A former writing professor of mine once mentioned to our class that keeping a notebook on hand at all times was a great habit for those who like to play with words and thoughts to adopt. We tend not to remember as well as we planned those important random thoughts we enthusiastically commit to memory in the moment.
Or perhaps that’s a “me” thing.
I took it to heart, and have notebooks a plenty scattered about: they’re in the living room, the bedroom, the office, in my purse, in the centre console of the car, and tucked into pockets in my luggage, but if we’re being honest, they mostly serve as dust collectors. I like notebooks for journalling, but I tend to jot down my thoughts in the Notes app on my phone or on Post-its that I stick to my computer screen as inspiration and nag.
I do a similar thing with memes that I save to the desktop. I had big plans for sharing and/or commentary when I save them. What I’ve come to realize about myself, however, is that what I put off for later is often left undone. Too often the memes and notes that I thought held value end up shredded and sent to the electronic recycle bin in the sky.
They no longer feel relevant by the time I get to them, or I can’t remember what I intended, or I can’t read my own handwriting.
I have odd handwriting. It looks beautiful, a flowing copperplate, but it’s borderline illegible when you try for comprehension. It was more legible before arthritis set up shop in my hands. It’s closer to aesthetically pleasing scribbles than an actual method of communication.
Perhaps I should’ve been a doctor.
I like September. I like the shift to cooler weather and shorter days, though the former hasn’t set in at my location as yet. Summer seems loath to depart this year, a fact that’s pissing me off. I’m tired of the heat and the dust. We need rain, desperately. I’ve also got long-sleeved shirts and plaids to wear. Bring on the dew and the fog.
After the weather shift, what I like most about September is that it feels like the kickoff to a new year in a way January never does for me. I remain wedded to the school schedule I grew up with. September is when everything starts up fresh again. September is a good time to clean and organize.
The other good time to clean and organize is on a day that ends in “y.” I love a tidy space. Puttering about and setting things up just so is my happy place. Too bad moderation isn’t.
I pulled several muscles in my back the other day while doing some fall gardening. In addition to digging a couple of holes for some seasonal planting, I moved a rock or a hundred. Waking up the next morning with my back muscles in spasm reminded me, once again, that I could perhaps investigate moderation as an approach.
Luckily, the garden was one of the last tasks on my fall “clean and organize” list. Inside is mostly done, save for the bits and pieces that will get done after I win a jackpot from some lottery or other. I should probably buy a ticket. I would also be down with bags of cash dropping mysteriously from the sky.
I would like new floors in my house. The laminate that I have is nearly thirty years old, and there are issues. I’d also like some custom-built, floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall bookshelves for the bedroom that is now my library. A rolling ladder and a cool seat would also be skookum – something in a Papsan chair might be nice.
It’s Monday, and I need my back to heal before Thursday. I did something I always wanted to do this September. I signed up for dance classes. I picked modern dance because I love it, but not picking tap was a blow.
I’ve always wanted to take real dance lessons. I’ve taken a month-long, twice-weekly belly dance class before, and I’ve gone to Zumba a couple of times, but those are my only qualifications, besides loving to dance.
The first class was last week, and it was a lot of hard work, especially the floor moves that have you changing elevation over and over, but I’m thrilled. I keep practicing my pirouettes.
I want to show up improved from the last class. I don’t want to show up as the middle-aged lady with the bad back. It’s bad enough that they’re proud of me.
Writing is less strain on the back, though I can’t sit for more than an hour. The dog is happy about that. She hates it when I settle in at my desk. I get deep doggy sighs from her each time I pull out the chair. I remain unsold, as they comes on the heels of the hour-long morning walk.
Dogs are quite the little hams.
I had no ideas beyond not gardening, however, so I thought to pick up on one of the aforementioned notes, but they’re not so helpful as writing prompts, mostly because they seem to be complete thoughts.
I’m a meme-generator. Who knew?
Note One:
“We’re not nice to others when we’re deep in our pathologies, and we tend to justify the negative things we do as being “okay” because we’re suffering.”
I’m not sure if it’s true of everyone, but it is true of me too often. It’s why I like to hole up and withdraw when things get darker. I don’t want to cause harm to others, nor do I want the guilt that comes with doing so. Perhaps I need more sociopathy in my makeup? Can I get that at Sephora?
Note Two:
“The longer you live with mental illness, the more you realize how much of a strain it can be on relationships. It’s funny how often we find other’s people’s pain too much. I don’t suppose that says anything good about our species.
Note Three:
“I’m funny about underwear. It can make or break my whole day. I think it’s a combination of eating disorder and sensory processing disorder issues. I’m better than I used to be, however, in that the fit of my underwear no longer determines my whole mood. In other news, do we have to pathologize every quirk?
Meme One:
Meme Two:
From Famine to Feast 