushes open the door and steps outside. Through the glass door she can see her mother and the other couple. Her mother is talking and smiling, not looking at her, unaware she's no longer there.

She sits down on the steps outside, warmth of early spring sun making up for the chill of the breeze. Shivering, she hugs her knees and watches as the cars pass by. Some pull into the supermarket lot next door, others just head past. Across the street, on the soccer field an impromptu game is in full swing. She watches, twirling a strand of caramel blond hair.

A car pulls to a stop and the passenger side window slowly rolls down. A little pug pokes its head out, sneezing and she laughs, delighted.

"Hey, you look bored." The driver leans across the passenger seat and smiles at her. "I'm going to the park," he gestures up the hill toward the park with her favorite playground. "Wanna come along? You can play with Lucy here. She loves kids."

She hesitates for a moment and the little dog gives an encouraging bark, wagging its tail. She looks back at the cafe. Her mother is gesticulating with her hands, her face animated and as the girl watches, the mother throws back her head and laughs.

"Ok," she's already pulling open the car door even as the word falls from her lips. The door slams, the window rolls back up and the car pulls away.

The mother looks up, "Becky?"

Birthday wishes

Birthdays come with obligatory good wishes...

Putting aside the truly memorable birthday card from J which had me in tears, the rest were of the more expected variety. Among the most often repeated ones were wishes of everything I would wish for myself, wishes of happiness and health, long life, peace of mind, etc.

I tend not to dwell on these things; people wish others what they wish for themselves, but the many wishes of happiness got me thinking of what happiness for me would be. I used to think of happiness as a goal - something to strive for and, no pun intended, be happy once you've attained it.

I look at myself in the mirror and I'm not the person I used to be but I'm also not the person I want to be. I don't think I'll ever get there. No, I'm not being a pessimist or even a perfectionist. Perhaps a better way of putting it is that I don't ever want to get to the point of where I am exactly who I want to be.

I've gotten what I thought would make me happy before and those of you who know me will remember just how badly that went. I'm just not someone who can be happy without constantly being challenged and striving for something more. Stability and a "settled" life just aren't going to happen. My definition of happiness may be unconventional, but conforming to other people's definitions hasn't gone so well for me.

So to all the well-wishers out there... In this new life I'm crafting now, my fondest wish for myself is that I never run out of walls to scale and dragons to slay.

And now for something totally different...

"But what is to become of me now that you've had your sport and grown tired?"

"Your fate is of your concern and yours alone."

"And the child?" She stops, her hand resting of its own accord on the burgeoning belly, entreating him to stay.

"You must do as you see fit. A child was never meant to result." He turns to the door, his hand on the heavy door knob.

"Your heir..." She begins again.

He interrupts, fury shading the words, blackening his face as he speaks. "I have my heir! Just as I have a wedded wife or have you forgotten? I care naught for the babe you carry, for all your pretty words and honeyed promises the seed that begot it could have come from many but me."

She shrinks back, her face a mask of humility while her mind races. She had been so certain that she had only to fall with child and he would stay. And should she bear a boy, find a way to acknowledge him, and her, in time.

He is fastening his coat as she follows him into the yard. The snow that began to drift from the menacing clouds earlier in the day when he arrived had grown into a heavy lace curtain covering the ground, burying all traces of his footsteps.

She looks up at the slate grey sky and at the bare branches extending their cold forlorn limbs in shaking supplication for a comforting blanket of snow. He is pulling on the thick leather gloves and reaching for the reigns. She notes that he did not ride Blackwell, his favorite, today. This horse is grey with a flowing white mane and a plain nondescript saddle. Less noticeable, less likely to be remembered, a nameless creature from his vast stables.

Already he's distancing himself from me, she thinks and suddenly knows that he will not return. He came to make clear that all between them is over, to remind her of her place and, she thinks, of his.

Her hand drifts again to her belly, to the straining apron and caresses the outlines of the heavy dressmaker's shears. The shears she dropped in its folds in haste hours ago when she sprang up from her sewing upon hearing the horse's hooves on the cobblestones. Her fingers close and tighten on the ornate handles as her hand reenters the snowy gloom, scarcely visible in the rapidly descending twilight.

He turns to the horse, hand on the saddle, one foot already in stirrup. He would leave without a farewell. The warm glow spilling from the house illuminates the bulky calfskin pouch on his waist and without hesitation she steps forward, arms raised as if for a hug before the shears sink into the doughy softness of his neck.

