by the bootstraps

Ugh. I'm trying to pull myself up by the bootstraps to face this goddamn housework. It's Monday morning. I decided to take the day off from work to try and get the house and food situation under control--the chaos and mess is more than I can stand. But I'm having tremendous difficulty getting un-slumped this morning. I had crazy stressful dreams last night, including one about giving birth in Linda Eaton's old Subaru to a baby that looked just like Liam. In my dream I relived those exhausting final moments of pushing the baby out, only there was no doctor or nurse there to guide me through it, just Linda, who kept telling me not to push. When the baby was born he appeared to be at least 8 months old, of course, and he had red hair and blue eyes, and I hugged him and hugged him. Another dream addressed my anxiety about having run out of canned peaches. Yet another explored the possible causes and consequences of a suspicious clunking noise that's been coming from under the car this week. Christ. I'm finding, however, that these little blog entries are a real help in maintaining my mental, emotional, and creative equilibrium, especially if it's leaning a bit off-kilter. It's like opening a valve and letting some of the brain-soup trickle out, relieving the pressure and, of course, allowing room for the inevitable, interminable creation of more. So I'm hoping that if I spill some soup here, I'll feel a little more at peace and ready to get down to business with this boring housework. (Ah, if only!)

I think some of my frustration comes from constantly having to be patient--placing so much of what puts color into my life on hold. Creative pursuits, people I love, experiences I crave. It's like being thirsty and sitting outside with a cup waiting for the rain. I can't control when the rain comes and it usually doesn't last long when it does. If I'm lucky the storm fills the cup up enough to last until the next time it rains, but I never know when that will be. The waiting and the utter lack of control is hard. I suppose that's a luxury grievance. But if I never examined the source of my discomfort, I think I'd do myself and those around me an injustice. It's a matter of making sure you can recognize the difference between an immediate, heartbreaking problem (ie I have no food or my child is sick) and a longstanding imbalance or disappointment (I wish I lived in Fantasy Ireland). I suppose it's the "quiet desperation" that bastard Thoreau wrote about (I've never been able to forgive him for going to his mother's for dinner regularly during his time at Walden Pond. Get a job, cook your own dinner, and then tell me your thoughts on life). Ah, I'm starting to feel better already.

Luckily it's a rainy day, which suits my mood. If it were sunny it'd feel like a prom dress at a wake. Ok. I think I can suck it up and pick up the goddamn house now. It's so nice to have a place where I can be as self-indulgent as I want to be and not worry about whether anyone's sick of listening to me. It's like being a kid again. Let's see, where should I begin? The sea of kindergarten worksheets covering the dining room table? The overflowing basket of ironing? The unmade beds? The patched but not painted holes in the walls? The bags of misc for Goodwill? The dishes?