...delusion

I find it interesting that the more I give voice and expression to my aberrant life, the more often I hear the echo of people around me shouting, “Me too!” This commonality is an added incentive for me to mold our shared delusion into a lovely reality.

Reality Bite: It’s another way to face a day in a voluntary internment.

I thought my writing would be different from those writers who just can’t resist the opportunity to wail and rant about their tumultuous life to the world. My writing would not be a desperate attempt at validation, but would act as more of a pressure vent—a diffuser of the silent scream, that threatens to break loose from the quiet corners of my simmering sanity.

I must resist the temptation to act like a desperate child seeking attention (of any kind), but worse, I worry that I resemble a Hollywood publicity agent in search of fame and notoriety. I try to remind myself that bad publicity of any kind… is just bad.

I envisioned my trials acting as a signpost on the road to self-discovery, but instead of a mere warning, my mistakes are broadcast the size of a billboard. My exploits have a good chance at ending up on the front cover of the weekly tabloid along with the three-headed snake and its pet alien. In this era of electronic media, I risk my craziness being lubed and utubed to internet sites so millions have a permanent public record of my inanities.

I am convinced that if I write my stories with taste and tact, I should be able to turn the spotlight off me and toward a beacon of hope to the future. Let’s just say I’m busy living the title of this chapter.

Reality Bite: And the final slap, most public figures still have to do laundry.

To me:
Midnight is the time to do laundry. It’s a time that best supports the delusion that I might actually catch up while no one is awake and doing their best to create more dirty laundry … unless someone wets the bed. On and on, never ending, forever, T.

…midst chaos

To: washn@wipe.out
In between bouts of writing, I’m fixing more PBJ sandwiches, washing clothes, and chasing the declawed cat back outside as the humane society frowns. As I watch out the window, she terrorizes the neighborhood dogs, kills birds, moles and frogs and then meows piteously for me to rescue her from atop the roof. From my little corner… Terina

I’ve discovered that work-at-home bodies survive this way—amidst interruption.[1] ADD is no longer a disability, but a cultivated, coping skill. When someone needs fed, they stop and sandwich the bill paying, potty training and other nasty realities of life between some great slices of productivity and inspiration.

To: queenbee@bug.out@queen.bee
Today’s inspiration came while I was cleaning the bathroom with both hands in the toilet and by the time I detoxified myself and returned to the writing, the muse had eloped with my memory and I am forced begin anew. Thinking of you, Terina

Writing is so much like that toilet scrubbing. It's never easy for me. I know that sitting, perched at the edge of my mind is a bit of beautiful, therapeutic peace just balancing out there—tantalizing, swinging just out of range and each time I reach out to captivate and write, it slips away. I make one final leap as it swings my way but when I take captive triumphantly, it’s nothing but net.

Reality Bite: Magnet games on the fridge are a form of writing.

[1] The husband reassures me that “work-at-work” bodies exist the same.

…hystoria

Dear Me,

One year ago today, I was lazing on a beach in Maui. Today I'm stuck sideways in the driveway with a vehicle full of chicken tortilla soup.

By full, I mean oozing, surging from one end to the other due to a precipitous traffic stop. It is parked sideways to assure a downhill slant so the schmooze would ooze out sideways. The van is dead because as I cleaned it, I listened to the radio and consequently, it will no longer start.

I am scheduled to be somewhere this morning and be somewhere else again this afternoon. Life doesn't stop just because your vehicle does.

I can best this quandary. I will drive the other vehicle, even though it is blocked in the driveway by the dead one. I’m just pondering the consequences of crashing through the six foot fence and driving across my neighbor’s back yard and through her geraniums. Would that make my day worse?

I could be in Maui, T.

The purpose of my journal writing is to construct a careful wall of rationalization for the inanity[2] of my day and  with that protective barrier in place, I can cautiously peek over the fortification and focus to the future. As flimsy as this façade appears, it shelters my outlook and that makes life more manageable.[3]  Later, when I read what I write and probe the inner depths then I can use that enlightenment to refine my actions—or I could, or should, if I would.

__________________________________________________________
Dear Me,

I just watched a T.V. special on the manipulation of documentaries (another of the children’s homework assignments). What I learned was that documentaries are still somebody’s opinion of truth, even if they are based on fact. This may still be up to some debate.  After all, I was watching a documentary. T

I know that truth isn’t truth just because I said it happened, wrote it down and then had it made it into a movie. As I noted in the previous book, there is no time when I am writing truth about my extemporaneous[1] life; rather it’s only my perception of truth at that moment. (The children and the husband made me insert that disclaimer early on. Whew! I'm off the hook!)

So that’s where I’m at, writing my own personal truths and using my skewed reality to put a positive spin on my delusions. I have been known to embellish somewhat, but most of what I write has its beginning based on fact, sick as that may seem.

 I’m aiming for writings of a historical nature, with truth directly in my sights. I only tweek the angle slightly, though in literary circles my target might be called hysterical fiction. Whatever it ends up being, That’s My Life.

Reality Bite: History and mystery?

[1] performed with no forethought, note or plan.
[2] Close to insanity, but not quite.
[3] It’s a lot to expect, but my conclusion is, “That’s Life; Get over it.”