acoustic june.

It's official: I am unplugging for the month of June.

I don't know how this is going to sound coming out, but: I have a lot of stuff in me. Ideas. Plans. Stories. Words. Music. Art. Creations in General. And it overwhelms me. I don't know where to start. I don't know what would happen if I completely unzipped and let it all out. (Does everyone feel this way? Chris said he would if he didn't play his guitar.) My long-standing habit/approach when dealing with overwhelmption is to avoid. The time I spend doing--truly--the dumbest things (like playing Tiki Resort and Cube Crash on Facebook) is classic avoidance. Classic! And they are 100% habit behaviors.

So I'm going to stop doing them and see what happens.

I'll be logging out of Facebook for 1 month. I'll be logging out of here for 1 month. I'll be logging out of my free write site for 1 month. And if I want to write any blog entries or free writes, I'll just have to do them offline. Maybe I'll even take to handwriting like Tawni and her old-fashioned lady pens.

Other things I look forward to doing with all my new spare time:

meditating

writing music

painting

working through the Gotham Writer's Workshop book

journaling (by hand and without an audience)

practicing guitar

practicing piano

learning to like yoga (I don't like yoga. I feel bad about this.)

working on my giant landscaping project

reading

cooking new and interesting things

sewing

This is exciting. I'm excited! I probably won't write tomorrow, so see you in July.

nevermind.

Yesterday I realized I talk about the same things over and over and over again:

• my guts
• food (and what it does to my guts), and
• running (as it relates to food and my guts)

Kind of embarrassing, really. It sort of makes me want to not talk anymore; and I don't talk that much to begin with. Now, I don't know what to talk about here. Because right now I'm thinking about:

• my guts (and how they don't feel all that great)
• food (because I've been eating all the things I shouldn't, which is why my guts don't feel that great), and
• running (specifically about the 10 miles I'm about to run and how that will go considering my guts and the food I've been eating).

I've been thinking about unplugging for a while -- closing up facebook, the blog, etc. I think I might pick a month -- maybe June (It's best to do things right away as I think of them, before I think myself out of them or just forget.) -- and dedicating that month of spare time to creativity and books. I'm happiest when I'm being creative, in whatever capacity, and yet that's not what I choose to do with my free time. That doesn't really make any sense -- to know how great something is and how much you love doing it and how terrific it makes you feel, and then choose over and over again to not do it, even though it wouldn't take any more time or energy than the lame stuff you choose to do instead.

I've decided humans exist in shifty planes--mind body soul crisscrossing out of alignment--and that makes us defy logic repeatedly and habitually.

But I talk about that too much, too. So nevermind.

baubles

I had lots to say, then I didn't say it, and now it's gone. So I'll say something else.

For my birthday, Chris took four of my songs we recorded in our old basement several years ago, to his friend's recording studio and had them mixed onto a CD. One of the coolest gifts ever, for sure, but I'm having a hard time listening to them. Chris presented them to me last night. Two are okay, because they're full of harmonies, and I'm a thousand times more comfortable with harmonies. The other two...not so much.

When I listen to them, I hear every flaw in my voice--sinusy. Nasal-y. I think about how corny the lyrics are. I hear my guitar baubles and cringe. Oy oy oy. I want to listen to myself/observe myself as a stranger. But I can't. Not really. It's silly. I don't really know how anyone gets over that.

Blah. This blog entry is boring and dumb and I want to delete but I won't. Sometimes I'm boring and dumb. So be it.

I also do not feel like crafting a conclusion. So I'm just going to stop writing. Now.

break your heart 1000 times over

I've not been writing, and I think I miss it.

I mean writing, writing. I don't really consider this writing. This is burping sentences. I just wrote a free-write at edit less more. I wrote it with my eyes closed. I don't mean that in the "I'm so great, I could do that with my eyes closed" sense. I mean it in the, "I actually closed my eyes so the room would be dark" sense. Sometimes I just want to free whatever bird is in my cage, and it works better to not look at anything or notice too many colors or light plays.

In general, I think it's best to think as little as possible when I write. Maybe that's what I miss--the not thinking part. Maybe I've been thinking too much and would like to start writing again just to get a little break from my brain.

It's just so much work: It is surprisingly hard work to do so little thinking and so much writing. I keep telling myself that the book hasn't been born yet, because it's still growing a central nervous system, and when it's meant to happen it will happen. It will birth itself, and I will be some kind of doped up womb channeling genius through portholes in my fingertips. But that's such a giant fat lie, I'm embarrassed to even say it. The truth is that it's an excuse to be lazy. Birthing them is one thing, but then you have to clean off all the crud and raise them and teach them to walk and to chew with their mouths closed and to be responsible and make sure they don't swear at their teachers or throw wet towels on the floor. And you have to send them to college and that's expensive. And after all that, they break your heart 1000 times over.

