the taskmaster police aren't going to come and smash my fingers

Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths. ~Etty Hillesum

I’ve been doing that a lot today, breathing in and then exhaling, audibly! In my downstairs office, the one that isn’t fully packed, isn’t fully ready to be moved upstairs, that office, there’s a post-it note on my desktop monitor that says, “breathe.”

I haven’t worked downstairs in that office since January. A lot has happened since January, and it’s possible I haven’t breathed since then. This I am just noticing, for many reasons. It’s probably why I got pneumonia, choking down all the snot and tears the month of March, didn’t help either.

This weekend, as I continued my thought processes, heart processes and paperwork regrouping processes for everything that is up and coming, I found myself Sunday night getting ready to do the same old things, “Set the alarm for some unbeatable time,” and then telling myself I’d make it, whether it was enough sleep or not, because that’s what a person is supposed to do, even though I spent the entire weekend working on my plan to regroup, readjust for what’s next and to slooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow down.

I made sure to get sufficient rest. Today, I took enormous, almost dizzyingly deep breaths and then exhaled in almost a clownish fashion, making the dogs look at me as if I was a royal nut ball! I continued to click off the logistics and ballistics on my “to do list,” for the short-term, long-term planning I’ve mentioned of late (last two blogs).

Every time I caught myself reprimanding my “self” for not being done with this yet—since you had the whole weekend to do it, and wasn’t that enough time already, you had the whole weekend “off” except that I didn’t and except that I never really do because since forever and an egg shell I’ve been double-booking my time because that’s all I know how to do—well, every time I caught myself doing that, I’d take another one of those delicious deep breaths and then I’d spit that rot across the room!

That record can skid-skip, and jump off the turntable in my head, fall on the floor and shatter, and if it doesn’t break in that way I intend to frisbee it out over the marsh!

That was then, this is now, and the old way doesn’t work any longer.

There’s no wolf at the door any more. I’m not here all alone, I have backup, and have for a while now, I could actually let my guard down instead of always having my dander up and my underwear all curved up in a bundle.

I can use my multi-tasking skills in a multitude of new ways I’ve probably never thought of because I’ve been applying them in a direction that was up and out of my self for many years.

I forgot, almost, the method to all that madness, the possibilities of where this potentially was leading. I saw where it was taking everyone else, but I forgot I was also along on the trip!

Regrouping this weekend, looking at everything that was going on, that was to continue, that was standing still or petering out, and then gathering up what was left and applying some math to the madness of it, the plan started to re-form for the future.

And, you’d think I’d be all grown up by now too, so wise to this theory ... but did you know that you can put shit on the “warmer” for the night?!?!? Who the fuck knew?!?!? I can be that close to finish and let things simmer, and move to the kitchen to prepare my dinner, and pour a glass of chilled wine (can’t remember the last time I had a glass of chilled wine and didn’t feel like pouring the whole bottle over my head in the last three weeks or so).

I’m realizing that it’s OKAY to be this close to the finish line and “table things for the night.” The taskmaster police aren’t going to come and smash my fingers in the fridge door and say, “Anne, you’re not done yet!” That taskmaster all these years has been me, and the bitch of a supervisor needs to ease up!

I can spend the evening with Mark, since he’s home base one more night this week, which is rare, instead of saying, “I’m sorry, I’m going to keep pushing, I’ll leave a post-it note on the mirror and let you know what time I went to bed, and if you should wake me when you leave.” I can actually be present in the moments that count, get another decent night’s sleep.

If I wake up, I can tell myself, "Go back to sleep, it's not time yet, don't you dare start spinning a single thought process!"

I can be better prepared for what’s up and coming for my clients and my workload and what has been changing and reshaping over the last months, family and otherwise.

I can be ready for Alice’s return home midweek and the much to do to get ready for college “stuff and such” that we have mapped out.

I can be less scared and anxious about Roger and Donna and their needs so I may continue to embrace my relationship with them.

I can spend time with my father this summer.

I can have guilt-free art and writing moments, tall order that one! There's always that critic on my shoulder going, "Shouldn't you be doing something productive, Bitch?" But I'm building up the stronger bitch diva on my other shoulder who says, "Whatever twit-bitch, what do you think the last 25 years of concerted efforts was all about?!!?!? Buzz off!"

I can be ready for the little girls and their new summer schedule (saw them for teensy five minutes today and it had been 10 days!!!! since I had last seen them).

I can be ready for Henry and Walter and their continued manners training and doggy walks.

