Well thank goodness for small favors. (And knock on wood.)
All of my anxiety dreams lately have been about performing, musical theatre mostly. And then my costume isn't finished, or I'm inexplicably in the audience when I need to be backstage, or I'm not sure I can hit the notes, or my mouth is full of Jell-o. Strawberry. With fruit floating in it.
Last night's anxiety dream involved trying to come up with tissu act for Hubba Hubba Revue's Enchantment Under the Sea show at 9 pm, when the doors have already opened.
The new dryer is supposed to have a steam mode which irons out wrinkles in nice clothes. Unfortunately, it appears that when the dryer was set up, the workers didn't know why there would be a water hose leading to the dryer, so they simply decided not to connect it. This is the story of my life, Ogre. It is an endless series of irritations.
Tonight I will go running. Later this week, I will go to DEFCON and enjoy a few days of vacation-like behavior with J in Vegas. Soon enough, everything will be okay.
I hope that your attendance at the thing in the desert means that I will see you in August.
Aside from a couple of days this weekend, I will be in the city for the entire month of August and the first three weeks of September. I am very excited about spending so much time at home. I am going to nest hard.
heh ... my local equivalent to "decision fatigue" is "I accept all defaults" or "my brain just wants to go: click next, click next, click finish. When can I click Finish?"
I also wonder what the subconscious intersection is with dreaming that one is in a class, preparing to take a final that they haven't studied for, but is also naked (or missing a bottom garment) and flying.
I want you to start meditating. I sense your resistance. It stinks of hippyish incense, something like patchouli, and quite possibly someone will say "chakras," which I'm thinking doesn't make your teeth fall out but sets them on edge.
So I've come up with a new way to meditate. It involves martinis. Focus on the olive, miss never. It's looking back at you. You and the olive are one. You are at peace with the universe, which presently is the size of a glass you can hold in your hand. The universe is also pleasantly chilled and very wet, even if you made it dry. If you're doing it right, the universe also tastes of juniper. Close your eyes. Everything is gonna be all right.
There. You feel better, don't you? I know I do. And thirsty. Even thirstier than I was.
I am a great big hippie, mister vox. You can tell because I do yoga, even if I do it mostly for the breathing and stretching. When my anxiety becomes especially bad, I meditate, which looks a lot like sitting on a pillow in a cross-legged position while breathing very slowly in a room with dimmed lights.
Drinking is its own strange thing. I have never been the sort of person who drinks because they're upset, but I've come to understand why some people drink to make their feelings stop. There are good days and bad days. For the most part, I am managing alright, but I will be glad when the house is done and I regret (a little) that I was unable to turn my misery into clever blog posts.
If I see the Buddha on the road, have no doubt that I will kill him.
Mostly that was just my way of saying maybe a drink will take the edge off. I retract the statement. Booze will never pass my lips again. See...well, I...hmmm. There's a part of my forehead that used to be curved and is now flat. I'm hoping it goes back into shape. My right arm isn't entirley useless, but its abilities have been reduced, restricted to light desk duty, as it were, though I still seem to have full, if painful, movement of my shoulder and if I cough or breathe too deeply it feels like there's an icepick plunging into my shoulder blade. After two days, the wounds stopped weeping, and my blood seems to have washed out of my pants quite nicely. Last night I had an anxiety attack coupled with a high level of paranoia. If I explained it, most people would gently suggest that I seek immediate treatment, but honestly the whole thing is still kind of freaking me out. Oh, and I went through a window. I mean through the glass. What is that? A windowpane, I guess. Which actually wasn't so bad, though I don't suggest
( ... )
Oh mister vox, you do know how to bury the lede. Please do not go through any windows while they are closed. This falls outside of their design parameters. Also--ouch. Please take care of yourself.
I am unlikely to start discussing Cosmic Consciousness. I'm not even sure about plain old human consciousness most of the time. I've spent much of this week in Las Vegas, watching other people make terrible mistakes with alcohol while I retained relatively good cheer. I am relieved that drinking to excess is not my thing--I tend to switch to water right around the time that the truly committed drinkers call for a round of shots--but I am sometimes disappointed that I don't have such an easy, if not particularly smart, way to put off my anxiety when it hits.
If you have a sudden desire to wallow around in Russian fatalism, I recommend the Victor Pelevin's "The Sacred Book of the Werewolf." The translation isn't always spot-on, but it's closer than most attempts to translate Pelevin's prose.
I empathize. I've chucked most of my officewear at this point, and I also sometimes wonder why I persist in keeping any around. Next time I have to interview for a job, I will buy something new and clean and stylish and well-fitting. :\
I was at a tiki party at Laurie's yesterday and I brought along Old Blood to try on with her present, because it doesn't fit right anymore and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. It was like some sort of fitness-noob comedy sketch.
