Love is blind, and other illusions.

Sometimes I find myself in this place that feels like a total rejection of who I know myself to be; it's opposite day on Planet Em, and I am the sole occupant and player. The words run out, and I don't see the pictures my camera is supposed to make, and all I can do is try to distract myself with music and ...hang on. Put on a helmet, even. Perhaps a seat belt. As a creature of routine and optimism, it is hard for me to let go and settle in for the ride. It seems that fighting it makes the whole journey all the more difficult, though; I am ill-prepared for the self reflection and intimate examinations of my life that are sure to precede the self loathing, anger, cynicism, and hopelessness.

It starts like this: one day, I quietly realize I'm happy; dare I even say, content, with my life. Sure, there is room for improvement, but overall, the complaints are few and far between. I bask in the warm fuzzy glow of this comfortable life I have made, much like a cat lazing in the shaft of sunlight stretching across the floor on a summer afternoon. That is also the exact moment that I have come to dread, because without fail, I wake up and find myself in this place. It's like my subconscious pipes up with, "oh, feeling good, eh? Perhaps you can finally deal with this pile of bullshit you've been sweeping over into this corner? No? Just thought I'd ask; you don't have to get all hysterical."

Into the hysteria of it all, I descend, however; an unwilling participant to the whim of my id. The man behind the curtain is me, and he has been dazzling me with illusions long enough that I have momentarily forgotten that some of the reasons I sought out those illusions to begin with were pretty unbearable to live with out in the open every day. Facing them for even a few moments is still painful beyond comprehension. They seem insurmountable. So I make busy work until I'm too busy to remember what all the fuss was about, and pretty soon I have pulled the rabbit of happiness up out of the hat once more, and on with the show. Pomp and circumstance; smoke and mirrors.

When "it is what it is" describes the hobble-hop from one distraction to another, ever searching for the IT that my life is supposed to BE, and I still come up with an armload of nothing, it's hard to not imagine that somewhere along the way, things have gone horribly wrong at some point. That the common denominator is ME, and obviously I am the thing that has gone horribly wrong. After all, I am the architect of my own happiness and build my own future through the decisions I have made... right? So there is simply no one else to blame. Clearly I have forgotten to go along to get along until I march my tired ass to the slaughter house of old age.

Today I have been reading science-based studies on love, and what happens to our brains when we step in it, and if love is blind, why, and then what happens. How our brains do this thing where we can no longer make objective decisions regarding the subject of our affections because the reward for living in La La Land is supposed to outweigh the risk, and how the longer you get to know someone, the more you fall out of love, most of the time. Boredom, complacency, repetition, disillusionment; all of these things come crawling out of the woodwork to gnaw away at this thing that you thought was pretty darn great when you first stumbled upon it. How, without our genetically inclined need to procreate, or the endorphin rush of the shiny penny newness of lust, we probably wouldn't make it as a species. That seems to be all that holds us together; the search for immortality, and pleasure. I think much of this can also be applied to the way we view ourselves, too. We reach a point where we can no longer be objective about our own feelings, because there is too much at risk, like trading one happiness for another. You can have your cake, or you can eat it. We make trades on our comfort, while trying to walk the tightrope of commitment, or contentment. There is no fucking net.

And sometimes it all just. Seems. So. Dumb.

When all else fails, aim for the stars.

In knee deep snow on Monday, I found myself hanging out laundry to dry. The wind-chill was 27 degrees, but the sun shone brightly for the first time in a week. The kids were running out of warm pajamas to wear, and I thought I'd see what I could do about it. My little hair-brained idea worked quite well! I should actually be out there again today doing my own; this promises to be our last sunny day this week, with some sort of precipitation, as yet to be decided, heading for us again in time for Christmas. The weathernerds can't seem to make up their minds; maybe snow, maybe rain, maybe ice. I now thoroughly understand why, one year, one of the weathermen showed up on tv with what looked like a busted lip, which he never conveniently mentioned. He was the same guy that, during the blizzard of '93, swore we would only get two inches of snow. Twelve hours later, we had 3 feet of the stuff.

