Love is all you need?
I woke up this morning thinking about sex, how it’s a death-cheat, a way to stave off the coming deterioration, the crumbling of skin and redistribution of fat, a way to forget the waiting hospital room with its smells of disinfectant and its beeps of sadness.
Yesterday I wrote about time and how it speeds up as we age and maybe layers, or that’s the way our memory can experience it, the past intermingling with the present intermingling with our ideas about the future, the fantasies and reality, the nightmare waiting down the hall of our minds or maybe it’s not a nightmare, maybe I need to think positively. Sure, there is plenty to mourn and what will be is unknown, but why not at least think positively about it?
And why not embrace my luckiness, the small pieces of happiness in my life. Loving husband? Check. Sweet kid? Check. Nice house? Yes. Enough money? Uh-huh. Time to write? Oh my God: yes!
So what’s the problem? Why is my heart dead right now? What the fuck? It’s like I move in a fog or am wrapped in wool, like a skein of yarn. I want to live like the 20-year-old I never was, which says “midlife crisis” all over it. I keep on thinking of ways to embrace the crisis that aren’t self-destructive, which is how I ended up looking at pictures of tattoos and exploring the various tattoo parlors (such a Victorian word) around Berkeley online. A bit of pain, a bit of beauty, a bit of (over-done) rebellion.
In October I will turn 42, the age that my stepfather said I was when I was 12 and I see how 42 turns to 43 and 43 turns to 44 and so on until I am 50 and even crankier than I am now and if I can’t do anything about what happens to the body (outside of maintenance: I’ve become a big fan of maintenance) then maybe I can do something about me and my outlook. I’ve always been a traveler on the dark side and that’s ok, but I don’t want to be cynical or mean. I don’t want to begrudge people the happiness they have or the youth or the sunny disposition.
It may be corny and in some ways untrue, but I think that love helps. Love of other people without judgment, the understanding that we are all blocked in some way and trying our best. But it has to fall to me to love myself, too (and this sounds so corny and clichéd and I hate talk like this, but it stands). So I love on the outside, attempt it on the inside, and no matter what happens, the death grip with sex, the platonic love, the familial kind, I’ll be ok.
Right?
From a photo prompt that had nothing to do with what I came up with here.
I'm posting every messy Round Robin prompt, a prompt a day until the RR ends. Unless I tell you otherwise, this is the original 12-minute prompt edited only for clarity and typos.
Image: What my tattoo will look like -- whaddya think? My mother thought it looked like the woman had been shot, but I blame that on the fact that it looks like a very fresh tattoo. And I'm not sure I could pull off such a large tattoo, but I like the idea of a cherry blossom branch.
I can walk under ladders, Part 2
There is more than enough love and affection in my life.
We live in a beautiful house and -- more than seven months after signing a contract to buy it and a day after the fourth foreclosure auction was scheduled and postponed -- there is realistic talk of a January closing date.
We'll have a house full of family this weekend.
My mother comes for a week next month.
Berkeley has become home. Or close enough.
My husband supports my writing, he supports me, and I'm grateful that he helps me carve out time to take care of myself.
The blog has brought me virtual friendship (hello Anne, Jim, koe, Tracey, Karen, Grace, John, Holly, and Lydia, among others). I am grateful for this varied group of writers and photographers. Fellow travelers.
The kid is growing, is funny and sweet, is cuddly and creative.
My relationship with my father has become . . . good. Comfortable. (Mostly) free of subtext.
Wine country is only an hour away.
I live in a place where we can "visit" snow.
Often, when I reread old posts, I think: "Hey. I can write."
My family is healthy. We sit down to eat together every night. We laugh a lot together, too.
I'm lucky. I'm lucky. I'm lucky.
Thank you for being a part of it.
(I can walk under ladders, Part 1)
Image: Castello di Amorosa.
I thought I should have something a little more cheery here for the end of the year, especially after an old friend looked me up, read a few posts, and was concerned about my emotional state. I explained that, despite the tone of the blog, things are going well. That I just needed to stop getting up at 3 a.m. What can I say? I need to express the darkness. But not always.
I can walk under ladders
My husband defended his dissertation.
I am typing in a sun-filled room, buoyed by three sleeping, contented kitties.
The laptop has been around almost six years and is going strong.
My marriage is better than it ever was.
There is more than enough food to eat today, this week, this month.
Our son is happy, healthy, and full of imagination.
Nora-dog is curled up in a patch of sun, perhaps dreaming of chasing squirrels or nibbling on giant biscuits.
Blogging has brought me both friendship and readers. I am grateful for both.
We live in a lovely house.
Twenty-four years ago today, something terrible happened, but I survived intact. Enough.
I am a writer.
I can transcend.
I'm lucky. I'm lucky. I'm lucky.
Thank you for being a part of it.