The child will be his heir after all.

What if...?

What if ... ?

What if I had never met J?

What if I had never had Katie?

What if I had not terminated my first pregnancy?

What if I had not cared so much about getting married?

What if I had asked questions about what I want earlier?

What if I had gone on to Law School?

What if I had not gained all that weight as a teenager?

What if I had not lost every shred of self-confidence?

So many possible turning points but impossible to predict which would have led to a different life. Perhaps all. Perhaps none. Perhaps no matter what choices I made I would have ended up in the same place I am now.

But if that were true, then why make choices at all? Because it can't be true? Because not making a choice is also making a choice?

Why ask 'what ifs' about the past? So as not to repeat it? But we never repeat the past anyway. Even if we make the same mistakes we've made time and time again, each mistake results in a different set of consequences so are the mistakes the same? What if the next time you make the same mistake it turns into the best thing you've ever done? Is it still a mistake?

Why ask 'what ifs' about the future? Is there a finite number of 'what ifs'? Can you imagine all of them? Is it a bit like imagining every possible catastrophe that can befall your loved ones and grasp the irrational belief that if you imagine it all in your mind it won't happen in real life?

If you could ask every possible 'what if' and imagine every possible set of consequences for each, would you be any better equipped to make a decision? Would you know what to do or would you discover that you've spent hours and days and years asking questions without any hope of finding answers instead of taking the plunge?

Everything happens... not for a reason, not by design, not even through any predetermined actions on our parts. Everything happens and if you can accept that, then you can move on and face each day as what it is - a brand new day that can bring everything.

You can't force a square peg into a round hole...

I've always wondered about that, actually.

I remember hearing that phrase as a child and of course, taking it literally. I spent hours, or at least what felt like hours, puzzling over it. I didn't really have handy holes for experiments but I did have building blocks and I remember sitting on the floor of the room I shared with my younger brother, holding one of those square blocks, turning it over and over in my hands and trying to figure out why it wouldn't fit into a round hole. My thought being, if the hole was big enough to fit around the four corners, why can't it be done?

I don't think I ever resolved the conundrum then and I was too embarrassed by my inability to understand it to ask someone for an explanation. Years have passed and I haven't thought about that phrase until it suddenly popped into my head tonight.

I'm having trouble falling asleep and anyone who knows me will know just how unlike me that is. I lied in bed until I just couldn't take it anymore and then I got up, curled up on the couch and just as I was turning on the TV to whatever inanity happens to be on around midnight on a Friday night, it was as if someone whispered in my ear, "You can't force a square peg into a round hole".

If I were inclined to flights of fancy (which I often am), I would say that it was my subconscious offering an explanation for my frustration and stress. But at what point does having expectations and have them go unfulfilled morphs into trying to force something into a place it was never meant to go?

I never found the answer to the original puzzle and now I find myself in exactly the same situation... twirling the pieces in my hands and with no one to ask for answers.

Music

Music frequently helps me concentrate. I have playlists for reading and for writing and even for work. When I'm really engrossed in a task, the music becomes part of the background, gently sliding in and out of my conscience; a trusted friend keeping me company.

But occasionally the synthesis just doesn't happen. The rhythm is all wrong or the songs come up in an unexpected order, jarring me in all the wrong places. Then I find myself becoming more and more irritated and the more attention I pay to the discords the worse it gets. I'll tut and drum my fingers and try to force my thoughts to cooperate, but the effort is wasted. The words don't come, reading won't jell, mistakes will hide in the half-completed e-mails.

Usually at this point I'll give up with a final snort of anger and frustration. I've never been very good at persevering. When everything comes easily or at least feels like it does, you don't learn to push through the resistance. It's too easy to just give up and flounce off in a fit of pique, blaming someone or something else for things not going right.

But not today... no, today I was determined to write something, even if it's just a couple of paragraphs on why I'm not writing and here it is. You've just read it. The thoughts are still not jelling and the music is still all wrong and there's someone with a hyena laugh a table away and yet, I'm going to harness my stubbornness and keep writing.

Maybe it will be another blog post, maybe a story, maybe a sketch that no one will ever see, but I will keep writing until I'm sure that I'm stopping because I've found something better to do and not because I'm just being lazy or unmotivated.

