Swim, Walk, Swim, Walk
I have entered the stage of grieving that is known as the Theme Park of Constant Mood Swings.
Every time I go on the emotional roller-coaster there, I think about the time I was . . . I don't know if I should say how old I was . . . the time I was a teenager and had taken a mood-altering substance with a friend.*
We were in the car, and I noticed her staring at the road as the line flashed past and muttering.
"What are you saying?" I asked.
She didn't answer, but when I leaned over I could hear her whispering "Swim, walk. Swim, walk. Swim, walk." And as we went faster, she sped up, until the lines were stuttering past and she was going right along with them. "SWIMwalkSWIMwalkSWIMwalk."
The next day she told me that the dotted lines in the road had looked like tropical islands in a sea of black and as we drove past, she imagined swimming between them, then running along the islands, then swimming, then running, and so on and so on, until as we drove it was just frantic.
We were both amused by this to no end, but I have never forgotten it, because it seemed to encapsulate a certain emotional truth that I sometimes feel. We're always either swimming or walking, we don't get to quit, we can't control how fast we go, and there is only one road. For reference, by the way, I don't like tropical islands, I can't swim, and I am none too fond of walking on the beach, so the metaphor must be seen in that context.
I realize that my journal reads like an emotional teeter-totter. The truth is that I'm not really okay, but that I'm certain I'll live and come out of this just fine in my own good time. That time is just not yet, obviously. And that's all right.
A couple of friends have been unwell recently, and Sargon's mother has not been well. I'm reluctant to speak more of it until I know exactly what's going on, but I'm really not pleased. This year has already involved far more doctor crap than I am comfortable with. I'm barely through licking my wounds over my last few scraps. The last thing I need is to have to be dragonishly protective of another very sick loved one.
Not that I won't do it, mind. It just makes me bitchy.
Progress is being made despite the ups and downs. I don't want any of you to think that it's horrible to be me or anything. Mostly life is really, really nice. Yes, there's a nagging sense that it could all go wrong and take a turn straight down the mineshaft at any moment, but I've had that feeling since I was twelve. It's nothing new. It's my default setting. If vacuum cleaners and gigolos have a "shag" setting as their default, then vampires and I have "brood."
I'm not writing anything that has me all fired up, but I am plugging away at some ideas. Inspiration will return whether I like it or not. I finished the new dragon box today, though I suppose he is technically a wyvern. Whatever he is, I now have a sense of accomplishment. It gets varnished tomorrow and mailed Monday, and there will be pictures of it once it reaches its owner. Every time I do a new box, I think it's the prettiest one I have ever done. I am very proud of this one. Yes, they are hard to part with, but the real happiness for me is in the doing of them. Keeping them around . . . well, it's nice, but the fewer of my own pieces I have, the more I tend to paint.
Right now I am exhausted and my hands are very tired, so I'm going to sleep for about a million years.
* No, I do not advocate trying said mood-altering substance just to see what it is like, no matter how cool it sounds. It's all fun and games until you flip the fuck out. Also, the bad stuff will fuck your shit up like nobody's business. If five hours of the dry heaves and a 12-hour panic attack sound like your idea of fun, though, don't let me stop you. I personally think it compared unfavorably to swallowing rat poison.
Every time I go on the emotional roller-coaster there, I think about the time I was . . . I don't know if I should say how old I was . . . the time I was a teenager and had taken a mood-altering substance with a friend.*
We were in the car, and I noticed her staring at the road as the line flashed past and muttering.
"What are you saying?" I asked.
She didn't answer, but when I leaned over I could hear her whispering "Swim, walk. Swim, walk. Swim, walk." And as we went faster, she sped up, until the lines were stuttering past and she was going right along with them. "SWIMwalkSWIMwalkSWIMwalk."
The next day she told me that the dotted lines in the road had looked like tropical islands in a sea of black and as we drove past, she imagined swimming between them, then running along the islands, then swimming, then running, and so on and so on, until as we drove it was just frantic.
We were both amused by this to no end, but I have never forgotten it, because it seemed to encapsulate a certain emotional truth that I sometimes feel. We're always either swimming or walking, we don't get to quit, we can't control how fast we go, and there is only one road. For reference, by the way, I don't like tropical islands, I can't swim, and I am none too fond of walking on the beach, so the metaphor must be seen in that context.
I realize that my journal reads like an emotional teeter-totter. The truth is that I'm not really okay, but that I'm certain I'll live and come out of this just fine in my own good time. That time is just not yet, obviously. And that's all right.
A couple of friends have been unwell recently, and Sargon's mother has not been well. I'm reluctant to speak more of it until I know exactly what's going on, but I'm really not pleased. This year has already involved far more doctor crap than I am comfortable with. I'm barely through licking my wounds over my last few scraps. The last thing I need is to have to be dragonishly protective of another very sick loved one.
Not that I won't do it, mind. It just makes me bitchy.
Progress is being made despite the ups and downs. I don't want any of you to think that it's horrible to be me or anything. Mostly life is really, really nice. Yes, there's a nagging sense that it could all go wrong and take a turn straight down the mineshaft at any moment, but I've had that feeling since I was twelve. It's nothing new. It's my default setting. If vacuum cleaners and gigolos have a "shag" setting as their default, then vampires and I have "brood."
I'm not writing anything that has me all fired up, but I am plugging away at some ideas. Inspiration will return whether I like it or not. I finished the new dragon box today, though I suppose he is technically a wyvern. Whatever he is, I now have a sense of accomplishment. It gets varnished tomorrow and mailed Monday, and there will be pictures of it once it reaches its owner. Every time I do a new box, I think it's the prettiest one I have ever done. I am very proud of this one. Yes, they are hard to part with, but the real happiness for me is in the doing of them. Keeping them around . . . well, it's nice, but the fewer of my own pieces I have, the more I tend to paint.
Right now I am exhausted and my hands are very tired, so I'm going to sleep for about a million years.
* No, I do not advocate trying said mood-altering substance just to see what it is like, no matter how cool it sounds. It's all fun and games until you flip the fuck out. Also, the bad stuff will fuck your shit up like nobody's business. If five hours of the dry heaves and a 12-hour panic attack sound like your idea of fun, though, don't let me stop you. I personally think it compared unfavorably to swallowing rat poison.