Sunday workday.

Okay, the first day of my resolution, I got six hours of writing in on the novel. Six hours with no interference or distraction from the Internet. A secondary character, Shay (called Shannon in the fanfiction.net version) is getting some very different traits. She starts out as a terrible person, faithless, dependent, violent. She ends up being quite brave, and a ferocious fighter that werewolves hate going up against. 

The draft is coming out of the last turn, going for the home stretch. Writers' meeting Tuesday. As always, I look forward to it. 

Resolved:

I've gotta do something, I'm losing far too much work time to the Internet. Social media is absorbing. So, resolved: on workdays no Internet for eight hours after I get up, which includes email. And no Internet for at least four hours after I get up on non-workdays. I'll start tomorrow: a non-workday. I have visit my brother.

It might not look very much like it right now, but I am serious about writing as my job. Since I'm self-employed, I'm both manager and employee. That doubles my chances of fucking up.  

Too Sedentary for Comfort

I thought I was physically inactive before I started to convalesce my ankle. Now I know what no exercise really means. I'm easily bored and restless and it makes writing a little tougher. I can't wait until this thing is healed, if it is.

The peak of my day was watching Sylvia and Jen Soska's newest film, See No Evil 2. This is the first slasher movie I've enjoyed for twenty years. Given the misogyny among slasher fans, though, they're not going to get high ratings, not by its most ardent fans anyway.

I'm a few scenes away from the last act of my book. I think that will run about 20,000 words. So, I'm about three months away from finishing the draft.

My Carrie fan fiction has been getting a lot of hits. I'm amazed at the fact that I might have a few fans.

The Internet and especially Facebook certainly are distracting, but really, I'm living so austere now that they are the only things that connect me to the world day-to-day.

This entry is really scattered. I'm up too late. Maybe I shouldn't have started this at all.

New Rule of Survival

Everyday I'll comb and brush my cat. I found it's an excellent stress reliever.

My blood pressure medicine.

Death by Mass Transit

Tuesday night I had a falling out with a friend who I hadn't felt comfortable with for some time. It ended with my burning the bridge, saying if I didn't see them again in my lifetime, I don't think I'd feel any loss. That's the truth, and I said it cold dead sober. The way they treated me just made me feel that awful, and I couldn't remember when I last had any good time with that person.

Parental and family relationships set the tone for friendships for the rest of life. I tend to stick around  too long after things have gone bad, or not recognize how bad things are. Best term I ever heard for it is waiting for the milk to un-spoil. I decided I was done.

As yesterday started, I was still angry. I rolled out of bed at 4:30 a.m. My brother was having surgery on his knee to repair a falling injury. He's mentally disabled and is in nursing home care. The older of my younger sisters accompanied him in the EMT van to the hospital. She needed me to get her vehicle. Because unlike our younger sister, I have time but don't have a car.

I came up with the worst plan to do this, and she didn't stop me: I would just go to her home, pick up the keys, go to the nursing home and get her SUV. Sounds easy, except on the Metrolink and buses it involved transferring twice, getting the keys, then having to transfer once on the way out to the home. The easy way to have done it was just take the Metrolink, get off at the hospital, get the keys, get back on and go to nursing home to get her SUV. The easiest way to have done it was just ask her to drop off the keys the night before. But, I wasn't thinking, and usually I have problem with mass transit, so I said I would just run by her place and get the extra set.

Instead, I would have to take a bus to the station, take the train to the end of the line, transfer to a bus taking me close to her place, walk 5 blocks on my bad ankle, pick up the keys, walk another 5 blocks on the ankle back to the bus stop (I have a cane, a lifesaver right now), take the bus stop back to the Metro station, transfer to another bus that takes me to the nursing home. Then pick up my sister's ride and drive it to the hospital.

How could I have been so dumb? One excuse is I get to read or write on the mass transit. Since I read and write for fun and for a living (hypothetically anyway) the time is never a total loss. That suckered me into getting careless with my time. And I already thought of the day, at least until four, as being committed to my brother.