Evening of unladylike pursuits

As I'm writing this, I'm drunk. Not "falling down the stairs, wake up puking next to a strange guy the next day" kind of drunk, but drunk for my standards. My fingers feel unwieldy and unpleasantly uncooperative and my smile is involuntary, spreading across my face whether I want to be grinning or not. I've spent the last couple of hours at John Harvard's and as the evening's goal was to get drunk, I can testify to having achieved it quite admirably.

I downed the first G&T as quickly as I could manage and on a fairly empty stomach, thereby ensuring that I'll get the mellow buzz as soon as possible. Still, it didn't come fast enough and so after some consideration I ordered a second one, all the while knowing that while one might not be enough, the second will almost certainly put me over the edge of comfortably buzzed and smack into the "don't walk without assistance" territory.

Still, I needed to disconnect my brain and this was the only certain way I know to do that. That or hypnosis and I'm crap at hypnosis. Even worse than I am at being a responsible drunk. Isn't a "responsible drunk" an oxymoron?

So, two glasses of G&T, made with the wonderfully smooth Hendrick's Gin, later and an ice cream sundae with all the trimmings, I was mellow to the point of no return. It would have been a good time to leave and let someone else occupy my seat at the bar except that I was quite literally unable to stand up. Staggering is one thing, not being able to tell the difference between the floor and the ceiling is a bit more of a problem, especially out in public.

Remaining at the bar appeared to be the only option and so I stayed put, perched somewhat precariously on the all too tall stool, rereading portion of the Story of O. Perhaps not a book to read in public at a bar as one "concerned" citizen remarked, a scant moment before asking whether it would be too presumptuous to ask me to read aloud. I demurred, explaining that slurring such beautiful language would be a sacrilege. For a moment, it seemed like he would press his luck but the steadying influence of his more reserved and clearly more sober friend won over and he left me and my book in peace.

After another half an hour I felt brave enough to attempt standing up and stumbling over to the door. Thankfully I was wearing my usual high heels rather than sneakers. No way I would have been able to keep my balance otherwise. As far as sneakers, or any other type of flat shoes for that matter, are concerned, I'm definitely still in training. Five inch heels are another matter though and so I made my way safely out into the cool evening air.

Out the door and into the nearby Michael's arts and crafts store. Isle after isle of craft supplies and not a thimble in sight. Yes, I was looking for thimbles. Finally, with the assistance of a surly girl whose goals in life clearly did not include helping inebriated customers, I did locate two varieties of thimbles. Armed with my purchase, I slowly and carefully made my way to the other side of the shopping center to the safe haven of the Barnes & Noble bookstore. Whereupon, armed with much needed caffeine, I settled down to my laptop and the writing of these random ramblings.

Evening's goals accomplished; gently pickled brain and all.

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.

-----------------------------
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.

Books...

Books, books, books... Almost always fiction, but even in that narrowly segregated world there is so much variety. Historical fiction, contemporary, chick lit, drama, 'Oprah book club' drivel, mystery, horror, cloyingly sweet romance, and everything in-between. Humorous, heart-wrenchingly sad, breathtakingly engaging, inane, boring, clumsy, exquisitely crafted.

Every time I walk into a book store I have to suppress the quickening breath of excitement. It never dulls, that feeling of stumbling into a cave of treasures. And yet, a truer comparison would be that of walking through a flea market - stalls filled with garishly worthless objects that you have to sieve through in order to maybe, maybe stumble across one real treasure.

Is there any worse disappointment than investing your hopes and time into reading a book that never quite lives up to the potential you thought you saw in it? It happens to me more often than I like to admit, but I never get used to it. When I have time, I'll browse and collect five, six, seven books at a time. I never read the first page. Instead, I'll read the description and ignore other people's comments. Then, I'll open a page at random, usually near the middle and start reading. One paragraph, two. I'll do it with all the books in the stack, slowly dividing them into "yes", "no", and "maybe" piles. When I buy the book and read it, I'll come to the already familiar passage in the middle of the book, and always I'll experience a vertiginous sense of deja vu even though in the back of my mind I know I should expect it.

It's rare that I leave the book store without at least one new find. I'll go through multiple piles of books, but if I have time, I'll keep sifting until I find at least one to walk out of the store with me. But even more disappointing than not finding anything are the times when having been seduced by a sentence or a word or a thread of a story, I'll choose the book and, upon reading it, discover that the seduction was fleeting and the rest of the book is as mundane as the lives many of us are escaping when we read.