Who needs that crap?

is as is does

You know what I think it might be? -she said, assuming you must know exactly where she is picking up her train of thought. I think it's that sometimes I don't want to talk about it (a myriad of its), because as soon as I arrange words to explain, it changes. It doesn't even have to be a particularly special it. It could be just a regular it. But sometimes (actually, a lot of times, if I'm being honest), I just want it to be my it and just be the it that it is, and I don't want it to morph as soon as I start talking clumsy, and I don't want to assign it any meaning, and I don't want to try to make it make sense to anybody else or line its details up word by word or paint a picture or anything else. I just want it to be it and me to be mine and is as is does and there it's done.

That's all it is.

more stuff about running

I think I can correlate the success of a run to the amount of snot produced. More snot = less success. This morning's run = very snotty.

[I'm sure it is bad etiquette to use the word "snot" in the first sentence of a blog post. But when it comes to running, I don't really think a lot of etiquette is necessary--other than wave at cars who give you room to cross the intersection, give bikes the right-of-way on the bike trail, and say, "On your left!" when you're passing walkers from behind (unless you are passing them on the right). Oh, and don't spit your gum in somebody's yard. That's crass. Just stick it to your ipod and worry about it later. But otherwise, you are free to spit, blow your snot straight into the sidewalk, curse, and mouth-breathe without repercussion.]

However! I am still calling this morning's run a success, because it was. I proved a point to myself that attitude is the key to many operations. I was sure today would be a failure. I was sure because in the past 3 days, I have eaten nearly every single one of my trigger foods. Chips? Sure. Chocolate? Yep. Baked goods? Several. Greasy baked cheese? Delicious. Fried XYZ? Bring it. I've also been drinking too much wine. All of this turns my guts inside out (not quite literally, but almost), which depletes all my good stuff, and makes everything else harder.

I had low expectations. And the first mile felt horrible. So did miles 2-6. Finally, right around 6, I had to stop. I saw spots and squatted in a strangers yard until they went away. I chugged my gator-water (The woman at the gym who told me start running with a water bottle that straps to my hand is a genius and a saint and a very lovely person.). Then I walked. Then the Self-Bashing started. (This is a very familiar routine. I know I've said this before, but there is no one on the planet who could say anything even remotely as awful as the things I say to myself when I think I've screwed something up. I would guess you're the same. Why are we like this? It's so mean!)

BUT! And here is where success happened. I observed the auto-current of self-bashing and then stuck my finger in it. I said to myself, "You know, P. This is irrational and it gets old. Don't do this anymore." And I said Okay. I noted the weather was nice. It felt good to walk. I was glad I had my gator-water. Then after about 5 blocks, everything felt fresh. My body felt good to go, so I started running again. And the remaining 3 miles went without hitch. I didn't even falter on the Euclid hill that usually sucks the life out of me. My body just needed a quick break to replenish. What's the crime?

I don't know why I think it's such a colossal failure to stop and walk in the middle of a run. I think it's some kind of warped association between rest and weakness. That's such a skewed way of thinking--really about any endeavor at all, not just running--that perfection is possible and looks only one way. I think I might be done with that.

chocolate cake on the soul plane

Today I was going to write about how recent nutritional changes have really changed my life -- my mood, my body, my skin, my digestion... everything. I was going to write about how I think I've finally stumbled into my future, and the beautiful world my digestive disease had been trying to lead me all along. I was going to wax long and poetic about how we nurture our physical form as both a symbolic and literal measure to nurture our spiritual selves on a soul plane. I was going to get very self-righteous and preachy about how everyone should be treating their bodies as sacred temples and beneficent entities, divine vehicles for universe exploration and character growth, vessels of oneness with nature and the transcendent.

Then, I ate 2 cookies, pizza, fried ravioli, and a giant piece of chocolate cake. And man, it was good.

red feathered fedora

I really loved my birthday. It felt like spending the day with an old friend. I like my job, but it was okay to have some time off to just wander and relish. There isn't a whole lot about the part-time teaching gig I miss... but the schedule and the coming and going of it. I miss the freedom of it. I love freedom. I love the lightness of flitting around, stopping when I want to stop, going when I want to go, basking when I want to bask. I miss flip flops and windows and coffee stirring and book reading. I miss open and quiet and color. So much tan and pressed clothing and elevators. My soul is a sun soul; it needs light and air and water.

They dug up the tulips on Locust. No replacement, yet. Just pock-marked dirt clods.

I sat in the sun at Nollen Plaza today, and a man in a pimpy red fedora asked if he could buy me lunch. I said No Thanks, indicated my husband. Tried to balance open and protected at the same time. I bet he has interesting stories. Don't doubt I'd learn something. Don't doubt he needs a warm soul to talk to. I don't like the walls that go up when I'm trying to commune with sky. I don't like how distrustful I am, immediately; but I'm not sure how else to be with men in red feathered fedoras who swagger even though they don't have all their teeth. Even if everyone is kind on the inside doesn't mean everyone chooses kindly on the outside. He left, and I gave him a 5-minute head start before I strolled back across the bridge in my flip flops up the capitol steps, through the heavy smudgy brass doors, elevator, to my cubicle, where I changed into my dress shoes and logged on.

be that.

Here is something that I like about myself: my lack of age issues. I'm getting older, and that's just fine. I think when people get all wonky about having birthdays, it's really about something else -- about what they've done or haven't done with their lives, or the ways in which they're dissatisfied with who they've become. That has nothing to do with age. Plus, it's totally fixable. You can set new goals, accomplish cool things, have new adventures, and become a better person at any age--if you choose to. And I choose to.