I mentioned I got up at 4:30 a.m., not in the best of moods. I didn't go back to sleep. I got myself together and left at 7:45. After I was out the door, I discovered I was tired. I craved a caffeine supplement (besides the caffeine I had already taken.) When I'm fighting depression, as I was over the previous night, Mountain Dew can pull me out of it. I consider it a desperate measure though. Today I felt desperate.

That just set things up. Then things began to go wrong. First thing that happened was I discovered I had forgotten my pens. That meant I could neither write nor do editing. Then I discovered that the book I brought along sucked. I don't mean it was just bad, I mean it was practically unreadable. I was in trouble.

When I got to Civic Center Station, I felt a desperate need for an energy and mood elevator. I began sticking quarters into the machine, which was neither accepting most of them, nor counting right. As I was drawn into this trap, my train came and went. My first missed connection, not my last. Each one was like a penalty in hockey, but counted in football penalty denominations.

Forfeit fifteen minutes.

I drank about half the Mountain Dew knockoff death drink that was probably worse for me than the equivalent amount of straight gin with a gram of heroin. I caught the next train, which came in about fifteen minutes. My day seem to have recovered.

As I arrived at the end of the line, Shrewsbury Station, I could see a bus pulling out below. Because I had nothing to do for the train ride but read the bus schedules, I knew it had to be the one I should be on.  I was right.

Forfeit twenty minutes.  

At this station, a guy was suffering a loud psychotic attack. He was shouting and making all kinds of jarring calls and yodels. In this environment, I finished the caffeine drink, and immediately regretted it. For the next few hours, I had to piss every 9 minutes. So, I got off that bus at a grocery store, ostensibly for a few supplies (toothpaste, dental floss) but really to relieve myself.

Forfeit 20 more minutes. 

By the time I walked back to the bus stop, I had to go again.


I finally got there and picked up the keys. My dad was there (my sister and her husband live with him). He was lying down, but awake. From that lazy position, he needed to smother me with hospitality and kindness. As I had to go again, he called me before I got in, I'd get out and he said, "Have you had breakfast?" Do you want this? Do you want that? I finally fled from there. And as I came in sight of the bus stop, I saw my bus pulling out.

Forfeit 20 minutes.  

I arrive at the station, and it turns out the next bus to the nursing home didn't arrive for another half hour. How did they mesh the schedules like that.

Forfeit 30 minutes. 

For the entire time nature was calling again. Those stations have no public bathrooms, because it seems nobody in St. Louis ever has to urinate. No, apparently all the people who need toilets moved to the county.

From there, I reach the nursing home without a hitch. Answer that urgent call of nature later, and I was driving my sister's SUV, conscientiously hitting every light.

When I get there, it turns out my sister injured her hand at work the night before and has to see her doctor. So, I would be sitting with my brother for the rest of the day and cancel my plans to do phone canvassing that night. I fed him dinner, stayed with him as the EMT transferred him back to the nursing home. The nurse and the tech, the entire staff, in fact, were so good to him. They were the one real blessing on the day.

I  had a newspaper for when he fell asleep, but I was too dead tired to read by then. After the transfer, my sister, bless her, sent her husband to pick me up and take me home so I didn't have to bother any more with the Metro-torture and sit bored on the train, too exhausted to read or write going back.

When I got back I combed and brushed my cat to calm down (it works). Then went to bed. Sleep was easy.

Not Stephen King, yet

One reason why I write about children and teenagers is that only they have a claim on tragedy. What happens during those times determines where they go in the "afterlife." As an atheist, of course I'm referring to adulthood. (Which also implies that your dead after 25. No, your just living outside your warranty.)
 
Stephen King I'm not: this novel has taken five years to write. Getting it to where I would publish it will likely take more than another year. I love what I'm doing, but, being well into middle age, I feel like I'm forty years late doing it. It took electro-convulsive therapy to get me to correct the biggest mistake of my life.

Do I blame other people too much? There's a good case I give them just the right amount of blame. I know what mistakes I made and what I failed to do. I know what my reasons were. I know which adults failed at their responsibilities to me when I had every socially recognized right to trust them. I know when I was looking for help, no adult ever came through. Not parents, teachers or counselors. It was like in The Karate Kid, except Mr. Miyagi either never came back from fishing and The Kid paints his arm off. Or he gave instructions that guaranteed The Kid would be TKO'd in the first round-- by an eight-year old. 