I can be ready to greet Abigale Lal, healthy and full of wellness, see that all is well in her little family, send Alice off to college after a summer bash, go Southwest with Mark and then finally schedule my first of two STUPID THUMB JOINT SURGERIES!
I can quit now, end of the day, and still be ahead of the game tomorrow, because this is not a game … it’s my life, and for that, I need room to breathe, up under my ribs where I’ve been keeping a ball of stress for something like six weeks, okay maybe longer …

Walking for Cover (and really, there are no places to hide from your true self ... fancy that!)

OF NOTE: POST FOR May 12-2011 when Blogger was down for Maintenance. Still part of my 30 days/30 pieces of Writing and Artwork). I have not started Kiteley's book, The 3 A.M. Epiphany as of yet, but I also have not pitched it off my back deck into the woods. The book is rather intensive, and not something that I can just open up and randomly choose a prompt, so I intend to start it page one and work it through, perhaps the start of next week, or third week into this.


In it's stead, I found an interesting scrap of writing from 2001, way beginning of December, just two months after 9/11 and very less than six months before my stroke. It's ironic because it also speaks about "the manuscript," and the piece also has a bit of a different "voice" that I have now, something I struggle with now because since the stroke I've always felt that there's a "before" and "after" me. It's something I've only just begun to talk about in my therapy sessions, and it's something I'm quite possibly still very angry about. And, yet, when I read this piece I still heard little snippets of the "me" that I think is still "there."

The other fun part is that "all my girls" are featured in the piece, and Carol was the only one who was adult and moved out of the house at the time, and Ruth was a newborn. Rebekah and Sara were still living at home. Alice was in elementary school. If one also reads very delicately between the lines there is also the essence of a relationship I'm trying on for size but I already know it's ultimately not going to work out. So interesting to see it all captured right there. And also what's captured is my stoic, stubborn solitude-inal isolating nature of my beastliness (so busted! ... the part of "me" that has not changed one bit!).

[photo credit: also 2001- me and mrs. beasley back in the day, when nearly 40 was the new practically 8 years old at best).

THE WRITING:

Random Journaling Crapola from early Decemberish 2001 a.k.a "oh what one can find on a hard drive."

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT THE WEATHER?

.....it's fucking cold, hardly past ten degrees.
Pretty much keeps me off the walking path. No good
can come from walking when it's this cold, expanding
the lungs, for what???? to be cryo'd in the process.

I DON'T FUCKING THINK SO! Time to check out gym
membership, exercise within four walls, four different walls, anyways.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT MY WORK?

I can't seem to start the day without finishing off
the previous night's "incoming!" emergency room
trauma notes, whether I'm scheduled to work or not!

Waiting for me at the moment is a 22-year-old woman with
"right upper quadrant pain" ... a very common ailment,
sending millions to the emergency room.

Isn't "right upper quadrant pain" a heartache? Oops, wait, the
heart is leftward or more towards middle, stands
like a fist, pounds like one too.

I know, because I have one ... a heart ... and that same dull ache,
like I swallowed a bolus of food, but forgot to chew it first.

Love the ER, gotta love the ER. It's as if the
trauma notes are mine, all mine!!! and I want the stories
before anyone else gets to them. Greedy me.

My line count mounts to the ceiling. I forget some days I'm
getting paid for listening to all this fun, which
I'm in my "groove" and glad of that.

However, burnout is sure to follow, as is per the usual
in the medical crazy-ass game.

I haven't been this hard-wired into work since September 11th
when freaks bombed the world and half of our staff went
motionless in response, clinging to CNN while medical
their desks because they couldn’t see their TVs.
For my part, I worked endless-endless-endless shifts
until my eyes, ears and brain bled.

I am never in the "red" and never get the
reminder-get-off-your-ass emails from supervisors or
account managers. I couldn't take one of those.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT THE GIRLS?

Ali is still gone for a few days yet. She sounded happy
when last we chatted, slight stressed, questions about home.
Has seen some movies, but not "The Majestic," so we can
see it together when she gets home.

Carol is stressing a bit, living their place, and the
hospital (couldn't pump milk yesterday, very
frustrated) trying to thrive in Milwaukee with
James. I WILL see them tomorrow. They are celebrating
their one-year anniversary today, one year of knowing
each other (can they really “know each other”).

And what has transpired in just this one
year... meeting last year ever so briefly at Xmas,
making a connection, then running their relationship,
long distance (wyoming to Wisconsin), by phone and letter
until April of this past year, then a few dates
proper, but not until Carol turned 18 in May, then
moving in and making Baby Ruth. What was their
hurry to be so grown up so fast? Mom at 19.

Grand Baby Ruth breathes on her own, mostly, but still
sets off the alarms sometimes during feedings. I will get
action shots tomorrow as Mommy Carol is allowed to
pull that baby out of her glass bed whenever she
wishes. The nurses love the princess baby.

