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Viewing 1 - 4 out of 4 Blogs.
Quit smoking finally. Ha! Statistics claim that the average person will quit smoking 7 times before they successfully cease. In my case, which just proves to me I am better than average, this is it. Caput. I am done. This makes the fourth, and final, time that I have stopped smoking. What you may ask, makes me believe this time is any different? What, you may incredulously cry aloud, makes me believe I am not average? Simple- proper and petite motivation. The first time was basically out of boredom, something to do. The second because I was told by a certain cretin I was too weak to quit. No. I had the strength to quit but lacked the will to stay away. She should have bet me I couldn’t stay away then she could have bragged. What a dolt. The last time, while I am not entirely sure of the sanity behind this reason, was to encourage my husband to quit. Now that time I was a dolt. Today I am free of the nicotine monkey and will remain so evermore. I reiterate- proper and petite motivation. Every person must find their Achilles Heel in this war. They should examine it with a red hot poker then let it heal over, pick the scab, examine for infection, and allow to finish healing. When your Achilles Heel is no longer tender and prone to reinfection, clad it with armor more powerful than any temptation. Huh? What? Armor produced by the firing of motivation on the coals of past failure and frustration, burgeoned by the bellows blowing the tantalizing aroma of familiarity, and tempered by the excruciating realization all your feeble excuses begat a loss of time beyond reason. Hence, the most strong armor ever to be produced on the anvil of petite and proper motivation is the vision of precious loved ones bound by their addiction(s)-be it nicotine or something even more sinister. It is just a small and tiny vision I see of myself becoming bound like them. It holds me up and away. This vision generates in me a desire to be the best that I can be-not settle for the best I can slide by on. The last cigarette I smoked was on 28 June. Finally Free.
Been too long said I said hello to anyone. Been awfully busy, both physically and emotionally. Was reminded why I haven't put up hay since I was 14 years old. Holy crap I haven't hurt that bad in a while! We were at my in-laws farm on our hometime and my father in law hurt his leg, so my husband and I voluteered ourselves to do the stuff my father-in-law usually does. It is just not right that a 67 year old can get up at the butt crack of dawn, feed and cut out the cows; cut and rake and bail a bazillion acres; call in the cows, feed them again; come in after sunset and putter around the house before dinner. I do one day of hard physical labor, the same things he does everyday of the summer without complaint, and the next morning I can barely walk down the stairs. I do one day of raking and think Hey I can do this until I tried to back in that crazy hay wagon into the barn. I finally had to unhook and push the wagon in with the front of the trator before I started crying like a girl from the frustration of trying to back in a tractor and wagon with 3 different pivot points. During the same visit I had to bring to bear all of my considerable mental faculties to thwart the machinations of an overbearing but well meaning mother-in-law. I still am unsure which taxed me more-the farm work or the mental gymnastics. Going back to pull flatbed-vans is just too much aggravation. Too many crybabies. Too many rude shippers and consignees. Matter of fact, we are here at the terminal getting the headache rack put on the truck and they just paged us- only took the shop 15 hours to put it on, must be some kind of world record! See you all later, but hopefully not as long as the last time I was away. Have fun out there and keep the dirty side down!
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways....um.....uh.. That’s just it. I no longer remember the taste of love in my heart. The feel of it in my brain. The smell of it on my skin. What is that weird word? Ennui? Ah, yes. That is the one. Ennui is what I am so much, it is the vivid fear and clasping desires of my dreams and nightmares which keep me alive. In my sleep I am actual and I am living the things, being the being, I need myself to be. Of course it is in that queer surrealistic way, where upon awakening you ponder what exactly you are trying to tell yourself. I still feel from my last nocturnal journey the sun burning my back, as betwixt rows of snapdragons and sweet peas, the sweat squelches behind my bent knees and the black earth grits the corner of my right eye, where I had caught the saltiness before it singed my eyes with the hell of my dirty left hand. I stand with the groan of satisfaction and thirst. I look towards the artesian well, where cleverly someone had formed a pool of clear delicious water, so very sweet. My mouth slobbers where, one second before my eyes sighted upon the well, there was nothing but the tang and metal of dry mouth and blood from when I had bitten my bottom lip as I tripped on an unnoticed rock. Just as quickly, a second only to register the brown staining my arms as something grotesque, as dried blood trails from insect tracks, my mouth dehydrates and I fall dead. WHAT?? Yep. Dead. Then as theatrically as any movie starring all the best and critically acclaimed stars, my vision turns black, and softly with the volume increasing rapidly till it is just below the threshold of intolerable "Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones plays. And single letter by single letter this message appears, in red courier font: Ancient Chinese wisdom say: Satisfaction requires sacrifice of safety and serenity of self. Seek release through salvation of sex. Then I wake up. Who wants to wake up to that cryptic message foremost on their thoughts and their own death from poisonous insects. I sometimes wish my subconscious would stop haranguing me. Just get it out and in a logical and easily understood fashion,! Ugh. The feel of the sun, the activity of gardening, the accomplished well pool (which I know I built), are all things I enjoy and admire about myself. I like to be active, I like to be in the dirt, I like the challenge of using my brain to puzzle out a problem. The noticed too late poisoning by the insects is what I worry about. Not the literal poisoning by insects and subsequent death. The realistic theft by people of my time and energy is what is killing me. Trapping me in impossible situations. Where any choice provides a pain of some sort. Ennui is not a curse, it is a shield of protection I need to stave of insanity right now. I am trying to solve the predicament I find myself in and my dear sweet subconscious, I call it Zippy, it trying to hurry me long. Zippy is telling me to GO. Zippy is telling me You already know the way out. Take it. Stop being baby.
Never put into words what you are not willing to speak aloud. I learned that lesson several years ago. My poetry and my other journals have all went away. Oh, I still have possession of them but I no longer indulge myself in the writing daily. My passion has shuffled from me, to lay belittled and ignored in the gutter, dirtied by my embarrassment and shame. I sit before this thing of man, this sucker of brain energy, and type...type. Longhand has always betrayed my weaknesses too brightly. Here I can hide a little, the delete key is such an easy thing to use. Longhand I always write with black ink pen and never cross out. I am more truthful and insightful. My compulsion to preserve the permanency of paper is inviolable. Here it is so easy to delete that which reveals too much.
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