...really. I mean it. I did want to.
But the elements of the day simply didn't line up that way.
I finished -- and shipped -- a story this morning. Not a major money-maker (which I really need right about now) but something to help cut the deficit. Writing it was an exercise in agony, not because I wrote badly or did anything wrong, but simply because I never got into it, never was able to find a way to give it the kind of sparkle and flow found in some of my "better" work.
That bummed me out, and the day didn't improve when I put it in the email.
My photographer friend D. called me. He is in Central California with his girlfriend. He wanted to know if I had arranged a photo shoot that's supposed to happen tomorrow. Me. Me, who works as much as a week or ten days to get a story finished, while he spends a few hours on it and is done.
Well, yes, I had made the necessary calls, plus a few others. My stress levels are high enough right now that talking -- and putting up the necessary cheerful, optimistic front -- is like running a marathon. I did it, though.
And I had a couple of run-ins with nemeses in my life as it is currently lived. I refused to lie to them, and thus did not tell them what they wanted to hear.
Then I tried to start work on yet another story, and totally blew it. I was out of sorts, and bagged the whole mess until tomorrow. Except that I will have to spend four hours or so playing shepherd at the photo session, which essentially kills the day.
Thanksgiving? I may buy a package of "deli" sliced turkey and have a sandwich. While I work.
What I really want to do is sleep, sleep for hours, or days, or simply sleep out the time I have remaining to me.
I have no ambition save simple, basic survival. Wish I had a reason to want more.
This seems like a good place to address a point several people have made. I have friends, and I know that. But to call upon them for solace, for the simple act of listening to what has brought me so low, is something I can't manage.
There are a couple of people I trust implicitly, and they know more about my unhappiness than I would ever reveal here. They know who, and what, and why. They are people I've known, and love, and appreciate. Because of that, they are people I trust to hear me say anything and not flinch.
Others are friends as well, but when I think of talking with them I fall into my father's pattern -- which I dislike -- and simply clam up about the things that are tearing me apart. I won't -- can't -- make contact.
That's no knock on them. If anything, it's my failure for not trusting trustworthy people.
And I will admit that the few on whose shoulders I would love most to rest just don't give a happy damn. Or are otherwise occupied. For reasons I won't go into, they are sheltered, protected. People -- male people -- are ready to bail them out, make them happy. As I would if I could.
Sometimes, even the most independent of us need some solace. I know this, because I have provided it. But I can't ask for it myself.
Enough of this. I have accomplished all the tasks I set for myself today. That they weren't enough to raise my spirits is indicative of the way the Universe is messing with me.
I'm being asked -- no, expected -- to give more, and take less.
Screw karma, Jim. Whatever bad I've done has long since been paid for.
Bitter? Me? You damn betcha.
And that, fellow babies, is why I can't write something nice here tonight.
15 hours ago