reconciliations

As I've been transitioning from two chunks of work down to one each day – summer break early, given the swirling circumstances – the toughest part is reconciling two realities: One, that by working less, I'm letting the creative part of me drift away, just a bit more than normal, the majority of the day being dedicated to non-creative (though, in some cases, not unenjoyable) pursuits and responsibilities. The second is that by working less and letting that part of my identity slip, I accomplish more in the few hours in which I allow myself to indulge the creative side before the day's run: it wasn't until I went to my summer schedule (which will, most likely, be permanent) that I found my footing with the Fictions (the former Project500, keep it simple and all) and blasted through the first one. The second chunk of work an (oft-failed) effort to assert an identity that didn't need assertion to begin with? Or, perhaps, I need the other stuff to help fill the well more than I had previously thought. Whatever it is, I'll take it – but that doesn't make it an easy reconciliation. An essential one, yes, but not an easy one; recording this as a note of the benefit of present effort.

erasure loops

An understanding that the frustration I've felt as I stare down yet another trip into legal erasure of a person (tangentially this time) – perhaps worth noting that, both times, I've been reading Proust – isn't over the death: think I said yesterday that, while I obviously feel bad for my wife and her family, my mother-in-law's death really doesn't impact me emotionally: I liked her, and, for the most part, lucked out in the mother-in-law department, but she hadn't been well for a long time and her relatively quick passing (at home) was a gift for her. What's bothering me is that my grandfather's estate issues and such are still going on – nothing bad, just a lot to dismantle – and, now that I'm dealing with (though not with the same level of involvement) another one, I feel like I'm back at the beginning of the process with my grandfather – down to the nursing home my father-in-law will be going into. It's an utterly exhausting loop, but one that begs the question: in these morning hours spent toiling in The Paintshop, writing things that no one reads only for my own belief that, in order to communicate to a nebulous someone, they need to exist, am I being myself for the only time during the day, or am I visiting the mausoleum of a previous iteration of myself, as others visit a grave?

meetings and visitations

Two more of the standard meetings and visitations in the interregnum between death and funeral today though this is my first in a long time when one spouse survives still; I'm used to dealing with total erasure, step by step, bit by bit. Will sit and be silent and offer support when needed; for some reason or other I've come to view these meetings and visitations as an integral part of the grieving process (though, in this case, I don’t consider myself to be grieving for the deceased but for the grief my wife is feeling) – probably because I've handled them myself for so long and prefer to do than feel; in this case, I do the lawn and write the obit.

shake

Fascinating recognition, thanks to a much-needed convo with a great friend: that part of my present creative problem is that, while I want and need to move on to different moods and forms, the inputs – life swirling, doing its thing –, the toxic waters that are gurgling into my well, are holding me in the same soul-sucking patterns of the last 14 years. Shaking things up is the only way out / through – trick being to figure out what, exactly, to shake: while I’d rather pursue requisite shaking with surgical precision for now, I do accept that “scorched earth everything” might become unavoidable.

patchings

Finished patching the pond at 2000 last night and the water will begin flowing shortly – and hopefully staying in. But, before I turn it back on, will have to rework the waterfall stones again so they don't let water escape. Best guess as to the source of the two holes in the pond liner: since it started happening last year, the first one is probably from Kirby chasing one of the his Derbzballs into the pond and clawing back up; and the second, is, I know, from my use of a rake to get muck and grass and all sorts of Swamp Thing regalia out of the pond last weekend. First one may be from me as well, IDK.

In order, however, to reach the bottom of that second tear, I had to further drain the pond. Behold the beauty of my improvised drainage system (pond pump duct taped to 1"-piping duct taped to a hose held up on shepherd hooks), using it to further nourish the new grass I had to put into the Derbzball field:

Note: I did not put it into the flowerbeds as a.) I have a tendency to kill plants and, b.), I tried but it ended up flowing back into the pond which really defeated the purpose of all of the effort.

Related truth about Amazon delivery: if you order something for a project (ie patch kit / tape), it will arrive not early in the day when you need it, but after dinner, when you can barely function but must, nonetheless, to finish.

The war continues.

It's been 20 years now since I left music school and my creative, for want of a better word, process still clings to my music composition methods: hunting and pecking for melodies, for transitions, transpositions, chord changes, sounds that fascinate, that lead from themselves to the next to the next and, while it's not always the best process for speed or for my own creative well-being, it's the way things eventually show up – with fiction at least. Fiction is music.

Slowly, slowly returning to the mindset that this writing thing is less a cosmic joke that I've borne the brunt of for the last 20+ years and more an essential part of who I am, for better or for worse: part of the frustration – and this need (rational – though perhaps too rational) for some nebulous "else" – is that I get up so early (which I prefer) that I'm mentally tapped out (read: old and tired) by lunch if not by the end of the morning run and that I'm incapable of mustering the requisite focus and/or willpower to push ahead creatively through the remaining 10-13 hours of of my waking day which – while the smart thing to do would be to view those 10-13 as a time for replenishing and restocking my creative well – nonetheless feel more like a further drain on my limited-to-begin-with mental and creative acuity but hey, at least I'm not using this space to bitch about how busy I am (which I'm not which might be part of the problem though I'd never bitch about it because that's just fucking lame): no, I get to bitch about other things (like how T1D is nothing if not a disease of damned if you do, damned if you don't) so IDK pfffbt, fuck it, the day awaits.

unicorn

Being to find a rhythm to the day makes my creative work not my secret identity between bouts of househusbandry and life in general but my default, a less-segmented / compartmentalized way of getting through the day.

Current thinking is that a solution lies somewhere at the intersection of smart bulbs turning off in The Paintshop at certain times (EAT NOW), a defined endtime to the workday, and an increased effort at a.) letting go of my need for repeatability; b.) 🖕ing to guilt over doing what I want to do with my fucking time; and, c.) not getting bent out of shape over life breaking through the walls, those last remnants of a quarter-century past conservatory practice room guilt. Or, you know, me just eating when I'm hungry and doing what I need to do when I need to do it and coming back here to seek refuge in this temple to our lady of thankless calling. Saying fuck it, basically, and trusting myself that my natural rhythm will get shit done.

Have no walls – save for the essentials that keep the structure sound, perhaps? Less a fortress and more an open-air plan?

As I've been experimenting with adding a third reading section to the day (basically, post-breakfast, lunch, and dinner), I'm finally using my Kindle for something other than hospital visits and waiting room time-slaying via short stories: reading non-fiction (currently, Cal Newport's latest, SLOW PRODUCTIVITY). Whereas I previously penciled up books with brackets and an overabundance of illegible scrawls that I'd hate myself for never reviewing, now I can read, highlight and, when I'm done, send the highlights to myself and put them in Obsidian. While fiction (except short stories) will remain corporeal-exclusive, it's not unlikely that non-fic will switch to digital-only - though if I want it on my shelf, I'll buy a physical version later.

Efforts at slowing down or, rather, at eliminating that feeling of rush from my day, front and center: little things like not acceding to young Kirby’s demands to play Derbzball as soon as I return from the run; like letting myself take 30 minutes after each exercise chunk (one after each meal) to read before going on to the next 90-minute thing. Appropriate, I suppose, that Newport's latest, SLOW PRODUCTIVITY was delivered to the Kindle this morning: not sure that I need help with writing slowly, I'm managing that just fine on my own, TYVM – but I would like a little less rush to nowhere in that as well. Old habits, I suppose.