A-Hunting We Will Go...

It's been too long again. Blame it on my classes picking up, or my few sociable friends getting extra busy this time of year, and dragging me along, or the alcohol I've been consuming lately. Or the cold weather slowing my metabolism down. Or my inability to focus on writing for all the other stuff going on in my head.

Or that I'm a slacker, plain and simple, and can't figure anything worth posting about.  I've been reading through a few other blogs lately.  (It's amazing the stuff you find when you hit the 'Next Blog' button. Not that you should stop reading mine right now, but try that sometime.) And I'm starting to notice something of a pattern. I swear I'm not expecting anybody to blog some big, paradigm-shifting revelations; even I, picky as I am, can see that that's a thoroughly unrealistic expectation to set for anyone, present company included. But it seems to me like most everybody is posting about the same couple of topics. And it's really, really starting to get to me.

All opinion-fluff and no thoughtful posts make Maggi go crazy...

So let me tell you what this post--or any subsequent posts--will not be about:

• how wonderful my husband is
• how adooorrrable our kids are
• moping about how I have no husband or children yet
• politics and/or the presidential debates (with the exception of the occasional snark about how ridiculous the debates were, how ridiculous the system is, or how ridiculous people are being when they get worked up over it all
• how awesome my diet is 
• how awful my diet is
• how awful I feel because I want to diet, but still go for those cookies every single time
• how much my family sucks 
• how much I suck
• boasting about how smashed I got last weekend
• boasting about how high I got last weekend
• boasting about stupid stuff of questionable legality that I do while drunk/high
• bemoaning my crap-tastic job (ALTHOUGH. If anyone is willing to hire a highly intelligent worker of good character, strong ethics, and limited but steady experience, call me. Please.)
• bemoaning my voluntary status as a Singleton
• going elitist-hipster-snob on the recent trends of tween culture (no matter how strongly I feel that they lack the brain development to properly appreciate the original Doctor Who. Must... resist... tween-bashing urges...)

Like I said, if that's what you're into, there are entirely too many op-ed-style blogs out there for you.  I'm trying not to be one of them. I'm not looking down my nose at their stuff--it's not all awful, truly--I'm just trying to be something else, something different.

And I will (try to) post more frequently than last month. So much for best laid plans, huh?

Stacked

Sometimes
the cards just don't
fall
like you want.
  Your left hand shakes
as you cut
the deck.
One falls. It is
the the Empress,
her face
judging, rests on
your shoe.

Re-stack.
Shuffle.
Left-hand
cuts the deck:
three piles.
  The top card sticks
to your thumb,
three swords
draw it's blood.
Something wicked
this way comes.

Re-stack.
Shuffle.
Left-hand
cuts the deck.
Nothing falls.
Nothing flies.
Past: the Fool.
Present: Eight
   of wands.
Nothing falls,
nothing flies.
One left.
Future slides,
slips
to the floor.
The card beneath
grins, beckons,
dances:
the Hanged
Man.


Sometimes
the cards just don't
fall
like you want.

Melancholia

I would say that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but since there's a lot of metal and, you know, a wall on the other side, there might not have been a right side on which to wake.  I feel like some shattered thing, and someone's shaken all my little shards so that the edges scratch each other and they'll never fit together again quite the same.


Try reading that with a smile. (Honestly, it's not nearly as bad--or freaking emo--as that sounds. I've been reading too much poetry again, and it's showing.  No more Baudelaire in the mornings, I swear...)


And knowing--or at least, having a darn good guess--the problem isn't helping, because the problem is one of those things you kind of can't help.

See, I've had a lot of changes going on lately. Some of them are for the better, and that helps, but only so much.  I just don't deal well with change. At all.  As in, I ran out of my favorite tea yesterday, forgot about it, and was stressed all through class about not having it. As in, I don't like people coming in my room because they might move something. As in, I left my day planner in my other purse last week and panicked, not because I might forget the homework assignment (I am that nerd, yes), but just because it wasn't where I thought it was, and that was just plain wrong.

For the record, it isn't OCD. Not quite. I've asked.

Yes, I know that humans, in general, react poorly to changes in their environment. I know that it's entirely normal for change to cause stress. Normally, I can deal with it fairly well: I meditate (almost) every day, spend time outside, eat fairly well, allow quiet time for my introverted self, and get a regular amount of sleep. Lately though, two and a half of those have flown out the window because of what-all is going on. Which makes me feel worse and stress more. And creates a cyclical problem. (Not a circular problem, though. I suck at drawing circles.)

And so it becomes time for drastic measures, involving two days off of work, a reappearance of the structured sleep-schedule, several dozen bottles of good red wine  , and seeing a few of the people who are good for me. And cold-turkey quitting with the ODing on rom-coms and flowery, romantic fanfics. (Seriously this time. I mean it. For the month, at least.) I will make myself breathe deeply the next time I find myself getting worked up. I will remind myself that not everything is my responsibility, nor is it my fault. I will refrain from verbally bashing my coworkers. I will refrain from verbally bashing the idiot driver in front of me. I will (try to) refrain from verbally bashing my boss. The human mind and body are capable of recovering from some amazing things. Not everything is a big deal. I don't have to save the world. 

I just have to remind myself of this.