Fill My Tank...

I need to fill my tank. 

My idea tank is sort of empty. Or at least I don't want to write about the things that are happening around me right now. 

The news is a constant barrage of what is happening in Palestine, what is happening in Ukraine, what latest nonsense Trump is spouting, the latest Trump trial developments, the idiotic whinings of people who just can't vote for Biden because their lives won't be negatively affected by Trump winning so they have the privilege of pretending to make a difference by not doing a damn thing. 

I don't want to write about any of that. I've written about most of it before. 

So I need something else to fill my tank. 

That's the real challenge with writing as much as I want to. Not just the fiction, but the essays. I could do fewer but better. Like actually research things instead of just posting my ideas. 

Hahahahahaha!!

Oh that's rich!

I don't even like researching for my fiction. I know there are writers out there who love the research part. The people who write period pieces for instance. They love getting into the weeds about when things were invented and when they were in wider use. How people dressed, how they spoke. All of the nitty gritty. 

I am not a fan. 

I like reading interesting things, but only just because they are interesting. I like being able to follow the rabbit down each and every hole and not worry about if it's actually valid for what I'm working on.

So I'm trying to figure out how to fill my tank with something else to write about. Like what could I be doing on a daily basis that I could write about as well. 

The guided meditation app that I've been using has a theme they follow for their sessions. Maybe that? 

Like today was on setting boundaries, so I'm not going to write about that one, but maybe going forward I could use those as jumping off spaces? (The reason I'm not going to write about it is that I happen to be really good at boundaries. No is a complete sentence. How you feel about a situation isn't on me. I don't do guilt. I've written about all of this before.)

But maybe that's what I'll do for a little bit. Take one thing out of my daily routine and expound on it a little. Not always the guided meditation part but something in the day? 

Like today I'm busy pondering how to fill my tank with ideas for daily writing. 

So so far this is a great idea and totally works. 

Cleaning Fumes...

Cleaning the bathrooms this morning and making up limericks about a friend. As you do...

Okay, maybe only as I do. 

And he asked. 

Or at least he asked for something creative to post and the people he contacted are known for song parodies and limericks/word play. So I'm going with that's what he wanted. 

And it's just fun to rhyme with Connecticut. 

A lot of time I get writing inspiration when I'm cleaning. I always call it cleaning fume inspired but it's actually boredom inspired. Or physically busy but mentally unstimulated. It works for a lot of things. Stuck on a problem at work? Go for a walk. Don't take a call while you do it or listen to a podcast or talk to a friend, just go for a walk by yourself and let your mind chew on it while your body is busy. 

While you are doing those physical tasks that you don't really have to think much about let your mind wander and work on whatever it is that has you stuck. Don't constantly fill that space with music or audio books or podcasts or phone calls. 

Get a little bored. It's good for you. 

Of course that's easier said than done. We've all been trained now to look at our phones constantly. Or have multiple tabs open on our computers. Switching back and forth from social media site to news site to books online to that group chat we've got going...

It's hard to get disconnected enough to get bored.

Which is why cleaning works for me. I can't be online and scrubbing a toilet at the same time. I can't check my feeds while I'm cleaning grout. It just doesn't work. It's a forced break. 

I also leave my phone in a different room when I'm reading. I LOVE to read. But I also know that if my phone is next to me I am going to reach for it and see if anyone has liked or commented or posted... the habit is strong. 

It's another thing I'm working on in this new section of the year. Letting myself just sit and be and get a little bored. Letting my mind wander and seeing if I can catch hold of some good writing ideas. I've picked back up the Calm app for a little short section of guided meditation but this is less meditation and more daydreaming. 

I know, all those years of teachers and parents telling you to stop daydreaming and I'm here telling you to do more of it. Get bored. Let your mind wander. See where it goes. Follow at a safe distance so you don't spook any ideas away...

There once was a girl from Albuquerque
Her brain it was wired quite quirky
Sit still and daydream
Was her latest planned scheme
To get clear ideas from murky

Connecticut is just easier to work with!

Look At This Photograph...

 She stared at the photo on the wall.

“Where was this taken?”

Dale gave her a confused look, “In Acapulco.”

“It’s really lovely. I like the balance of the shot. The cliffs are off center enough to make you feel like maybe they aren’t really there.”

“I’m glad you like it. Considering you took it.”

“What? I did not. I’ve never even been to Acapulco.”

“You have. We went a lot back in the 90s. It was one of our favorite vacation spots.”

“No. It’s too dangerous in Mexico. We would never have gone there. They hate Americans and wouldn’t even let us cross the border if we tried.”

“What are you talking about? You can go to Mexico. You can vacation there. They don’t hate Americans.”

She just shook her head and moved to the next picture. “Are you going to try and convince me I took this one too?”

