Crapdoodles: I haven't posted since September?? With all the memos to myself I've collected over the intervening months regarding possible topics for future posting, I would have thought I'd posted SOMETHING. For heaven's sake, there was an election in there! I had to go find a link for my own blog because my bookmark for it had been wiped out in the Great Computer Crash and I had yet to recover it.
But today I have to write because I don't feel like doing anything. I was going to make cookies, muffins, stuffed jalapenos, some beef recipe, and a mushroom-egg pie thing today AND I was going to go to Lowe's, fix the toilet, replace the upstairs litterbox area, and change the bed linens. Maybe even do a load of laundry. But I don't feel like doing any of it now. I don't feel like reading, crocheting, watching a movie, or even sleeping. I don't want to do one single thing.
But for some reason I had the desire to declare my listlessness. The only thing to hold any appeal (besides staring off into space) was to try to put words to this feeling. Barring the emotions in response to traumatic, tragic, or life-altering events, I think that is the worst feeling in the world. I'm not even talking about the kind of absence of interest that comes with depressive episodes. I had no idea what to do and no energy to do it, but my brain was upset about this because somewhere inside I wanted to do all those things and hated the other parts of me that were refusing to cooperate.
It does not help that there is a great deal of pressure from inside myself for this weekend to "fix" the stresses of the past couple of weeks. The past week in particular seemed to be permeated with negativity on an environmental scale, as if the wind and weather were infusing it into everyone and everything around me. And most of all into me. I have a visceral understanding of the word "miasma" after driving in the fog we had mid-week. Which is kind of exciting and deeply satisfying to someone who loves to actually feel words. But it was overwhelming the weekend with a great deal of expectation that having some time away from the driving and the weather and the work-related annoyances so that I could do the things I REALLY wanted to do would make it all better.
Which is not an unfair expectation, because the weekends often do just that. Except when they don't. And this one hasn't accomplished that to the degree I had hoped. But, writing this all out has accomplished EXACTLY what it could have: I am ready to get out of this chair and go do things. I feel relieved of the burden of ennui and am ready to get things done.