Choosing to has actually gotten easier, I think because the more I choose to, the more I learn how capable I am. And the more capable I become, the more I want to choose to. It's a pretty cool cycle that feeds itself once you set it in motion. Last year I learned that I'm capable of following a training schedule and running 12.4 miles (Dam to Dam). It made me realize I'm capable of following a training schedule and running 26 miles, so this year I'm going to train for my first marathon.

It doesn't have to be big stuff. Even relatively small stuff can have big impact. One of my proudest accomplishments of 35 was figuring out a lot of my food triggers (for my messed up guts) and then having the gumption to get rid of them (more or less). In the process of doing so, I developed a lot more respect and reverence for my body (which I understand sounds weird and slightly masturbatory, which I really don't mean).

Some accomplishments are much more... figurative. Watery? Harder to explain, for sure. One of the coolest things my mom has ever said to me is, "You're becoming more like yourself every day." It was several months ago, and I'd taken her with me to Woodward to Prairieland Herbs and Picket Fence Creamery. We drove in the country between two farms, and I told her how much it appealed to me, and I how I wanted to leave town and just live on open land and grow things and be quiet.

Maybe that isn't an obvious compliment, but I do think it's a significant accomplishment to figure out who you are at your purest level and then just go ahead and be that, unflinchingly, even if it isn't sophisticated or extraordinary or especially unique. Even if it doesn't mesh with the fantasy of yourself you'd created when you were 16. I know I do that much better and more consistently at the age of 36 than I did at the age of 26. I'm sure that at 46 I'll be even more like myself. And that's exciting, because I'm pretty okay.

monster in the closet

Here are some of my flaws:

1. Having to explain myself verbally makes me irritable.

2. I don't speak well. Words don't come out. Or they do, but they're the wrong words and in the wrong order. Then, I hear them, and I cringe, and I get frustrated, because I can't get it right.

3. So, sometimes I'm too quiet. I know this looks like snobbishness, and sometimes it is.

4. I hate being asked a lot of questions. Unless I can answer in writing.

5. Sadly, I don't hide my irritability well. Sometimes, I don't hide it at all.

6. Weak minds/weak energy/timidity repulses me. I can't stand to be around it. It makes me feel violent. Actually violent. Like a wild animal that senses the weakness in the other and goes in for the kill. This is likely one of my most horrifying traits. Really quite alarming. I have to check myself on it constantly, but don't. When people comment on how laid back and easy going I am, I think they are either wildly unobservant or I am a master of disguise.

7. I don't hide my repulsion well.

8. I can be horrifyingly judgmental. And it happens in an instant.

9. I frustrate easily. I hate messing up. Hate it.

10. And when I get frustrated, I unleash long, impassioned strings of obscenities. The things that come out of my mouth would burn your eyebrows right off your face. Just ask my husband.

11. Sometimes, when I'm frustrated, I throw things. (But just things like towels and paper bags. I don't throw things that break.)

12. If I've been eating too much bad food, my moods swing. I eat too much bad food.

13. I task avoid when I'm overwhelmed.

14. And when I task avoid, I TASK. AVOID. I could win medals for my task avoidance.

15. I can be surprisingly dense about my emotional state.

16. Which means I have to rely on my physical symptoms and my behavior to signal when I'm anxious or overwhelmed. This seems immature and kind of stupid, like I should be a little more in-tune.

17. My first sign of being overwhelmed is that I start being late to things. I know this is rude, and I know it's irresponsible, and I still do it.

18. My ego is a giant and unruly beast sometimes. And I always ALWAYS make very bad decisions when I let it do the talking.

19. When I think someone is pulling one over on me, I can be vindictive. And manipulative. And cunning. I don't like looking like a fool. In other words: I do not transcend others' pettiness -- not always, anyway.

20. I complain about other people even though I know I shouldn't, and that it's tacky, and that more times than not, it's none of my beeswax.

21. I think I'm right more than I should.

22. Despite making long lists of my character flaws, I can be pretty arrogant.

23. I flex in the mirror. I absolutely do.

24. I don't like leading. I don't like following, either. For the most part, I think I just want to do my own thing and not be bothered. That's not very nice or collaborative.

25. I'm selfish with my time.

I could go on. But I'll stop at 25. I have a lot of good qualities, too. So I'm not really beating myself up. I think it has something to do with wholeness and how tiring it is to hide the monster in the closet. So much easier to just expose and move on. I feel oddly compelled to constantly confess my humanity. Maybe it's an attempt to feel okay with how imperfect everything is. It also feels a little like a service. Like I'm serving others by giving them permission to let the monsters out of their closets, too.

But mostly I think it's about finding the balance between improving what needs to be improved and accepting what needs to be accepted. Tomorrow is my birthday. I hope to have many more. And I hope to get better at this balance business -- especially the acceptance part. I have what is likely the best family on the planet (husband included), and they're constantly accepting my total lack of grace. I don't know why they do, but I'm glad they do.

That's all.