“No, clearly you didn’t take that one. You are in that one. We hired a photographer for these family shots.” Dale gestured at a series of photographs. Each with a different configuration of people in them.

“Whose family?”

“Ours.” He started to point out people, “This is your mother, this is your sister, our son, our daughter-in-law, our grandchildren.”

“Where is the picture of my daughter?”

“Your daughter? Do you mean Becca? Here, your daughter-in-law.”

“No, my daughter. I have a daughter. I know I do.”

Dale shook his head slowly, “We don’t have a daughter. We have a son, and a daughter-in-law.”

She scowled then squinted at the pictures, “And you say I’m in this one?”

“Yes, this is you.”

She looked at her face in the photo, “I’m quite attractive, aren’t I?”

He laughed, “Yes, I think so. Obviously.”

“Why obviously? Attractiveness is subjective. You might not find me attractive.”

“I’m your husband. So clearly, I find you attractive.”

“My husband? Really? Oh, I thought you were doing that condescending we.”

“No, I am your husband, this is our family. Yours and mine.”

“Hunh, I assumed I was a lesbian.”

“What? Why did you assume you were a lesbian?”

She ran her hand over her head, “Well, my hair is all shaved off and my whole wardrobe seems to consist of comfortable clothes.”

“I can assure you that you are not a lesbian. I am your husband. We’ve been married for almost 40 years.”

“And has it been a good marriage?”

“Yes, of course it has.”

“Has it? Really?”

“Yes, I mean of course there have been ups and downs, there is no way to have any sort of long-term relationship that doesn’t have its highs and lows but for the most part the good has outweighed the bad. We’ve been happy.”

“And are we happy now?”

Dale looked up at the ceiling for a moment to collect his thoughts. And to keep the tears that had formed in his eyes from spilling out. “We are struggling right now to find a new balance.”

“Would you like to be happy again?”

“Very much.”

“So why do you stay?”

“No, I mean, I’d like to be happy with you. I’d like to get back to a place where you were happy with me. I think we can get there again. It will just take time.”

“What happened? Why can’t I seem to remember the same things that you do?”

He hated this part. The part when she asked what happened. He didn’t want to explain it again and again. He liked the days when she woke up and mostly remembered who she was and who she had been. The days when she didn’t think the things that had been on the TV in the hospital were real. He really did need to complain again about the nurse who kept the TV set to Fox News while she was in a coma. That stuff did seep in.

“There was an accident. You were in a car crash and were thrown from the vehicle. You were unconscious and had a bad brain bleed when you were found. You spent a while in a medically induced coma. Physically you are mostly recovered now, a little stiffness when it rains. But mentally sometimes you forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Everything. Who you are. Who I am. Everything.”

“Sometimes?”

“Yes, sometimes you wake up and you’re fine. You remember almost everything.”

“Just almost?”

“Yes, the days leading up to the accident and the accident itself seem to be gone, but the doctor said that was normal. That the trauma from an accident that severe sometimes wipes out a block of time around it.”

“So, these are the highs and lows right now? The times I remember and the times I forget?”

“Yes.”

“Which is which?”

“What?”

“Which is the high and which is the low? The times I remember who you are or the times I forget?”

“That’s a strange thing to ask.”

“Maybe. Probably. I guess I don’t know what is weird and what isn’t. I think I’d like to take a nap now. Maybe the me that wakes up will be the one who remembers everything, and you can just forget this conversation happened.”

Dale smiled at her and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry about it. We have all the time in the world for you to remember things. We’ll get there.”

She walked back to her room and closed the door. Sitting down she opened the drawer on her bedside table and pulled out the note she had found there this morning. “DON’T BELIEVE ANYTHING HE SAYS! HE’S LYING TO YOU!” If only she could remember who wrote it.

 

 (Writing prompt: start your story with a character staring at a photograph they don’t remember taking)

Dangerous but Not Afraid...

 A lot of my Albuquerque friends are posting a Top Ten list right now. It's for the top ten most dangerous places to live in the US per 100K people. Albuquerque is number 2, Kalamazoo is number ten. I was a little disappointed Memphis took our top spot and Brent was stunned Kalamazoo was listed and disagreed completely.

We have very different views of our hometowns.

I'm never shocked when Albuquerque shows up on lists of crime or homicide or random violence. It's always been like that. I don't know anyone who has lived there for any length of time that hasn't either had it happen to them or know someone whose car was either broken into or flat out stolen. 

But growing up, even though we all knew it was a dangerous place, I don't really remember being scared about it. We had riots at my high school. I was jumped in middle school. I had friends who lived in the part of town we called the War Zone, but I can only remember like one time being actually afraid that something really bad was going to happen to me that felt like a random bit of violence.

