consume line after line of text, scratch pen across slick unlined weighted page, thumb out cyber friendships, submit-update-edit-update, repost after repost of blog entries, tilt digital-capture-do-everything-device and click another world, I only really note on screen, click, upload, join it to some thoughts, post, share, compulsive check for its liking, this may occur while I am upright bipedaling myself along a trail, in the shade, mostly though this all takes place with my bum fully reclined in my cheap multicolored (ouch) portable low slung chair. the chair moves about a bit has having strong locational habits, like its master–floating pond dock as morning burns off, just inside studio with door flung open, in-out in-out in-out again of barn dependent on the depth of heat from the kiss of the sun or the degree to which the sky leaks. I sit. a lot. sun glasses on and off again, once more, as they obscure my screen view simultaneously needed for the intensity of the glowing orb’s kiss. crusty, filthy, straw woven, wire shaped, once vomited in, cowboy hat, also on and off again, once more, but more from the tick induced paranoid itch and scalp crawl (one town north of Old Lyme, one town east of HadLyme).
I sit. on again off again and once more.
tick tock my making time syphoning away. mild anxiety. I relax trusting it’ll (what ever it is) be there.
between the sittings lay short bursts to exhaustion or over rattled, jiggled and torqued my digits and wrists (the weak links) which come quickly to this female frame of fifty (yes I am currently hung up on my age!!!). I’d work longer, in more time consumptive stretches, however, I’ve learned there is a crazy and very direct link between female muscle fatigue, rattled and torqued digits and joints (don’t smoke that) AND making unsafe decisions, exabberating (made up word) a technical, gravitational or visual problem, and escalating my Eeyore state. such an odd link between body and mind! yet I’ve adapted to listen to her — honestly I don’t have the heart or time for unsafe, exabberating, Eeyore conditions!
I stop. I recline. I sit. sunglasses on and off, again. hat on and off, again. tick scratch and check. I’ve conformed to the frame-mind needs, but rebel even still with MY BIG BUTs. but I am wasting time. but I am lazy. but I’ll look lazy, ungrateful. but I won’t get it done. but it won’t be enough. but I’ll get stuck in a hole. but I might not get up again. but. but. but. tick tock. tick check. but I am wasting a gift. but. but. but. OH MY BIG BUTs are problematic! and I precariously situate, balance, her on the edge of reason–I don’t want to be squished, maimed or dead yet, I don’t have luxurious time for a do-over based on stupid catastrophic gravity exabberated decisions, my female frame will frailly rebel!
so I attempt to graciously recline my bum and big BUTs in spite of the personal podcasts going off in my head.
even funnier and perhaps baring (wicked grin) perspective is as I sit pondering my big BUTs, the others meander by, or over a meal, go on about my work and production kick assedness. I disclaimer their barings with all my naked BUT-time. honestly, I think my stink and grim lead them to assume that my tic tocks are filled with constant making and my BUTs are not so big. oh if only I could make my frame comply to filling my non eating and prone moments with making!0