More than once in the bedlam of life, I pause midst the turmoil and dream of the calm respite and peace of a sanatorium. In my mind’s eye I can picture it, a scene of serenity—of oblivion, a fluffy white robe and solicitous persons wheeling me about in a garden of quiet fog. I envision a peaceful existence far, far away from the cares and concerns of a life careening out of control. I can almost hear the music of songbirds in the distance…
Dear Me, Today, it’s the squawk and screech of two boys chasing a bird loose in the house, flapping about hither and thither while the stereo blasts and teenage girls dance over my head to a television, telephone and doorbell accompaniment.[1] Manic me, T.
What would be the downside of having myself committed for a week or two? I hear stories from the mother-in-law when she was a nurse, of a woman who was admitted to the hospital for a week’s stay…with her sewing machine. Her physician’s order was to serve her food and leave her alone. Why not me? I’m already a prisoner of my own volition—I deserve the sentence because I committed the crime—children. I brought them on myself.
Whenever my world is at its wildest, I imagine a reprieve. It doesn’t have to be in the form of full clemency, but just enough to grant me a momentary glimpse of peace—a respite from the iconoclastic[2] world of progeny. I need to be bored again with life… if only for just a moment!
[1] The internal debate topic today is: electricity, curse or blessing.
[2] One who seeks to overthrow traditional institutions. (so appropriate here)
Showing posts with label Cpt 1: Asylum. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cpt 1: Asylum. Show all posts
Friday
Monday
…steep
Life has not always been so chaotic. There was a time in the not so distant past when women spent part of each day loosening the pull strings of their taut bag of burdens over a nice hot cup of peace in the next-door neighbor’s kitchen.
Today, it feels that I am left alone to stuff my own bag with a mélange of calming curatives and coping strategies that promise to soothe and ease the stressors of everyday life. Of the many varied therapies that purport to calm, appease and relieve, I’ve selected journaling as my new panacea.
To: allandsundry@blog.out
Hey everybody, the quest today is to find humor in the Grape Nuts[1] glued to the kitchen table by the puddle of maple syrup dripping off the edge and onto the floor. The diapered culprit sits in the middle of the mess, with his chubby legs in the air yelling, “Ouch! Mommy, Help!” Love ya, sticky, icky Me
Reality Bite: Humor can’t come until the mop-up is done.
When the scum of life’s toughest situations float to the top of the simmering pot, rather than let it boil over, I vent—on paper. Then, when I return back to a slow simmer, I can amend the tirades and I send them off to other persons steeped in similar stews. This is my way to succor others, like the wise women from the not-so-distant past who knew the risks and perils of trying to float alone on this roiling boil.
My notes and conversations are not intended as personal satire, (because satire requires wit) but as observations of life and an analysis of the hot water that I find myself in, again.
If, by chance, I can manage to salvage humor from the dregs of the previous pot-full, that makes it easier to blow off the next upset and thus return to a functional simmer. These coping strategies may not resolve all the problems, and I may still bubble over, but the raucous whistle I let off reminds the children that it’s time to back off and let Mom write.[2]
Reality Bite: I’m committed! Or should be? See, it all works.
[1] Free commercial product placement. Who in their right advertising mind, would want to place a product in this medium for cash? This blog, if you haven’t noticed, is not the Super Bowl.
[2] Caviet: If you are now, or have been ever, under the mistaken presumption that the intent of this blog is to fill the void of parenting advice manuals, STOP. Now you can proceed.
Today, it feels that I am left alone to stuff my own bag with a mélange of calming curatives and coping strategies that promise to soothe and ease the stressors of everyday life. Of the many varied therapies that purport to calm, appease and relieve, I’ve selected journaling as my new panacea.
To: allandsundry@blog.out
Hey everybody, the quest today is to find humor in the Grape Nuts[1] glued to the kitchen table by the puddle of maple syrup dripping off the edge and onto the floor. The diapered culprit sits in the middle of the mess, with his chubby legs in the air yelling, “Ouch! Mommy, Help!” Love ya, sticky, icky Me
Reality Bite: Humor can’t come until the mop-up is done.
When the scum of life’s toughest situations float to the top of the simmering pot, rather than let it boil over, I vent—on paper. Then, when I return back to a slow simmer, I can amend the tirades and I send them off to other persons steeped in similar stews. This is my way to succor others, like the wise women from the not-so-distant past who knew the risks and perils of trying to float alone on this roiling boil.
My notes and conversations are not intended as personal satire, (because satire requires wit) but as observations of life and an analysis of the hot water that I find myself in, again.
If, by chance, I can manage to salvage humor from the dregs of the previous pot-full, that makes it easier to blow off the next upset and thus return to a functional simmer. These coping strategies may not resolve all the problems, and I may still bubble over, but the raucous whistle I let off reminds the children that it’s time to back off and let Mom write.[2]
Reality Bite: I’m committed! Or should be? See, it all works.
[1] Free commercial product placement. Who in their right advertising mind, would want to place a product in this medium for cash? This blog, if you haven’t noticed, is not the Super Bowl.
[2] Caviet: If you are now, or have been ever, under the mistaken presumption that the intent of this blog is to fill the void of parenting advice manuals, STOP. Now you can proceed.
…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.”
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.”
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