My Brain On Crack

I Think I Forgot To Eat Today

That would explain a LOT.

However, I did meditate. And I worked and wrote and wrote and worked. My eyes are still bleeding. And I cried a little and had a shower and put makeup on. And wore clothes. And I am getting used to one space after-a-period rather than the years and years of two spaces. if I can unlearn the two-space thing I may actually learn to type one of these days.

Oh, you haven’t seen me type, have you? I understand it’s “interesting.” It makes a lot of noise. And now I know why three keys on my laptop are now nearly obliterated; I don’t keep my fingernails very long but they’re long enough to do some damage. So goodbye N, H, and L.

I type with two fingers, essentially. The middle ones. Giving my audience the one-fingered salute. I salute you! And again! Hah!

Yesterday I made the mistake of pitching a publisher I had been introduced to. I was in emotional turmoil over this border thing and I sent a possibly-incoherent email rambling on about all the places my writing appears. I had spent about 45 minutes prior to that searching through the annals of my old blog looking for a particular post I wrote in late 2006. It took forever because I had cleverly hidden my old blog somewhere no one will ever find it. Not even me, apparently. But in that 45 minutes I had a quick tour of a couple of years of my life.

I used to have another life.

It had kids in it. I cooked a lot. I took pictures of the people I loved. There was love, and there was life. Oh, I’m not regetting the changes I’ve made, not too much. There’s love and life here too. Life is what we make of it, isn’t it? We are always living our creation.

It just felt particularly poignant, looking at the pages of my life like that. As if I was looking at someone else’s life, not mine. And there was passion and joy and hurt. And there was someone making her way day by day, doing the things she thought she needed to do. None of that is wasted. So much energy went into creating the me that was, and the me that is, not to mention the three children who were and are. None of that has gone for naught. But I miss some of those times. I miss the moments of peacefulness and satisfaction. I miss being who I was simply because that’s what I did.

It was good to fall back into meditating again today after two weeks without it. I could relax into that space of knowingness, of nothingness, of everythingness, and of peace, and simply BE. And rest. Most moments my thoughts race ahead into possibility, even when I sleep, so a half-hour of peace is restorative. Some days I think I would like to live only in that world, but I fear I would get nothing done.

Of course, in that space it wouldn’t matter, would it?