Wednesday, October 22, 2014

I Break For Not Driving Anywhere

I've already completely changed my daily routines and, like a cat suddenly taken from her environment, I'm lashing out by hiding in the corner, hissing and clawing at the air. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I would never do that. Nope. Not in the silence of my room nor as I drive what seems like 500 miles a day to and from the old place to the new place to my first job from my second and stopping by my third. You'll definitely never find me clutching, white knuckled at my steering wheel, imagining a series of elaborate scenarios that would begin with me getting all Michael Stipe-y, exiting my car and calmly walking over and in between cars on the Southern State Parkway in the midst of rush hour traffic.

Not me.
I am not cut out for commuting by car. And I say this, not even one full week in to actually doing it regularly. I'm not at any kind of breaking point (yet). All I'm saying is that this afternoon it took me an hour to drive 30 miles, someone with exceptionally dirty arms threw an empty coffee cup at my car while going 65 mph and there is lately a mystery tapping that is coming from somewhere deep inside my glove compartment, a place too packed with plastic spoons, dozens of copies of my registration and enough maxi pads to ensure about two years worth of overnight protection. If I could somehow generate a metaphysical bumper sticker, it might read: I'd rather be doing literally anything else.

It wasn't until I was 28 that I even got a driver's license and I'm beginning to realize that it may not have been a random circumstance. But I'm waxing on about this simply because driving has taken up 80% of my week. I knew what I was up against when I sort of decided to do what I quasi-decided to do. Overall, and some people in my real life might dispute this claim, I think I'm handling the changes happening with as much dignity as I can muster. I'm not adopting a totally Buddhist mentality of no attachments but I'm not shitting and vomiting in my carrier, the way my cats did when I drove them to their new home on Saturday either.

Honing my focus on one task at a time, one day at a time is my new goal. Its absence has had me adrift for a long time but I'm determined now to throw down my anchor. There's an app (or several) to help. Right now I'm listening to one as I type this. It reminds me of M83 and this song (which I'm pretty sure is antithetical to the purpose of a focusing app), the listening of which is going to be my break as soon as I finish...ok fine, let's listen to it now! The stars and planets are calling me a billion years away from you.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014


I've moved a few inches back from the brink. Being productive is, for me, a much needed salve on the self inflicted wounds on my psyche. Why is it so easy to navigate ourselves into negativity but damn near impossible to change course to positivity? Circumstances devolve into chaos quickly in my brain.Well, maybe not chaos but uncertainty at the very least. And so, I've put on my productive pants. They're a bit snug but they accentuate all the right things.

Shuttling boxes and canisters full of my life (and all its ephemera and detritus) back and forth from apartment to small ass car to storage to new place has been a practice in meditation. I understand why people do mundane tasks as a form of reflection. I thought the other day as I rolled up a small mountain of clothing, piece by piece about the stone walkway that leads up Montserrat and I had a billion and one ideas and thoughts that branched out to even more ideas. At the very least, productivity awakens my brain to the myriad things I can and will do.

A word about self storage facilities: they creep me out. Ironically enough, I become suspicious of what lies behind the sliding metal doors of each compartment. Also, each time I drive up to my storage facility, it is empty of all cars, but there are always people in there! How did they get there? Rows and rows of silent, florescent lit hallways inexplicably lead me to think of something sinister. I've run into a few fellow stuff-storers and it is always awkward for some reason. We squeeze past each other down the narrow hallways, eyes averted. WHAT ARE WE HIDING?
In my case, I'm "hiding" my entire life apart from the bare essentials. However, I'm reasonably certain everyone else is hiding large steel drums of dissolving body parts or enormous pallets full of cash from their meth businesses.

My neighbors.
Everytime I press the big green button that allows me entrance to the building I think of the ever present dystopian future which captures our current zeitgeist. I can't help it. I think about bands of hastily formed alliances who take over the outer perimeter of the storage facility, 1st floor vs. 2nd floor and who controls the vending machines at the end of the hallways?? Why are there vending machines there? Why do I suddenly feel the need to get roller skates with lights on them and forage for water in a wasteland?

If you can name this film, we are meant to know each other.

So far, considering the storage facility reminds me of murder, suspicion, crime and the end of the world, I'm going to say I'm projecting just a wee bit onto a poor, bland, unsuspecting Eastern bloc of a building. I suppose there are worse scapegoats.