Thursday, February 23, 2017

Currently (Late February 2017 Edition)

About life and death, of course, and the endless numbered days that march on between the beginning and the end. During the day, I am at the grandparents' house, cleaning out closets and organizing shit. At night, I am at Eldest's house, drinking wine and texting my friends and trying to sort through decades' worth of cards, letters, photos, and the like. At one point, I came across a journal that I had gotten for Mawga back in Christmas of 1994, and she had actually written in it. At the end of the first page, she reflected, "I still have so much of God's work to do-I have wasted too many years."

It's sad that she would think so...but I also think we all feel like that. I know that, on a bad day, that's how I feel about much of the last decade. Which cannot be altered, of course--the only thing that can be altered is how I think about it, so that one day I won't see them as wasted years.

Before flying to Florida to be with the sisters, I was muddling through my last days of work. This meant making a lot of lists and trying to stick to them, occasionally sitting very still with a thousand-yard-stare, and listening to a lot of music that, quite predictably, would make me cry. At some point, I acquired a lick of sense, and decided to turn to Amazon Prime for some musical variety. Which is how I came across The Dropkick Murphys. I'd heard some of their music before, of course, but much like with books, sometimes, you just have to be in a certain frame of mind to get it. Which is why, right now, I am taking every opportunity I can to assault my eardrums with this rollicking, life-affirming, brutal, joyously rude Celtic punk band.

When shit hits the fan, and change is upon me, I'm usually not up for reading new stuff. Who knows how the story will end? I don't need that uncertainty. That's why I'm (re)reading The Secret Garden right now. If you've not had the opportunity to read this classic, you're a deprived and possibly depraved person. Books don't have to be complex, weighty tomes to celebrate the healing joys of nature and friendship.

Oh god, nothing much at present. For about a week before Mawga passed away, I was on a godawful antibiotic that suppressed my appetite, made me nauseous, and got my heart up past 100 beats per minute. I'm off the meds, thank god, but it's still hard to choke down food. I'm more okay with this than I should be--at this point in my life, I'm pretty happy and confident in how I look, other than my weight, so if this little anxiety/depression diet kicks off the necessary weight loss, I'm fine with it.

Before everything went to hell last week, Friend John had introduced me to House, one of the many, many TV shows I've missed out on. It's entertaining and distracting, although I fear I'm going to become a hypochondriac and self-diagnose every twitch and ache as some obscure illness. Except for lupus, of course.

It's difficult to do from down here in the Deep South, but I am trying to prepare for a late January, I signed a lease on an apartment that I can literally see from where I live now. Thank god, Bethany is moving up in early March, so I'll have family close by to heckle me and help me keep me busy. And in the meantime, there are utilities to set up and things to coordinate. And when I get home, there will be boxes to pack and haul and stores to visit, and strapping male friends to chivvy into moving my furniture.

Basically, at the moment, there's a great deal of "hurry up and wait." I'm in a much better place than I was last week, and I am becoming eager to return home to Indiana, to the waiting spring, to the community of friends I've built up, to the work I do, to the life I've made for myself. More than anything, I can leave Florida with a feeling of happy anticipation, rather than the grim resignation that I used to feel when I had to return to California. I am going to leave Florida, and return home to Indiana, the land of my grandparents, and take a tiny measure of comfort in that.

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