I realize it's not in fashion to blame others for your life, but there's also a such thing as blaming yourself too much. Nobody becomes successful without the aid and cooperation of somebody else. People who doubt that forget that "networking" is a given for success. That also implies that one source of failure is due to others either not helping, or royally screwing you.


Most of us agree that children aren't responsible morally, but we hardly ever make the connection of what happens when the children betrayed and failed most by adults become adults themselves. If children aren't responsible, can adults ever truly be responsible?

That's real, but it's not in fashion to point this out, so I know I haven't gained any readers today. I don't really have many to lose.     

The Lost and Loster Department

Luckily, I was ready with a camera.

I'm convalescing a bad ankle, one that I sprained sometime in my pre-journal days that I keep re-injuring and aggravating. The problem is, I live alone and don't have a car. I know that's technically two problems. It adds up to one problem: anywhere I go requires a lot of walking and standing.

For 4 to 6 weeks, according to my doctor, I have to put minimal stress on this ankle. The ideal thing would be to stay off it completely. That not being possible, I use a brace and walk with a cane.

So, this week, I managed to leave my cane and my umbrella on a Metro train and a Metro bus, respectively. It was second cane I lost on the Metro in a year. I tried to call their lost and found. Their customer service person, probably outsourced from some secret planetoid where aliens pay Metro to work, seemed baffled by the words "Lost and Found." He transferred me to "the garage." However, the only thing that seems to be parked in it was a single antique answering machine, probably as big as bus and with wheels because it worked on vacuum tubes. It definitely still uses reel-to-reel tape, though they splurged and didn't use an 8-track.

And I never got a call back. The answering machine seemed to actually be like that Ghostbusters' trap. You've voice goes in, but never comes out. Maybe they have Siri listen to it with standing orders to ignore (though I doubt they'd commit an iPhone to something so trivial as their customers). Or perhaps they've also outsourced the listening to Yrdel on the planetoid Rardod. Why not? Their customer service person did a helluva job directing me.

So, I bought a new cane and umbrella yesterday, something I can't afford to do with my budget this month, even though it all only $35. I did upgrade. The new cane will support three hundred pounds. I like to think in terms of expansion and growth, even on public assistance. With enough junk food, it can be done.

The extra metal in the cane turned out to be a good idea, an immediate source of great security today when a snarling dog tried to rumble with me. He wanted a part of me so bad he dragged his female owner with him. (Yes, I think the dog was male.) For all the world, he sounded like he thought I was Osama bin Laden back from the dead. Or maybe he just felt that way about cat lovers in general. The smell of feline meant terrorist to him. I shouldn't have blamed him, because I suspected that also NSA policy when the cat lover isn't a lesbian. Was I ever happy to have a heavier cane in my hand. She got control of him, which deprived me of ever finding out if the cane would have made a Three Stooges "PING" on the dogs head when I brought it down with all my strength. For once in the last month, I felt so smart.

To prevent another loss of my petty assets, I now lash the cane and the umbrella to my back pack when I sit down on the bus. Since distraction is a survival strategy for using mass transit, I knew I could only trust myself to remember 19 out of 20 times. It only takes one to break monthly budget again.

But the biggest challenge isn't walking, it's sitting. I have restless legs, part of having ADHD. I fidget and tweak the ankle without knowing it, then find after a few hours of writing, my foot is the size of softball.

But at least I'm otherwise equipped to heal.






 

Slowed down

My ankle was the size of a softball (yes, exaggerating, but not by much). This has happened off and on for a long time. I don't remember the initial injury. My doctor said if it's ever going to have a chance to heal, I should stay off it, and try to keep my restless leg syndrome from tweaking it for 4-6 weeks. The restless leg part is hard enough. Otherwise, I live alone and depend on mass transit. So, when I walk, I use a cane and go slow, and stop if my ankle begins to hurt or burn. That's not as easy as it sounds, because I'm used to it hurting or burning.