Surviving The Storm

The phone rang at 6:07 on Friday morning. I was in bed, and the phone was in the other room; I let it ring while I snuggled deeper under the blankets, and try to let sleep enfold me again. I figure that it's the school's robot calling to say there was no reason to get up out of bed that early to get the kids off to school - there was a snow storm coming; hell, it was already here. I always find it frustrating that they would call that early to wake you up and tell you not to bother waking up. I guess most people would be about to wake up for the day at that time, anyway; I am not most people though, and the irony isn't lost on me. I distantly hear my children stumbling around the kitchen about 30 minutes later; a while after that, I hear our car pulling into the driveway - my husband returning from work. At some point, I feel him snuggle into bed with me, and I drift off to sleep again.

My squealing inner fangirl, let me show you it.

If you've read my profile, two random factoids you may know about me is that a] I am a photographer and b] that I am a music lover. I am not a musician because, even though I have heavily flirted with the piano since I was about 2 years old, I was gifted with short, stubby fingers and a basic lack of the ability to keep timing. I am intensely jealous of those who can play the way they're supposed to, but also thoroughly awed by their talent. I am always toying with the idea of learning guitar, but then I balk at the idea of calloused fingers. *shrug* I can't have my cake and eat it, too; I have come to accept it... for now.

We don't *do* F2F anymore.

My friend Kari recently made an entry in her blog about how people just aren't talking on the phone anymore, as in - the internet is the new all-encompassing social hub. I have to admit, I didn't really think about it much because I am not a phone person. I'm not even really a "face to face" person, to be honest; every relationship I've ever had outside of my husband and my kids, I have let slip through my fingers. It's not that I'm not interested [well, in lots of cases, I'm sure], but ... uhm, I don't have a therapist just for kicks. I have issues - probably more than your local magazine rack. I have them for valid reasons, but I have reached a point in my life where it is time to put those issues on a shelf and get on with things.

Where'd you get your driver's license, Kmart?

My mother put me behind the wheel of a Jeep Cherokee when I was 15. I'm not sure what year the Jeep was, but the peeling brown metalic paint allowed us to dub the thing "Coppertone." To a 15 year old girl, it was a massive behomoth to maneuver through the backwood roads of our county. Couple that with the impromptu tiny wooden bridges without railing, and well...a girl could imagine driving herself and her mother into the most convenient creek bed or cliff side. The radio cranked out whatever handy tune was snatched by the satellite, and this girl tried to keep the brown hulk of peeling metal between the lines.

There's Nowhere To Go

My children are on "fall break", which is some random point in time roughly 2 months after school starts in which everyone decides that it is time for a four day weekend. I don't know if this happens all over the country, or if it's just us, but I think it's a relatively new occurance; I certainly don't remember being gifted with arbitrary long weekends. Even if I had, there would have been not much to do anyway, except sit at home and make a nuisance of myself or spend the weekend at a friend's house if their parents were braver souls than my own.

Book Stores Mean Civilization

You know what I would really appreciate having in this town? An honest to God national chain book store. We have NONE. I can't think of a single one in our entire county. Who thought that would be a good idea? The only places to shop for new books are Wal-Mart, Kmart, random grocery stores, or the Christian book store on Main Street [if, indeed, it's even still there]. Then we have a used book store behind Main Street which is basically just a very small hole in the wall with books lined from floor to ceiling - you literally have to walk sideways to get through various parts of this place. I think it was built and stocked based on Stephen King's book, Insomnia; more specifically, Atropos's underground haven, crammed to the gills with the magpie-like collection of objects from random people that crossed his path. It smells musty and vaguely of night sweat. Other than that, we have the various county libraries. They are quite small, needless to say; we only have a population of a little over 10 thousand residents. But I am not one that likes borrowing, anyway; I am a chronic re-reader, and need the option of selecting any number of books at random off of my own book shelves. I may read it in a couple of days worth time, or it may take me a month--I don't care much for deadlines or late fees.