A Music Box and A Yellow House

So, I'm up late last night. As usual for the last 4 nights, I can't sleep. Everything I'd been doing was boring so I decided to write something that had been percolating in my mind for a few days. I kept seeing this scene in my head and hearing the start of the story. Every time I thought about sitting down to write, I put it off. Last night, boredom drove me to it.

I haven't wanted to write in months because every time I did, it just didn't work. I couldn't think, and I had no idea which way to go. I have a story so near a completed first draft it isn't even funny. Two, in fact. My crazy life has drowned me and left me in a heap on the beach. But I want to write.

Normally, I'd even be using a notebook and jotting things down but with the nerve damage in my hand, writing with a pen is not the pleasure it once was. I love pens and notebooks and writing with both. This has been one of the biggest disappointments of the nerve damage.

Anyway. Last night I sat down to write this scene. I don't know exactly what this is about. I just know that I heard a music box playing and I have a woman and her teen-aged daughter buying a big yellow house. That's it. I know what I think it is but so far I have two pages of dialogue and a sense of something beneath the surface.

It all started with the sound of a music box playing last week. No, I didn't really hear one playing. I was trying to nap listening to some music. It occurred to me that it sounded like a music box playing but a strange one. I went to sleep and forgot about it. But it came back. This music box is special but I don't know how. Next, I had this woman pop into my head and she was buying this house. Actually, I saw her in the house and knew she'd just moved into it. Then, I was seeing her with her daughter, sitting in the car and looking at the house. They take a tour but ultimately; they will buy this house.

What I know: somewhere there's a music box. The woman just moved to this town for a job. She has a teen-aged daughter. They get along well. My feeling is that the child is parent to the woman, but that's just a feeling. At some point, there's a storm. No idea when, why, or the impact. And that's all I have. Other characters? I think so, but nothing presents itself at this point.

Yeah, I know. But I can work with it. I think.

At least I got to write something! Today, I want to do it again but I have to pack for a trip to Arkansas. We'll be driving all day tomorrow. So, not sure I'll get back to it soon.

A Cat Tale

My sister started the treat thing. She bought these treats for Sarah's cat, Chaz. She brings them regularly in large containers that last a while. I can only find them in packets that cost more to buy. Chaz absolutely loves these treats. It is the only other food he'll eat.

Three days ago we ran out. Every day, all day long every time I would go into the kitchen, he would go and scratch his post. This is a sign that he wants treats. We trained him to use the post with treats. This protected my furniture.

Chaz is the strong silent type. He doesn't meow. Not much. If he meows, it is important. You pay attention. They're never loud or long meows either. Just one and more only if necessary.

The treats apparently are important. He has meowed every time I don't comply with a treat. "We're out."  I tell him. He walks away like the rich young ruler. Sorrowfully.

Next trip through or to the kitchen, he's there scratching his post. Giving me a look. And trudging away, head down.

For three whole days.

I called my sister.

"This cat is not happy. If you don't bring his treats he's going to lose his mind."

She laughed.

I'm not amused but ok.

'I have them but I keep forgetting to bring them. I'll bring them tomorrow." She said, still laughing.

"He's really upset about them."

Another laugh. "Ok I'll bring them by after work." She passes almost by my house so it isn't inconvenient.

My sister arrives. Chaz is lying by the back door. You've seen the photos of that activity. As soon as she walks in and he sees her, he jumps up, stretches toward her and heads for the kitchen, glancing back to see that she is following, bag in hand. He doesn't even bother scratching his post. Just sits down in front of it. Certain, I'm sure, that he's already paid his dues.

Tonight, he's a happier cat. And he's not followed me to the kitchen but one time. Supper time.

In the Ashes

I was searching through some computer files and ran across this. I don't remember writing it. The record says it was created Jan 25 of this year. Sometimes you find things in the ashes.

I found your photo today
and you smiled that smile
you always smiled
when you looked at me.
I see it in every memory
except the last one.
If it were possible,
I’d trade that memory for the photo.

There Be Dragons

I keep getting reminded by Facebook that I'm neglecting my followers. I guess in a way that's true. So much has happened in the last several months that I've been overwhelmed. Maybe sometime I'll write about it. For now, I'm tired and want forget it all. Unfortunately, some troubles leave a mark. Maybe not ones others can see but a mark all the same.

I've been under a lot of stress and the results have been severe depression, increased pain levels, sleep disturbances, and a lot of anger at my inability to cope with anything. All of which creates a vicious cycle that only exacerbates them.

I don't want to write anymore. Yes, it is very scary. It is as if a switch has flipped and I can't summon any desire to sit down and pour out the stories. I can't actually think of any story, not even stories I've been working on. The well seems to have run dry and I'm not sure I even care.

I'm tired of finishing a day with no energy left. The truth is, I'm tired of fighting monsters I can't defeat. I keep getting up in the mornings, no matter how much pain I'm in, to do it all over again. By the end of the day I'll cry in the shower and try to wash the new war wounds.

I was once told I was a fighter but I don't have the energy, the strength, or even the desire to fight another dragon. I feel that I should just sit down and let them eat me. I don't even know if I'd feel the heat. Dealing with constant pain actually numbs you to many things. Minor injuries are hardly worth noticing, as if you're watching it from a distance. When the car crashed into the garage wall two weeks ago, I just looked at it and came in the house and sat down. I felt annoyed but not much else. It was just one more thing.

So, for those who feel I've let things go, you'd be right. And if you stop following or drift away, I understand. Thank you to those who have waited patiently and left kind comments. Facebook is rather insensitive, an irony if there ever was one. I would say I'm offended by the assumption I'm inconsiderate. But honestly, it isn't as if they can eat me. Facebook isn't a dragon.

Sail Away

I joined the gym. Yes, I did. Three weeks ago I signed up at Planet Fitness. I've been four times but this will increase as I get stronger. That's my hope.

The first thing I notice on the days I've worked out is I feel much better. It seems to eliminate my fatigue and reduce pain. This sounds crazy but I'll take what I can get. For now, I'm doing a 30 minute circuit on machines that work my whole body. My strength is terrible because of my fibromyalgia and rheumatoid arthritis. The ruptured disk and following surgery didn't improve the situation.

However, since I began the physical therapy in January, I can tell I'm stronger. I still have very little stamina, though and I'm hoping that the new exercise routine will help with that.

Writing? It's bad. I've done short bouts here and there but the truth is I've been so fatigued that most days I can't do more than watch movies, play video games, or read. My brain just doesn't function on those days. Pain, brain fog, and fatigue have all but drained my creative mind. In the last couple of weeks, I have seen some improvement because I suddenly wanted to do some crochet. Usually I write and crochet so perhaps this is a sign that getting exercise is improving my clarity.

That sums up the last 5 months, I think. Sad, isn't it? For several months, I've felt tormented by thoughts I should just throw in the towel and stop trying. Toss the stories in progress, wipe the hard drives, and move on to something else. It is the most frightening thing I've ever contemplated. I can't do that. I want to write. The unfairness of my illness seems even worse when I think about how it has robbed me of so many of the joys in my life. Writing is the one place I didn't think it could reach.

For now, I refuse to entertain the notion that I won't write again. I will do my best. Keep plodding a few hundred words at a time. But I'm not happy with that. I want to sail away in that stream of consciousness writing that carries me away to different lands. I stand on the dock waiting for the boat to pick me up.