Bekah and Sara are just now stirring, time soon to
pack up and get the hell out of Dodge. They are
making toast and peanut butter now. I think that's
the first time anyone has used the kitchen in days.
Last night I froze the rest of the spiraled ham and
some other stuff. Will make soup later. I ate some
fritos and went to bed. The house continues to empty out.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT BOOKS?

I wrote one, a novella. This year I'll write
another, perhaps larger, will go beyond the first person and
stretch my abilities to capture life to the page and
yet allow it to live and breathe there. I'll send
the existing novella packing to whoever wants to look at
it, and force it down the throats of a few others
who think they don't. At this point, it's a game of
chance and postage.

But this afternoon I'm dusting the books I own and
putting them back to their rightly shelved manors,
to mind their manners. There was a method once to my book
madness. I am very nearly there again. The front room/library/office
echoes a bit. When Sara and Beks got home last night,
they were mad at first at the downsizing, and Sara actually
thought I had moved a wall. Maybe I did ... so to speak.

There's another book, duly written, inscribed in my
heart, the story of two people, and I will laboriously
move each chapter of it to disk this week, back it up,
steel copies here and there and everywhere, bury one
in the yard, plant a tree atop it, tape one to my
chest, etc. etc., swallow another whole, insert
another to the back of my skull, my own hard drive.
Beyond that, I don’t’ think it’s going to work.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT POETRY?

I love it to death. I haven't counted lately, maybe
my poetry now numbers beyond 200. I passed 100 a
long while back. A wicked verse is building in my head
right now ... it has the word "hymen" and "cerclage"
in it. I'm not sure yet if it will work out. We'll
see. Right now it's tight to my brain and I'm
trying to work it loose. It's virginal, stubborn, like a
Catholic girl, but I intend to rip it loose and
destroy it to the page, make it bleed.

I know, doesn't make sense, or only to me. But this
year, these words are going to take me somewhere, by
scholarship, by hook or crook, east coast conference
or southwest, mark my words ... or I am nothing but
a sinner against my true self, and that I cannot be.
My soul cries freedom, and someone out there waits to
hear from me, can help, can further my cause. I
have only to find them or want to be found in return.

NOW ... SHALL WE TALK ABOUT ME?

Who am I, I alone, wandering the planet, but not
wandering, not really, because it's too fucking cold
and that leaves me "grounded," but I'm not idle as I
work this delicious bit at the desk, and then ready
a paper trail to go build a fire, then shop
a food order keeping in mind everyone's pending trips
away from home this week. Then I'll go eat dinner
with friends and their kids with real live lasagna,
"Eat Anne EAT!, a real meal, come on!" ...
Okay, I will. "Stay and watch a movie!
Come on, what else do you have to do?"

“Okay,no I don't feel like it, well maybe, not sure ...”
but more than likely I'll go home again, home again,
this dark cold house, sooner rather than later. The
windows will have frosted in my absence and it will be
like unlocking the door to a cave, this my safe
haven.

I am here alone, and perhaps some late night
emergency room notes will keep me busy, pad the
lines/invoicing/pay further for heading into
holiday weeks, then workout, CD supreme/noise,
warm the bed, sleep on my stupid little bone-weary or
lonely?!?! head, miss something, or stubbornly miss nothing
and nobody or body, and try to understand this life
I live so farremoved, moonlight spilling into the room
and lyrics dancing madness in my head, Soma and
melatonin whisking me away to the land of spine realignment.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT TOMORROW?
What’s next.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT THE NEW YEAR? … (or not ...)



Walking for Cover

Moon glow, nearly full, brimming, spilling over, providing a warm wash this frigid, crisp night, yet mocking me, taunting, the world a double bed.

I walk alone, treading the marshlands yet another twilight hour, bent marsh grass underfoot, felled to side-lying, woven under a thick white blanket.

I feel the urge to jump, bouncing on this straw mattress, tall but small, unbundled, I fall onto the dry grass cot, under the winter sky and rest. (poetry also from dec 2001)

THE FOURTH PIECE OF ART OUT OF THIRTY:

quite seriously

quite seriously


i’ve come to find
my self
quite seriously
refined, don’t you know,
even though, year upon year,
it appeared, as if
i had not really
been paying my self
any realfirm and/orconcerted attention,
at all, and yet …
… here I AMand damn
if i don’t sing out loudand often
all by,
and all about,
MY SELF!

collage art by anne cunningham, words by same, and maybe just a clever way of saying that i walk around the house humming like my grandmother used to do! i have perhaps arrived!