Nail Polish

 I suck at nail polish. Seriously. 

I have no nails. I always cut them back. That's leftover habit from restaurant work. It's just easier to keep them clean when they barely exist. But I thought it might be fun to put polish on them. Just fun. 

No.

I'm particularly bad doing my right hand. It's smudgy and uneven. 

It doesn't matter. I rarely leave my nest and the only thing you can see on TikTok is that they are painted. Unless I stick them into the camera, which I have done. I wanted to talk about how much I love chipped nails because they remind me of the neighborhood girls when I was a kid. 

There was a time when I got acrylics. I enjoyed having long nails. It changes the way you move your hands. However, the acrylics tear up your real nails. 

I'm not that good at the beauty routines in general. No face masks. No product in my hair. Just me. Raw. 

Shrug. 

Communal

 It's Earth Day. I'm thinking about the Whole Earth Catalogue. I used to go through it again and again imagining the commune I would live in with my friends. I sort of did eventually. Briefly. I feel like I might not be designed for communal living. 

In my job history I tried to be the hardest worker. In some ways there's nothing wrong with that but I was so invested in proving my worth. I was in the bathroom once with the baker and another cook. We were all washing our hands. When we were finished, I used my paper towel to wipe off the counter. The baker asked me why I was doing it. She said it wasn't my job and it was someone else's. She was right. And the person whose job it was would not be there till much later. It took me less than a minute to do it. So why not? I've never really known how to think about that moment. Because two things were true. The reflex to do something that wasn't my job was strong. Why? Why did I feel like I had to give more just to part of ... anything?

Why do I feel like I have to recover from time with other people? Why do I exert so much emotional energy in my relationships? I have friends who help me all the time. Why do I worry that they will resent the help they give me and leave me? Why am I frustrated when I can't get the help I need?

I actually have the answers to these questions after years of shadow work. 

And I'm too broken to do much anymore. 

I have answers and I still have questions. 

 

Sliding

 Did I mention the frozen shoulder?

Awhile back I woke up with pain in my left shoulder. I thought I'd slept on it funny but it didn't go away. My doctor thought it might be frozen shoulder. I've been managing it with heat and ice. Some cannabis balm and stretching. I have days with almost no pain and fairly good range of motion. I have days where any random move causes excruciating pain. 

Honestly, this last year was filled with health problems. One thing seemed to lead to another. And, of course, I'm old. This writing is part of me trying to slow the fall. I know that physical limits are part of aging but I also know my feeling about life is part of it. Writing, even slow, spaced out writing, gives me ... life.

I am given to collapsing inward.  I aways have been. I spent a lot of time alone as a kid. It became a habit. It's also a trauma response. I tend to mask when I'm with other people. Even people I know. Even people who love me. I've always known this but it's only been recently that I understood it as a trauma response. Previously I understood it as my personally. 

I spend most of my time alone with a book in my hands. And I like that. I can also feel myself dropping a mask or two when I am with people. 

The link between physical issues and the process of understanding why we are who we are parallel tracks. We have all been through a time of stress that isn't really letting up.  Ailments (inner or outer) seem obvious. 

But. 

Jeez.

I'm just trying to plant my feet.

Hey. Look. It's still morning. 

Spoons

 I made the intention to post in the morning not remembering that I spend Wednesday mornings with Mandy and Ramona (her dog). I either need to be flexible or post in the afternoon. Or at midnight! 

Two commenters on my last post. George who I met in the blogger years and Lisa who I met on TikTok It was like my Internet past and present meeting up. I'm really emo about these things. George reminded me to conserve my spoons. Wise, as always. Especially judging by how often I stare into space as I try to put together a post. Part of the hope in all of this social media exertion is that I'll find more spoons. 

I'm doing poetry fragments on Twitter as I have for a few years. I'm using Elizabeth Bishop poems this year and really enjoying it. When April is over my Twitter activity will wane. Facebook. I'll always check in but I'm not active.

TikTok gives me spoons. Usually. There are days on social media that suck the will to live out of me. Usually because of communication that doesn't click. Which is also true in life. Oh lord, please don't let me be misunderstood. 

There are days on TikTok that fill me up. I have carved out a corner in the app filled with really lovely, interesting people. Like Lisa. The beginning of our relationship was her recommending a book that I bought immediately and loved. An auspicious beginning. 

I did put my entire book on YouTube but I don't think I'll do anything else there. The book took all the spoons I had. I'm taking a break from it. 

I'm going to be happy if I get this out before five. 

Heh. 

Slow

 Slept really well last night. And still I'm kind of tired. I don't think you ever really catch up. 

I'm trying to get form back into my day. 

Yesterday I saw Martha Stewart on Facebook pitching a sunflower door wreath in blue and yellow. There is a donation to an organization but I didn't read much about it. It feels like exploitation. There were more ads for more things. This is what we do in capitalism. We throw money at things and wear our support. I'm not totally against these things I just think they can be shallow.

A month or so ago the bakeries and restaurants in the area donated a percentage of sales for a day to the World Central Kitchen. That felt like a community rallying with a specific intent. I bought cookies, coffee, lunch, everything I could. I felt confident that the money would go to feeding people. 

I can't articulate my feelings about what's happening. Everything in my head feels like bombast and rhetoric. Watching the new is relentlessly horrific. 

And writing is slow. 

Heh.  

Bad Night

 I slept badly. My stomach felt the need to remind me how limited my food choices are. Last year I was having a lot of stomach issues. I had an endoscopy and found out that the lining was raw. The doctors thought it was Advil use. Which is likely. I've taken lots of it for joint paint. I've also taken handfuls of supplements. Some of the bad behavior of my youth probably factors in. I could barely eat for months. I am better but I think I'll always be limited. It's not really amount of food that is a problem. I am limited in that way but it's immediate. I get full really quickly. It's about spice and acid and things like that. I stopped drinking coffee daily. I have a cup, sometimes two a week. Sigh. I can have a small amount of chocolate every day but there is a limit. If I go over that limit, I'm in pain. I ate more acidic food than I should have for a few days. More (Easter) chocolate. So. Bad night. 

Everything is starting later. I wanted to write in the morning. It's the middle of the afternoon. Does this matter? Not really. It only matters that I write something.

I'm woozy from lack of sleep. 

   

Untethered

 I just finished reading Real Estate by Deborah Levy. I am quite enamored with her writing. There are two main themes in the book. Sort of. She is never limited by a theme. She is about to turn sixty. Her two daughters are adults One is about to leave for college. She has made a living writing for some time but not enough to buy a house. She has begun to long for a house. She sees an egg-shaped fireplace and it becomes a central descriptor for what she wants. The fireplace and a pomegranate tree in the yard. 

She is also preoccupied with writing a female character in a different way. She is (sort of) pondering sexism. When people are talking to her about things she doesn't really want to talk about she is thinking about her writing. 

I remember when I would be thinking about something I was writing. Sitting on a bus. Trying to watch television. Making dinner. And the writing would be rattling in my brain. I'm sort of there now. Now that I can type with both hands. 

I'm also nervous about having lost the ability to focus. My thinking has been untethered for so long.