Your sad, pathetic bloggist doesn’t have time for another installment of Cozies, Comforts & Joys today – but you can catch up if you missed them by clicking here for Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3. In the meantime, a fast confession before dashing off to drive Misses Daffodil and Honeysuckle.
I’ve a busy day of ferrying folk to physicians. I’ve a busy week. You ask, “What?” Well, dears, just because I don’t conform to the standard-issue-model of the shoulds/oughts/musts of the American way of life doesn’t mean I don’t suffer from pressure.
The thing: on Saturday begins seventeen days of house/pet sitting engagements. Clothes packing, no problem. I wear what amount to three outfits: Gym, Lounge, Out and About. All involve black t-shirts, black boxer-briefs, black socks, black sweatshirts/hoodies/sweaters, and jeans/sweatpants. Easy. I’ve multiples of each and there are laundry facilities at each house.
BUT WHAT ABOUT BOOKS? My “To Be Read” stash is a mini-bookstore. There are more than 200 books in the stacks. Yes, it’s a back-monkey, that: my inability to STOP BUYING BOOKS. And I’ve already started packing them into my “travel bag” — a very strong cloth sack with a platform bottom, a large bag into which I can fit up to fifteen books. But, thing is, I need MORE than that for a seventeen day stay. NOT because I will read a book a day, but, because I do NOT know what sort of mood I’ll be in from one to the next day — especially during holiday season — and so I need books for every emotional contingency, from light mystery cozies with comfortably familiar characters to riveting, educational non-fiction, to thoughtful essays, to humor, to biographies, to literary fiction, to old familiars, to . . . you see the trouble?
Am I insane? Yes. Because, see, thing is, I’ll only be twenty minutes from my home base. And my home base is close to the gym, where I’ll be going mostly every day. So, you see, I could just stop by and GET more books or exchange or whatever. BUT I AM STRESSING LIKE HELL OVER THIS.
And, another monkey, see, I read Dick Cheney’s quotes. Why? I don’t understand it. Makes me so sad. And, kids, I’m feeling sad right now anyway. Quick story: I was jaywalking the other day (on the way to The Curious Iguana, LOL, my home-base-bookstore) and was almost run down. Run down not just by a stranger, but by someone who – had they run me down, well, it would have been very metaphorical — since they already did run me over once.
I’ve been shaky ever since. And haven’t told anyone. And am not going to. And I’m sure it was my fault (LOL, always) and … monkey on my back; I’m feeling really alone and sad about my bad choices in trusting people, sad about the limits of people’s feels for me, sad that most of my connections are so artificial and surface, sad that no one — ever — looked at me or felt about me or played with me the way Megan Hilty and Brian Gallagher feel and look and play with each other.
I’m a fail. And I’m feeling really, really alone and lonely — which I’ve felt, pretty much, for the past thirty years — and always thought, “This is my fault.” Yeah. Damn monkeys.
Damn ache left by having once believed. Damn.
Fly, damn you, FLY!