October 4th, 2021...I am trying to finish my final draft of Sorry.
A leaf blower, a chain saw, and my husband practicing on his drum set is perfect recipe of sonic chaos, inside of which I thrive. I don't know why it works for me, it just does. I do my best work under duress. This has always been true. I was formed in Chaos, and so befriended it, I suppose. I also like Alan Holdsworth's music. David calls it "boy music" - because it's so complex and violent and tangled. It calms my brain. Whatever works.
Right now, anything louder than the voice in my head is a good thing - because the voice in my head is a terrorist and shouts words like "cancer" and "mastectomy," words that make me want to retreat and collapse. No matter what happens Thursday - I must be strengthened, and honed, with pristine clarity. These wake up calls, I've had two of them now, will not be wasted. Heightened life is rare and fertile - I must plant NOW. It is the perfect time. Last year, between mammograms, I did math. My sister and I crunched financial scenarios until it became clear I could afford to retire. If I hadn't had that bad mammogram, I would probably still be working at GCC.
This year it's a double biopsy for something called, "a Distortion". Two of them. They looks like palm cactus - radiate out like a star or the sun. I hope it's nothing. Just dense breasts. Nothing spectacular at all. "Nothing to see here. Move along, move along."
Hopefully the only spectacular thing about Thursday will be Atavan and cupcakes. :D
Inside of this external chaos I write, plan, execute. It's all white noise to me. It reads as silence. I cannot imagine writing in actual silence. I wonder what that would be like? I wonder what I would write? If I could write?
These quick breaks from working on Sorry. to dump mind trash here, seem to help . . . Thank you.
Back to work...
A leaf blower, a chain saw, and my husband practicing on his drum set is perfect recipe of sonic chaos, inside of which I thrive. I don't know why it works for me, it just does. I do my best work under duress. This has always been true. I was formed in Chaos, and so befriended it, I suppose. I also like Alan Holdsworth's music. David calls it "boy music" - because it's so complex and violent and tangled. It calms my brain. Whatever works.
Right now, anything louder than the voice in my head is a good thing - because the voice in my head is a terrorist and shouts words like "cancer" and "mastectomy," words that make me want to retreat and collapse. No matter what happens Thursday - I must be strengthened, and honed, with pristine clarity. These wake up calls, I've had two of them now, will not be wasted. Heightened life is rare and fertile - I must plant NOW. It is the perfect time. Last year, between mammograms, I did math. My sister and I crunched financial scenarios until it became clear I could afford to retire. If I hadn't had that bad mammogram, I would probably still be working at GCC.
This year it's a double biopsy for something called, "a Distortion". Two of them. They looks like palm cactus - radiate out like a star or the sun. I hope it's nothing. Just dense breasts. Nothing spectacular at all. "Nothing to see here. Move along, move along."
Hopefully the only spectacular thing about Thursday will be Atavan and cupcakes. :D
Inside of this external chaos I write, plan, execute. It's all white noise to me. It reads as silence. I cannot imagine writing in actual silence. I wonder what that would be like? I wonder what I would write? If I could write?
These quick breaks from working on Sorry. to dump mind trash here, seem to help . . . Thank you.
Back to work...
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