...delusion

I find it interesting that the more I give voice and expression to my strange and aberrant life, the more often I hear the echo of people around me shouting, “Me too!” This shared 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 the voluntary internment called motherhood.

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 try to resist the temptation to act like a desperate child seeking attention (of any kind), but I'm afraid it's worse than that. 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.

And the final slap, most public figures still have to do their own 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.

…rambling

I blame the holiday letters and the rush I get from writing lies, for my current obsession. I can’t constrain myself to the joy of deluding myself with the holiday written only once a year, so I am continuing the therapy by putting a happy spin on everyday reality.

Journal,
At the doctor’s office yesterday, the receptionist flippantly said, “Oh yeah, we’ll take any kind of payment, even your first born.” I replied with interest, “Really? Mine is 16.” Here’s hoping, T.

I’ve praised the benefits of journal-keeping for many diverse reasons, and the one that tempts me most is the teaser that someday my progeny will value my note taking. If they can glean hints and clues from what I write, I’m all for passing on my notes (in spite of the fact that I have a niggling suspicion that it’s cheating.)

I think that my children might appreciate this effort, even if it is only the vague promise of a piteous, passing thanks in the far distant future. That’s good enough! I’m writing!

The strongest motivation for me is the warning that history, unrecorded repeats itself and I can’t even imagine doing this again! Selfish motivation works! It’s all about me; I’m writing.

In my twenty year attempt to stay sane, friends and family have been subjected to cockeyed updates on life, altered to fit my fantasy de-jour and now I am compiling all of those letters, inter-notes and emails into an episodic odyssey all my own.

I promised myself I would quit after the first book, but I finished it and then I didn’t die. And there was ever so much more certifiable spam than I expected—a whole library’s worth, so here I go again.

Journal,
i've joined the new craze, the guilt party. You are shamed into taking photographs of every aspect of your child’s life and keeping them in these glossy, incredibly safe, unbelievably expensive albums accented, designed and decorated.

I imagine my daughter-in-law’s face when I present her with twenty-six albums, one for each year of my son’s life. If she doesn’t flip out completely, imagine the mother-in-law curse she’ll place on me when I inform her that it’s her job to continue the tradition for the rest of her life!

Surfing by again soon, Love T.

…seepage

It’s apparent that some of my previous writings have fallen into the category of satire. I was hoping my topics would be uplifting and be something magnificently beautiful, but it seems that a person’s true personality leaks through the logic banks of the keyboard and somehow seeps and drips onto a person’s finished work.

Journal,
Supervising piano practice is like pulling teeth; listening to each sour note is as jarring as the dental drill aimed with precision at the raw nerve of the patient perched on the stool next to the instrument.
I’m considering nitrous oxide—a spare tank and hose vented into the practice room. The gas would take the edge off… of everything.
Melodious, me

I’m accustomed to seepage, drool, and being damp in many ways, but oozing from my writing? What is even more tragic is that my writing voice is a reflection of how I look at life, and that translates as jaded and suspicious with a sarcastic slant—pathologically egocentric may be the clinical term.

My new goal is that my latest writings will evolve and become less vituperative. Unfortunately, because I write about reality, my plans for greater peace and civility in my writing may require some major changes in my everyday life, which could be a good thing in the long run, as I’ve been warned more than once that I should, “Be careful what you pretend to be or your spouse may figure out that you aren’t pretending.”

In painting the big picture of my quest for greater peace, I’ve sketched out a plan for my fitful bursts of temper. I’m dabbling in increased pondering and meditation, and today’s most promising peace is the website for soup poetry. I’ll see how it goes.

Journal,
I’ve been advised that I should attempt to write with a little less volatility. Just in case my writing is ever used as evidence in any future judicial proceeding, Thanks for the heads up! T.

Yes, a bowl of soup, poetry and quotes have made the most impact on my plans for greater serenity today. I knew it would all come down to a nice hot bowl of something.

Reality Bite: Steaming from without calms the steaming within.

…battle of wills

When I’m gone, the battle over my journals may be which of my children will get the honor of burning them, but if this weren’t my legacy, just imagine what I could be spending my time creating? The hand-me-down curse could be boxes of knitted purple potholders.

Journal,
My photos are back and what Kodak wants me to “say with pictures,” is that I am an idiot who can’t figure out a flash, doesn’t know beans about composition and has a very photogenic thumb.
I can’t complicate things by gong digital. So I’m stuck writing all the nasty details. I like to think that it will take less space and I’ll still get a sort of maniacal spin off it.
…From the psycho in me and the guy at the one hour photo…T.

Like laundry, life’s absurdities pile up and I struggle to sort them out. My goal is to separate life’s rare moments of lucidity from the inane. Sharing my hard-learned discoveries with others does seem to provide some center of peace in my tumultuous spin cycle. When I hang these absurdities out for public view, somehow I find they have become magically cloaked in optimism and my delusions can placidly continue.

Journal,
As I write, television is sucking the life force from my children and I will pay dearly for these moments of peace.
Later, after an afternoon of television, I will be forced to listen to an enthusiastic overview of the miracle knife from my infomercial expert, while I put the kibosh on her sibling who is committing violent acts on the refrigerator.
It was nice when I could just ignore the older children as I do the youngest who is dancing around chanting, “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now, gotta go, gotta go, gotta go.
Something or someone is burning, so reality intrudes again and I’ve really gotta go. T.

Reality Bite: They will spend the rest of today yelling, “Can You Hear Me Now?”