Lately, it's been like I've been carrying my gut between my knees. That is, a sinking feeling that stays low and drags like a lugubrious anchor. A lot of it, including the aches and pains, is seasonal. I hate it when the shorter days become noticeable. I also hate it at the nadir, the winter solstice. Things seem to stay dark (and cold) forever after that. Everyone complains about Daylight Savings Time now.  I think it's wonderful. If you want to solve the problem of people getting to work late, I'd say make it a national holiday. What better way to celebrate the warm weather and bright daylight at 7 p.m.? It's the one day that consistently makes me happy.

If there's a heaven, it has at least fourteen hours of daylight every day. Like Camelot. The nights are starry, but never too dark. Or people have night vision.

I finished another chapter of my Carrie fan fiction today, Carrie: Night of Torment and Terror. The first review of the new chapter said she comes out as a superhero. Yes, but . . . she did some really cruel things. But I'm off into literature, and that's in my SS&SS blog, which I've still yet to post in.

In brief (like Twitter brief)

Feeling depressed. Nothing went right today. Things transpired to make it all worse.

Reluctant Activist

There's a march I want to go to tomorrow, the Justice for All March, starting at 10 a.m. at 15th and Market. I'm a little afraid they're going to close down the bus lines going there. My foot being swollen, I'll be walking with a cane.

Despite my poison pen and big mouth against racism and for civil rights, I'm really a lazy coward. I have all kinds of anxieties just leaving my place. That's why I plan my schedule to the minute. Nothing kills me like empty time.

Then being in a crowd is an anxiety inducer. Then I add in the more rational fears, of arrest, teargassing, brutality or harassment. Fear of being in jail for days, of not getting to write, of having my picture taken, of missing my medication doses, and of missing my cat. Those are the only ones I could think of.

It seems that after decades of therapy and psychiatric drugs, my recovery has left a lot of loose ends. Tonight I'm just sad and tired. The writing didn't go as well today as it should have. I go to bed hoping that the night's dreams reset my mood for tomorrow.   

Not exactly cured.

I had another really busy day today. I didn't get to my writing until 10:30 tonight, and I've quit after an hour; the well just ran dry. I do already have a full amount of material written for my writers' group next (though it has to be rewritten to some degree).

Because today was laundry day, which wasn't as busy as grocery day was. The laundromat is nine blocks away, and I had three loads of clothes. Without a car, I put it all in a cart and take it over. The choice is either to take a bus and transfer, but the weather was good and I missed the bus anyway, so I walked.

I filled my waiting time there by reading a fellow writers' memoir for critique later today. So, for getting my real work done, it wasn't a total loss. Then I wheeled it all back and folded it. I didn't loaf doing any of it, but the whole operation took about five hours. Then I sat down and did my budgeting.

When I got done, I could see bad news. I wanted to spend some money on the Ginger Snaps comics. Yes, finally people are releasing a comic based on the movie. It's a two part comic, though to cover the movie. First part is $10, second is $10.50.

I just determined that I can only buy one this month. Part 2 has to wait until November. Again, it's only like $10.50 but I don't feel like I can afford it. That's how pathetic my finances are now.

Ferguson October starts Friday. I want to participate. I want to show my support for justice and against the racism that poisons this region and nation. (See my political blog AnArch Liberal (to be posted on soon) for upcoming details.

But here's where I know I'm not actually cured: I'm scared shitless of meeting people. A few weeks ago I was supposed to do canvassing. I backed out. I feel the same panic growing with Ferguson October. That, and a fear, of course of our injustice system. Most of all, I'm afraid of being seen, of having my picture taken (and worse, being shown it). If ever I think something like 30 years of therapy has "cured" me, these anxieties remind me that it hasn't.

I'm so damn sleepy, now. I'm giving up the ghost and going to bed.

The Grocery Adventure

I got tired of going to the grocery store every other day, especially with mass transit, so I arranged it so I only need to go once (or twice) a month. Yesterday was the day. I had my grocery list(s) made out. Monday night, I looked at every bargain at every store and chose all the best deals I could. I planned my every move like it was D-Day.

I took the bus, the Metro, and another bus to my sister's and borrowed her truck. She works graveyard shift and definitely was not going to miss it. Then I raided the stores, seven of them in all. It was like a great heist, except without the excitement and illegality.