Life in Letters and Breaking Hearts on the Appropriate Schedule
Story got stuck yesterday, and since I had a spot of cash, I gave it an infusion of new music. There were several artists I sampled from, but the body of it all came from Lucy Schwartz.
She apparently did a song with someone else for the last Shrek movie, which I never saw. All her work is great, though. It was one of those moments I had to remind myself how very disappointed my husband would be in me if I bought every single thing she’d ever made at once.
I also took a bit of sampling from Joy Williams. I think she’s at least part time a Christian singer, which is fine but not my cup of tea. Some of her stuff isn’t, though, and I really dig it. Especially this one.
I’m also trying to take a page from Ellis, whom I know of because of Marie, and do things on time. Their time, not mine. Or rather, to actually understand what my time is. It’s probably appropriate that I was all set to discuss this with my therapist tomorrow but my appointment got canceled and now I have to hold onto it until the 6th of December. Because this is apparently not the right time.
This lesson has been coming for awhile. I know because there has been a strange confluence of slow drivers and people in check out lanes mobbing me lately. It’s like when I leave the house someone sends out an APB and they converge around me, frustrating my attempts to do things on my speed, which is a few beats slower than light. I don’t even fuck with the speed of sound. Way too slow. Except now I am moving a lot slower. All the damn time.
I really am a control freak, and I hate being told what to do and when and how to do it. Which is probably why the APB. Part of that yesterday was having me stumble on and become obsessed with interviews and stories about Gabrielle Giffords’ recovery. I watched snippets of the 20/20 interview and then hunted it down and watched the whole thing, and I cried and cried and cried. It was the most amazing thing to see someone get shot in the fucking head and then, ten months later, sit poised and controlled on a couch and fight through a total destruction of her connection to language to communicate anyway. And when asked if she were angry about what happened say, with no hesitation or artifice, “No.”
Fuck. I’m angry every day about the shit I have to do that isn’t fair. And I’m just dealing with peanuts compared to her. Talk about not the plan she made. Talk about not the speed she planned to life her life on. But this is the life in front of her. This is the hand she got dealt, and she’s not bitching about it being fair or unfair. She’s just working through the job in front of her because that’s what you do, and she’s working at the pace she can work at and not wasting time bitching about the pace being the wrong pace.
Right on time. Going to keep working on that. I’m still going to aim for my few-beats-less-than-light, I’m not going to lie. But when the APB goes out and I have to slow down, I’ll just take a deep breath and accept it as the speed I’m getting. And I’ll remind myself that it doesn’t mean I’m being controlled. It’s just that at this level of the game, there are more obstacles, and they take time to dismantle, because some of them are going to get broken apart only to find out they’re tools, not obstacles.
Speed. Time. Zen, or something like it. And really, there will be a book in this eventually. Because there’s a book in everything.
Speaking of book. I need to get to work. But enjoy the tunes. I know I am.