I am finally in the process of designing Bunker 3's walk-in closet, which is also the laundry room/laundry sacrifice zone. An essential part of this process involves figuring out just how much clothing I have. I own a truly ludicrous quantity of clothing, but I've been using only a tiny subset--approximately one load of laundry--since moving out of Bunker 2 in December. I think this means that a lot of my existing wardrobe should be tossed out.
I have a dream that most of my clothes will actually fit into the closet, leaving my vast bedroom free of clutter, but this seems profoundly unlikely. I have never had a bedroom that did not look like a showgirl had exploded in it.
Comments 19
All of my anxiety dreams lately have been about performing, musical theatre mostly. And then my costume isn't finished, or I'm inexplicably in the audience when I need to be backstage, or I'm not sure I can hit the notes, or my mouth is full of Jell-o. Strawberry. With fruit floating in it.
Reply
Strawberry Jell-O with fruit in it? That sounds pretty bad. I am repulsed by the mouth feel of Jell-O. It is a strange thing.
Reply
Last night's anxiety dream involved trying to come up with tissu act for Hubba Hubba Revue's Enchantment Under the Sea show at 9 pm, when the doors have already opened.
Reply
*hugs your meat suit*
*checks your teeth*
Yep, still there! :D
Reply
The new dryer is supposed to have a steam mode which irons out wrinkles in nice clothes. Unfortunately, it appears that when the dryer was set up, the workers didn't know why there would be a water hose leading to the dryer, so they simply decided not to connect it. This is the story of my life, Ogre. It is an endless series of irritations.
Tonight I will go running. Later this week, I will go to DEFCON and enjoy a few days of vacation-like behavior with J in Vegas. Soon enough, everything will be okay.
I hope that your attendance at the thing in the desert means that I will see you in August.
Reply
That would be nice. :)
Reply
Aside from a couple of days this weekend, I will be in the city for the entire month of August and the first three weeks of September. I am very excited about spending so much time at home. I am going to nest hard.
Reply
I also wonder what the subconscious intersection is with dreaming that one is in a class, preparing to take a final that they haven't studied for, but is also naked (or missing a bottom garment) and flying.
Reply
So I've come up with a new way to meditate. It involves martinis. Focus on the olive, miss never. It's looking back at you. You and the olive are one. You are at peace with the universe, which presently is the size of a glass you can hold in your hand. The universe is also pleasantly chilled and very wet, even if you made it dry. If you're doing it right, the universe also tastes of juniper. Close your eyes. Everything is gonna be all right.
There. You feel better, don't you? I know I do. And thirsty. Even thirstier than I was.
vox (needs to go buy some olives now)
Reply
I am a great big hippie, mister vox. You can tell because I do yoga, even if I do it mostly for the breathing and stretching. When my anxiety becomes especially bad, I meditate, which looks a lot like sitting on a pillow in a cross-legged position while breathing very slowly in a room with dimmed lights.
Drinking is its own strange thing. I have never been the sort of person who drinks because they're upset, but I've come to understand why some people drink to make their feelings stop. There are good days and bad days. For the most part, I am managing alright, but I will be glad when the house is done and I regret (a little) that I was unable to turn my misery into clever blog posts.
If I see the Buddha on the road, have no doubt that I will kill him.
Reply
Reply
Oh mister vox, you do know how to bury the lede. Please do not go through any windows while they are closed. This falls outside of their design parameters. Also--ouch. Please take care of yourself.
I am unlikely to start discussing Cosmic Consciousness. I'm not even sure about plain old human consciousness most of the time. I've spent much of this week in Las Vegas, watching other people make terrible mistakes with alcohol while I retained relatively good cheer. I am relieved that drinking to excess is not my thing--I tend to switch to water right around the time that the truly committed drinkers call for a round of shots--but I am sometimes disappointed that I don't have such an easy, if not particularly smart, way to put off my anxiety when it hits.
If you have a sudden desire to wallow around in Russian fatalism, I recommend the Victor Pelevin's "The Sacred Book of the Werewolf." The translation isn't always spot-on, but it's closer than most attempts to translate Pelevin's prose.
Reply
I was at a tiki party at Laurie's yesterday and I brought along Old Blood to try on with her present, because it doesn't fit right anymore and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. It was like some sort of fitness-noob comedy sketch.
Reply
I am finally in the process of designing Bunker 3's walk-in closet, which is also the laundry room/laundry sacrifice zone. An essential part of this process involves figuring out just how much clothing I have. I own a truly ludicrous quantity of clothing, but I've been using only a tiny subset--approximately one load of laundry--since moving out of Bunker 2 in December. I think this means that a lot of my existing wardrobe should be tossed out.
I have a dream that most of my clothes will actually fit into the closet, leaving my vast bedroom free of clutter, but this seems profoundly unlikely. I have never had a bedroom that did not look like a showgirl had exploded in it.
Reply
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