Dear Santa: Pay Up


I never did stop yesterday.

An hour in the pool, two hours in class, an hour walk (hard) to my bank and back, and then I did some grocery shopping. No naps, no breaks, no pauses. Wide awake ’til 10 p.m., when I took half a mg of Ativan to get me to sleep.

And then I dreamt of not being ABLE to sleep, which is a weird type of dream, indeed.

Now I’m duh and typing anything out is more than slow. Molasses running downhill in a blizzard slow. Obviously, I’ve time travelled. Must have borrowed time yesterday to get through my blog post so quick: here’s where I took it from. Pay the piper, kiddo. And don’t go off telling me time travel isn’t possible. We do it EVERY day – just in one direction.

Hm. Maybe the chains that have been binding my imagination have loosened up. I just got a good story idea. Or at least, it’s something I can work with.

My bro is headed out to be a shrinky-dink today; seeing his doctors and counselors and whatever. They’ve increased his medication for his ADHD. As usual, he’s burning through mega levels without feeling any of it. He doesn’t feel slower, his brain is still working over time. But, you can hold a conversation with him. He’s not off in lecturing mode, when he stands and talks for hours at a time without anyone able to get a word in edgewise. So he’s doing better. Wish he could feel more relaxed, though.

That means I’ll have a couple of hours of blessed peace and quiet in my tiny little apartment. I can dig into writing deep without fear of interruption. Looking forward to that. It’s been a while; the timing with my bro has just been in that contrary mode lately. I get a couple of lines written and he comes out needing to talk and interact. We couldn’t manage to screw each other’s timing up more if we TRIED. But I don’t begrudge it. Not right now. I’m too vague and ditzy to write much, and his interruptions generally give me enough time to realize that before I go and get five pages of something I can’t finish.

I’m also getting myself resigned to the fact that I need to go back and edit some stories. This time, to take the cursing out. Got three killer stories out there – just got another rejection this morning – and I’m pretty damned sure they’re saying ‘no’ due to my use of ‘fuck’ rather than the story itself. While I still think ANY publication that shies at using the word ‘fuck’ is a motherfuking pussy-assed piece of shit that should REALLY grow a pair, they’re the big ones out there, and they’re paying. So. I’ll get some neutered versions of my stuff and try that. See? I took the fangs out. All nice and rosy for your fat housewives. Nothing offensive for your chauvinistic upper crust suits. Pfft.

A warm memory: a room full of people, silent, hanging on my every word as I read. I am a good writer. Fuck the establishment.

Been dealing with being ‘good’ at Dutch. Got another compliment yesterday in class. Our instructor has small stories we read aloud to practice reading and speaking. His words, “Language is more than saying word after word. There’s a music to it, a rhythm. Listen to the way she reads; she’s got it. Excellent job.” To which my brother said, “She’s always got music in her speaking”. He’s right; I’ve heard about my voice on several occasions. It’s probably my early theatre training combined with the timbre of my voice. Tone variations to add emphasis is second nature to me. Thought long and hard about all the things I COULD do, and what would really fit in my life is to work on the radio or do voice-overs. Something I could earn plenty at, yet do in my sweat pants. I’d be a faceless voice people could love. That would be great. And who the fuck knows? Maybe. Maybe I’ll get Dutch down so well I’ll get an offer. My instructor (and everyone I meet) keeps telling me I speak like a proper native. Even if I CAN barely roll my r’s. So….kid’s cartoons? Other work? Something?

I’d LOVE to get back on the fucking radio.

I’d love to get back to work. Any work that pays something at the end of every week, so I can buy my shampoo and clothes and not feel like I’m draining away money that could be better spent on a million other things. I’d like to feel like I could take care of myself. This joblessness breeds dependency. You get to the point where you just stagnate: you keep accepting someone else’s money, and that makes you feel small and dependent and weak every time. Pretty soon you think that’s all you are: small and weak and dependent. Taking the money becomes a necessity rather than a choice. You believe you are incapable, the money confirms that every time, and the cycle continues. Uncool.

*sigh* Well, here we go. The last few days of wind up to the holidays. I confess I’m looking forward to the film selection; I think my tv box is gonna get full of stuff. Hoping the weather isn’t too crappy so I can see George regularly. Can’t quite figure out the pool’s schedule; found their posted holiday hours on line and translated it. But it’s one of THOSE translations that don’t work well. I think it means they’re having opening hours as usual. I guess I’ll figure that out next week Tuesday at 7 a.m. when I’m standing outside wanting to get in and swim. Doctors visits are coming up. Language lessons need going over. And I still need a battery for my camera.

Dear Santa, I’ve been really good this year. Really, really good. Check your books. Please bring me a couple of things. First, give me a list of paying publishers who aren’t afraid of the word ‘fuck’. Second, can you give me some magic dust so I can get into the swimming pool over the holidays? Third, I really want some sort of job outside the house. So I can make some money. Or, you could just give me that winning lottery ticket I’ve been wanting. I haven’t asked you for anything for years and years. I’m claiming my backsies. Pay up. And give me a battery for my camera you bastard.



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