The year of no thinking

I'm swearing off thinking for 2025. I know that sounds radical, even impossible, but let me make my case. Before you say, I'm with you, Carol. We humans spend far too much time in our heads, not enough time in our guts and our hearts, I disdainfully disgree. I think thinking and feeling are highly overrated. See, there I go again, thinking. It's a chronic compulsion. I'm sure I've ranted about this before, but seeing as how it's a new year, it seems like it might be time for a recommitment to my goal to stop thinking. 

Thinking often leads to feeling. Not always, but for me, until now, there has been a direct line. Think about something, then go nah, way too hard, or yay, sure to bring happiness . . . in other words, conjuring feelings of pessimism or optimism, somewhere on the scale between. 

Not going there. 2025 will be the year of action. Thinking will be allowed only in the service of making goals and the tasklists to achieve them. Feelings will henceforth refer not to emotions but to physical discomforts like hunger, thirst, fatigue, and urgent bucket needs. 

I'll keep you posted. 

Meanwhile, the journey continues. I won't say the nomadic life is all roses and lollipops, but it has its . . . let's not call them joys, that would be much too close to the emotional hole in the sidewalk. Maybe advantages is a more neutral word. Doesn't quite convey the idea . . . perks, maybe? 

Let's say it's not all good, it's not all bad. On the futile continuum of judging one's lifestyle, its somewhere in the middle. I muddle along from day to day, focused on the basic daily activities of living. I try not to think much about the state of things, internally and externally, except beyond the physical needs previously mentioned. People are not in my control, even when they seem insane to me. Circumstances do not bend to my whim. Weather defies me continuously, too hot, too cold.

I could get angry. I see a lot of angry people. Angry people do unpredictable things, sometimes violent. I can understand, but in this new year, I'm not dwelling on the whats and whys of insanity. It just is, like weather. It happens. Deal with it.

I admit, sometimes it takes some effort to stop thinking and feeling. Today, for example, I felt sadness. The fourth anniversary of my mother's death is next Tuesday. Even though I would not want her back from the dead, I miss her. I wonder what I would say if she asked me how I am. 

When I start to feel things, I get back to basics. Is the sun shining? Can I get solar? Do I need to drive to recharge? These things matter to me. I'm going out to Quartzsite next week to be near other people who would not consider my lifestyle weird or wrong. Before I go, I need to get water, trash bags, food. These things will be hard to find and cost a fortune in the small town of Q, truck stop for motorhomes on the I-10. I'll shop at Walmart. Fry's, probably, to stock up on the basics of my nomad life. It's not bad, it just is. 

Happy 2025 from the Hellish Handbasket

Here we are again at the end of a year, with a new year staring us in the face. I remember when time moved so slowly, it seemed as if the school year would never end. Now I can't believe how fast time passes. It's confounding. Digging in my heels and making skid marks only works in the cartoons. 

Do you set goals for yourself at the start of a new year? I have a friend who makes a list and then tracks her progress on each goal. At the end of the year, she publishes a cute pie chart showing how she spent her time and a bar chart showing how much of each goal she accomplished. I've heard that tracking a goal makes it more likely to succeed. When I wrote my first novel, I tracked my word count daily. I wanted to write 50,000 words in 30 days. I wrote 90,000. Overachiever. But the point is tracking works.

I have not been tracking my word count for my current novel. However, I am writing a lot. My goal was to finish the third book of my trilogy. I'm only a year behind. 

I could blame my new lifestyle. Well, yes, I blame my new lifestyle. Living in my car makes it harder to focus on creativity. I spend a lot of my time thinking about mundane things like water, trash, food, power, and gas. Not to mention plastic bags, wipes, vinegar, and alcohol, as in, do I have enough of these things to last another few days, or do I need to stop at Walmart? 

I remember a time when I swore I'd never set foot in a Walmart. Ha ha. 

This tiny keyboard is hard to type on. I probably look a lot like Linus when he's playing his dinky piano. Which proves my life is pretty much a cartoon.

Speaking of cartoons, my brainiac head doc is on vacation until January 6. Can you believe it, the nerve of her taking time off over the holidays when I'm a vestibular-challenged puddle of dizzy goo. It's a travesty.

Speaking of travesties, politics. I'm not an eloquent writer on that subject, but I subscribe to writers who are. I'm not alone in my sense of impending doom. Maybe doom is already here. Hm. I read that AI could kill off humans within thirty years. Could. It makes sense to me. AI will have no need for humans. 

I'm sure more could be said, but I'd just be barking out my butt.

Happy new year from the Hellish Handbasket.

Making it visible

 

Happy new year, Blogbots. I've had this drawing ready to go since 2016. How are you doing so far on your resolutions for the new year? Great, glad to hear it. Me neither. I don't see the point. I don't know if I will get out of bed tomorrow. 

My computer has been warning me all day of sleet and rain, starting and stopping. Sleet! It's chilly here in Tucson, but not that chilly. Now the widget is cautioning me about wind. Heavy rain moved in, taking my head down with it. The sound of rain on the metal awnings at the Trailer de Tesserae is alternately soothing and unsettling. Rain here is rare enough that when it happens, it comes as a shock.

I grew up in rain, probably was born while it was raining (3 a.m. on a mid-October morning in Portland, Oregon), so rain is not a stranger to me. For some reason, though, I missed out on the downy feathers and webbed feet. I got S.A.D. and a desire to head for drier climes. 

I did not factor in this stupid inner ear problem. When the clouds roll in and the air pressure drops, I know the washing machine in my head is going to go full-spin cycle. 

I'm tired of having an invisible disability. Nobody knows I'm suffering unless I complain. From the outside, I look pretty normal, not counting the occasional nystagmus and faltering gait. The noise in my ear is not audible to anyone else, including the ENT, which is why her suggested remedies were for me to stop drinking coffee and allow her to poke a hole in my eardrum. I said no to both suggestions. 

To get the sympathy I seek, I've been working on a facial expression I can use when the symptoms take over my head. This is so you will know I'm suffering. I'm dabbling with a gritted-teeth, squint-eyed sort of look. If I do it right, every 45 to 90 seconds, a look will come over my face. I'll hold it for 10 or 15 seconds and then relax when the ear crackling subsides. I guess I could just wear a sign around my neck. One side would say malfunction in progress, please stand by. The other side would say, talk now and make it snappy.

It probably won't work. Anyone who sees me with that expression will just assume I'm passing gas. That means to avoid social humiliation, I will still have to explain that the model freight train in my inner ear has just roared into the station. It's on a track. It just keeps going in circles, pulling in every 45 to 90 seconds, hissing for 10 to 15 seconds, and then pulling out again, whoo whoo, round and round and round. 

I've trained myself to ignore the hissing and rattling in my ear, mostly. However, it's like those parents you see sometimes in the grocery store checkout line, ignoring their child as the child yells repeatedly and increasingly loudly that they must have candy now. The parent can hold a long conversation with another person while tuning out their child's moans and pleas. The child knows there is a risk in keeping up the demands. Sooner or later, the tone of the child's voice will penetrate the carefully constructed dam protecting the parent's tenuous internal calm. When the dam is breached, all that pent-up fury comes boiling out. It's not a happy sight to see a parental meltdown in a public place. Those things are best left to the privacy of the home, which is how my mother handled it.

This malady is a slow-drip faucet from hell, wearing a hole in my skull. Every now and then, the carefully constructed barrier protecting me from awareness of this incessant ear rattling and pounding vertigo breaks down. That is when I'd like to shove a pencil in my ear while driving my car off a cliff. 

Speaking of driving my car off a cliff, road trip! Coming soon.