It is rare that I'll give up on a book I chose myself. I'll buy a book for the language even if the topic doesn't interest me, but so often I've regretted buying books for the topic when I knew, deep inside, that the language was awkward. I'll admit it, I like a pretty turn of phrase and sentences that have a rhythm to them, be it gentle or striding. I like language that flows and carries the story but so often I've found a good story spoiled as it fights its way through jumbled up words and broken snippets.

I've read books that have made me cry on and off for hours as I've turned the pages and books that made my heart melt with love and joy. I've read books that made me want to scream with frustration and books that left me feeling as if I need to wash my hands after finishing them. I've read books I couldn't wait to finish and fling away and books I couldn't wait to pick up again and read over and over.

I love words and stories and books... and in that deep, abiding love lies the secret to why I've never seriously tried writing and getting published. I know what it's like to pick up a book, fight through dozens and maybe hundreds of pages to like it and ultimately close the last page and be disappointed. I know what it's like to open a book and get lost in its world to the point where when the real world intrudes, your impulse is to push it away and retreat back into the crisp white pages. I know the feeling of the unread pages melting away as the book speeds to its end and wanting to know how the story concludes and yet yearning for it to never end.

And so to anyone who has the temerity to ask, I say... I will not write for a wider audience because I love words and stories and books.

Inertia

I enjoy writing. I wouldn't do it if I didn't.

I enjoy knowing that someone somewhere may be looking at and reading what I write. And in principle, that would seem to be enough to guarantee that I'll write with some regularity. And yet...

I just can't seem to get motivated to do it. Every evening when I finally have time to myself, time to think and write in peace, I balk at it. The excuses begin forming in my head even before the thought of writing has surfaced.

"I'm too tired..."
"I'm not in the mood to write..."
"I don't know what to write about..."
"I am just not feeling motivated..."
And the ultimate excuse, "I'll write tomorrow."

And then before I know it, a great weariness and inertia set in and I'm watching TV or reading or grudgingly working... Anything but writing.

And the irony of it is, most of the time, if I force myself to do it, I can manage to come up with something worth reading. An essay, a rant, a story, even a lone, beautifully crafted sentence. When I try, I can usually break through the barrier, but I don't try. Instead, I indulge in a sniff of self-pity and fob it off with whatever excuse happens to be handy.

Except for nights like tonight... Nights when I force myself and kick at the barrier and write. Write something. Write anything worth reading.

Changes... oh, so many changes.

Every day when I open my favorite websites, this blog is among them. I open it as a reminder to start writing again and every day I guiltily scoot past it, glancing at its browser tab and shifting my gaze to the next tab to avoid thinking about just how far behind I've fallen in updating it.

So much has changed in my life since my last post and so many changes are ahead in the near future. It's hard to fathom restarting the blog and trying to explain the sequence of events that led to where I am today. Of course, there's always the option of starting a new blog, and I will start a new one, but one to run in parallel with this one, not to replace it.

In trying to figure out how to restart my blog I have come up with a 'middle of the road' solution. I'm not going to go into a lengthy treatise about how and why I got to where I am today and I'm not going to just skip to today and pretend I've been here all along. Instead, I'll do a quick rundown of where I was when the last entry was written and where I am today. As for where I'll be in the future, that's a matter for future posts.

My last entry is from May 15th, 2008. At the time I was married and living the generally acknowledged yuppie paradise - husband, child, house, car, beloved cat, job, and money. My present and future by all accounts was something most people would kill for and probably had. And yet, I was unhappy and grasping at straws to find a reason to get up most mornings.

Today's entry is six months later, almost to the day... I'm in the middle of an exceptionally amicable divorce from my husband who is still my friend. I have moved out of the house and into a lovely condo, taking my books, my clothes and my cat. I still have my job (which I love) and my car (which I have a healthy respect for) and most mornings I wake up so deliriously happy that it feels as if I'm waking up into a dream.

I'm restarting my blog for a couple of reasons... One, because I expect and hope for a lot more changes in the months and years to come and this is one way for me to parse my thoughts. And two, because I'm starting another blog alongside this one and this is one way of introducing it. To see my new blog, look for the link on the right hand side in the section entitled "My other life".

Like I said, the two blogs will run somewhat in parallel which seems only fitting since my two lives run in parallel as well. Happy reading!