Grabbing the Oars

For a little over a month I’ve been drifting. First let me backtrack, I started this year with an astonishing amount of zest and purpose. I was determined to work smarter, less. And until last month I was doing really well, on top of things more or less, working smarter, not harder.

Then I went to the Writers’ Federation Annual General Meeting one weekend and the next weekend I went to Moncton to interview an author. The effect has been devastating. I’ve drifted back into my old habits — working day and night, unfocused, without vision and drive. And the result is STRESS! I’m stressed because I feel so out of control. And when I’m stressed, my fuse gets really short and I start going off for no reason.

In the course of one month I’ve gone from a peaceful in control almost zen-like demeanor to a completely out of control homicidal maniac — it ain’t pretty, but I’m not lying.

So, my goal for this day is to reach out and grab those oars floating around me and begin to steer the boat again. Today, I will accomplish something, I will finish at least one task. I will take some time for me to exercise. I will cook. I will work no more than 8 hours at my job. I will, I will, I will.

I’ve already begun đŸ™‚

Mood: Hopeful

Listening to: Saulisbury Hill, Peter Gabriel

Drinking: tea with 2%

Hair: light brown

Madness & Poetry

There is something very calming about reading poetry aloud.

A couple of nights ago at the height of a raging hormonal PMS fit, my sister dared to utter those dirty little words that always follow, “No offence but . . . ”

“. . . you’re not a mother. You can’t understand.”

When I’m not a hormonal mess and in completely good spirits this drives me nuts. Not because it isn’t true, because it is. I am not a mother so I don’t know what it’s like, how it feels.

I’m also not a homicidal maniac, a pubescent boy, a victim of rape, or a holocaust survivor. I can’t understand what any of those things feel like either.

The thing that drives me absolutely mad when my sisters play the “you’re not a mother” card is that somehow it implies I’m incapable of feeling a love that strong.

But all of this is neither here nor there, the point of this post is the poetry. After my sister uttered the hateful words, I couldn’t sleep for crying (yes I’ll admit, mostly due to the hormonal battle being fought inside me. Rarely have I sobbed so loud and with such gusto. It was my Oscar worthy crying scene.

I worked myself up into such a state, only reading poetry aloud could calm me.

I read mostly P.K. Paige and some Allan Cooper. Soon, I was smiling and wistful. Poetry does that. I highly recommend it when you’ve got the blues. Stereotypically, all poets are mad, but maybe the relationship between poetry and madness is really as the cure for madness rather than created by madness.

Something to think about.

I’ve just learned that there will be a poetry workshop in August. I think I should take it, learn how to express myself in poems if such a thing can be taught.

Mood: Lazy

Listening to: Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a theme by Paganini

Drinking: had a timmy’s earlier, extra large, double cream

Hair: brown and straight