When I got jumped it wasn't unprovoked. It wasn't my fault, I'd never say that, but it was personal. I've written about it before, I rejected a boy, he didn't take it well but being raised properly he would never hit a girl so he got a friend to do it. The time from the blog I linked it was someone trying to scare me but I was never actually in any danger. The school riots were issues other people started that just grew into big fights. But nothing truly scary. The War Zone was just a neighborhood. Where you made sure you locked your car and front door all the time. And kept your head on a swivel. 

And I think that's a lot of it. We were raised to be aware of where we were and to be careful. I don't walk around engrossed in my phone or my music now because I was raised to keep your ears open and your eyes up. I also was taught to be wary of the police, which I didn't realize was odd until the George Floyd murder happened and people were discussing "The Talk" that Black families have with their kids that white ones don't. And I realized that Dad totally gave us that talk. It wasn't until that summer that I wondered if we got the talk because of how dark Dad's skin was. But it was too late to ask him by that point. 

But also, you just knew the police in Albuquerque were corrupt, sure not every cop was just as likely to shake you down or hurt you, some were probably fine. But all of them knew that some weren't so were they fine? I mean the A stands for All for a reason... And even as recently as a few years ago they (APD) released a video that they thought would exonerate them in public opinion for shooting a homeless man, and it was basically a snuff film and did NOT make it any better. So I don't really think the cops there are any better now than they were when I was growing up.

So I grew up knowing that you kept your head on a swivel, you locked your car, you couldn't count on the police to help you out and yet...I don't remember being scared. All of that sounds like we were scared though doesn't it?

But it wasn't scared so much as aware. 

It was a dangerous place to grow up. It's still a dangerous place to live. Though not as bad as Memphis apparently. But like I said in the poem, it was also beautiful and the food is the best you are going to get anywhere. And when I moved away that's what I missed. I missed the sunrise over the mountains and the sunset over the mesa. I missed the way the thunder would roll through the valley during a storm. I missed the times the clouds boiled over the mountain like someone on the East side had started up a fog machine. I miss the colors of the Balloon Fiesta. I missed sitting outside on an October night eating apples from Dixon's. 

I'm sort of nonchalant about the violence. It just is. I can remember talking to someone who had visited Albuquerque and they were so excited when they found out I grew up there. One of the things they loved was the architecture and how so many of the buildings had all of this decorative wrought iron on them. I laughed and said it wasn't decorative, it was functional. It made it harder to break in. You locked yourself up behind the bars at night. 

But still, we weren't scared. We were cautious. We were aware that things could go bad. We knew that there was a good chance most of the people around you were armed with a gun or a knife or a bat or something else. We knew that even the sweetest looking little girl next door could fuck your shit up if you pissed her off. And we just acted accordingly. 

Part of that is why I have zero patience for the pearl clutchers now. The ones who want to criminalize not having a home, or having an addiction. The ones who say they are so scared because someone in a tent is living behind the grocery store. Someone they have never had an interaction with. Someone who has never said a word to them. Just them being there is so scary. 

Give me a fucking break. 

I grew up someplace that is quantifiably dangerous. And I walked through that world just fine.

You'll be okay because someone else is in a rough spot. Trust me. You're okay. 

Stop being afraid of things that aren't even dangerous. 

Start being aware of the world around you and what you need to do to, yes, keep yourself safe, but also maybe make it a safer world for everyone else too. Like fighting for housing first initiatives if the homeless people scare you so much. Like investing in anti- addiction policies if the people who are using drugs are so terrifying to you. You can make it safer for them as well as feeling safer yourself. 

Trust me, I mean I didn't grow up in that hellhole that is Memphis, but we were close. 

Tinker Bell...

I hate Tinker Bell. 

I know, it's a strong statement but I cannot stand her. 

Or I guess I should say how Disney treats her. 

She's the star of the park, lights the castle up, starts the fireworks, there is a fairy garden and a whole series of fairy cartoons with a cast of various fairies living their best spinoff lives. So much merch. She's treated like one of the princesses. 

But she's not a princess, she's a villain. 

Which now you're like, wait a second, your favorite Disney character is a villain. But she knows she's a villain. Disney knows she's a villain. We all know she's a villain. She has a great villain arc. When they tried to make a movie saying, She's not a villain, she's just misunderstood and mistreated I HATED that. She's a villain. And that's okay. Except that it's only been like the last decade where they finally created good merch for her. Because they figured out that some of us like the villains.

If Tink were treated like a villain it would be...well I don't know because they never have. 

Even though she straight up tried to murder Wendy. Clap for yourself you nasty thing.

So a couple weeks ago Dana sent me Tink's villain song. There is an artist who does a lot of these types of songs and Dana knew I'd for sure love Tink's. And I do. It's actually a good song aside from being a more honest take on her. She is a villain. For whatever reason she is one, she is. I also love the one she did for Belle but it sort of brings me back to the point. 

