Such a beautiful day and I think we're going to drive down to the coast just for the hell of it, maybe get to see my old friends, Karen and David.
I have such a desire to do some sort of hand-work. Needlework. I have about given up because of my wonky, wonky wrist that I broke so long ago and which did not set right and which bothers me a great deal and even more so when I am knitting or stitching and I am not really any good at those things but there is such a soothing, calming quality to it all- having the hands busy- that I yearn to do it. I have so many unfinished projects about, some from years ago but I think I'll grab a skein of wool and some needles to take with me for the drive, simply to have another place to channel my energy.
It's so odd to me how anxiety takes away my ability to write. I think it is a focus thing. I am not sure. I do know that it affects the brain profoundly. I must have made three rounds of the grocery store at least yesterday and walked out completely unsure that I had what I needed and to tell you the truth- my refrigerator is stuffed with food, good food, vegetables mostly, that I have bought because they looked beautiful or seemed healthy or were on sale and how much can two people eat? Not that much, quite frankly, and the anxiety also takes away the desire to eat until suddenly I realize I am ravenous and I grab whatever is available and easy and quick and it's not good. My intentions are good but my brain doesn't seem to be able to preplan or if I do, to carry things out, whether dietarily or needleworkily. (Yes, I will now begin to make up words because the real ones seem to have fallen out of this sieve of a brain and there you go. Doing the simple crossword is a laughable exercise in the proof of that point.)
But. It is not so bad today, the anxiety. It is a jingling thing, not a paralyzing thing. I am incredibly grateful for that. I want to get out of the house with perhaps no particular goal in mind, no destination which must be reached.
How are you? Thank you for putting up with my clumsy, clunky words. My sentences seem like jewelry made by little children, great hunks of raw macaroni, plastic beads, all strung together with no obvious pattern or design.
I am the child sitting with tongue caught between teeth in concentration, trying to gather it all together to make something, anything, with what he has at hand. These words are my raw macaroni, my luridly colored plastic beads. For right now they're what I have and I work with them as best I can.