Belle is the hero of her story. Giving her a villain song is a twist. 

Making Tink a villain isn't a twist. She's always been a villain.

But she's cute. So...

After I listened to the song and reading some of the comments there seemed to be a lot of Tink lore I had no clue about so I decided I should read the original Peter Pan book and see if maybe I had her all wrong. 

I did not. The back story they were talking about in the comments was stuff from Disney's Tinker Bell series. Ugh.

The book itself? Oh holy shit... I had to keep reminding myself that it was written in 1904 and so that's why it was a batshit crazy, violent, sexist, racist...well mess.

So by reading the book I reinforced that Tink is still given a pass because she's cute, but she flat out tried to murder Wendy. I also got a better glimpse at how awful every other character was. Peter and Tink being the worst but nobody being decent really. I cannot imagine reading it as a bedtime story to a child. Just so much nope...

Though I do have to apologize to Disney for one thing. I thought they made her a little sexpot. But no, that's canon. He describes her outfit and her figure in the book. So...yeah. Sorry, Disney, you weren't the ones who originally gave her a pass because she's cute, that's always been there, you just didn't change it. 

And you gave her all of that merch. 

Ugh. 

No Weigh...

It's May 10th and I've not stepped on the scale yet this month.

Which was the goal. No Weigh May.

But it's been a lot harder than I had thought it would be. 

I had to move the scale from it's normal spot so I wouldn't just step on it by habit. Then I had to move it even further back into a cubby hole so I wouldn't be tempted to step on it. Even though I would bet you dollars to donuts my weight is in the same 3 pound range it's been in since we came home from Hawaii. But I still feel a little itchy that I don't KNOW.

And it's such a weird thing. I don't need to know my weight to function in the world. I never have to tell someone my weight likes it's a secret code to open a door.

I do know that it can determine my mood negatively or positively for no real reason at all. Which is why I decided to stop doing it in the first place. So I shouldn't even be tempted to step on that scale.

And yet, here we are. 

Funny to think that not doing something is going to be my biggest goal challenge yet. 

But for now, as of May 10th I have not stepped on the scale. I'm hoping by the end of the month it will be like Dry July last year and just have taken hold. No Weigh May back for a repeat June engagement! 

Maybe. 

But maybe not. I might jump right back on June 1st and I'm trying to make sure I'm okay either way. No matter what feels like the right thing to do that will be okay. 

I have years of disordered eating and body image issues that are probably never going to fully resolve. I'm better than I was, but mostly only because I know that I have issues now. Not knowing and just falling into destructive patterns is really easy. Knowing that you have destructive patterns you can either recognize when they start or you can tell other people that you need help for when they start and you aren't noticing. 

But I have reconciled myself to knowing that I'm probably never going to love the way I look. Or not feel like I need to lose just X number of pounds to really be okay. Or that I won't think some foods are good and some are bad. I try. I really do, but it's been ingrained into the very heart of who I am so it's always lurking. 

And that's okay. 

I just need to be aware. I need to recognize when the spiral is about to happen. And I need to be aware enough to throw a monkey wrench into the gears before they really get turning. 

Like No Weigh May. 

Stop the spiral before it takes hold. 

Even if now I feel like I'm a little adrift that's better than being carried away without realizing it. 

Or at least that's what I'm telling myself instead of stepping on the scale. 

Twenty more days to go. 

Brutal...

It is beautiful. 
It is brutal.
Beautiful brutality?

Skies so blue and cloudless they almost hurt to look at. 
Skies so devoid of anything you will burn in the sun
And then freeze in the night. 

Adorable desert animals.
Carrying the plague. 
Look but don't touch, or breathe too deeply.

But you have to breathe deeply.
So high above the sea the air struggles to sustain you
Strengthening your lungs, weakening your heart

We are proud of the fighters
Championship boxers have their own streets
Holm broke that girl's jaw and we cheered

We drive fast on flat roads
And die young on sharp turns
Trying to get away from something we can't name

It's beautiful there.
It's brutal there.
Beautiful brutality we run from and to

The food is wonderful.
Nourishing, filling, delicious.
So hot it will burn your eyes, your nose, your mouth

Tears streaming down you face
Nose running freely. Lips tingling as you cough
It's the best, but not for the weak and it makes us love it more

We are proud of our brutality
We are proud of our beauty
We are beautiful and brutal

How many languages spoken in one day?
You understand and duck to avoid the chancla 
Or to lean in for the besos from su abuela.

Tortillas, frybread, posole, enchiladas
Mariachi, Pow Wows, balloons in the sky
We are here for the fiestas

And the Coronas
And the tequila
And the sirens and accidents and headshakes, what did you expect?

Born and raised in brutality and beauty
I am proud of where I came from
And glad I made it out