January 25, 2007

4:13 p.m.

Freedom Bound, and Other Oxymorons

The title is just something I've had on my bulletin board for a while, in case I came up with other, equally clever, phrases. I used to collect oxymorons but eventually tired of it. They were like so many hobbies that pass like long trains to somewhere.

I have been reading about the Okinawans, who typically live to be over 100, and have almost no incidence of heart disease or cancer. They are, by and large, a happy people, thriving on a mainly vegetarian- and fish-based diet, remaining active throughout their years. How far we are, in this country, from any semblance of that lifestyle. Our health is corrupt, our president is corrupt, and nothing satisfies us. Whatever will become of this grasping race, I wonder.

I've raised my laptop on a stand of sorts and connected a wireless keyboard which I can have either in my lap or on the pull-out shelf of the desk. I look forward at the screen now, instead of down, and my elbows are more or less at my sides. I think of what the chiropractor said, about letting my skeleton support me, not my muscles. I hope my back and shoulders will be better for the change; it's the last one recommended to me. The stiffness has been a little worse this month, again.

It appears I am having six people over for dinner on Saturday. My little knitting klatsch burgeoned a bit, making me a wee bit nervous about the numbers. I don't have seating for seven. I certainly don't mind sitting on the floor, but it still means a couple of other people will have to as well. Why did I decide to do this, anyway? It seemed like such a good and friendly idea. I wish I could cancel everything and tell everyone to stay home, James included.

So, to take back control of my life and space, or at least to take back the illusion of control, I can say that after this I won't have anyone over for the rest of the winter. James might be an exception, but no dinners, no social occasions. I sat and knitted (knit?) this morning, having my imaginary conversation with James, in which I sorted out my feelings and spoke ever so eloquently about the State of Things. He was very polite and didn't respond until I was all done. Then I actually talked to him on the phone later and right away, something reminded him of something in a movie he'd seen which I hadn't, and he had to impersonate the lines and then tell me about the movie and why our conversation reminded him of it. This is quickly becoming a trigger for me, as he does it often. It's like he lives constantly in the stimulus of what he's seen and heard, and has to refer to that all the time instead of just being present. It's fun when it's a movie we've both seen, preferably together, but most of the time it's a reference with which I'm unfamiliar and it doesn't mean anything to me. Yammer, yammer.

Why do I so often end up with guys who talk so much?

Maybe so that I can go on at so much length about it here, eh?

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I'm stalling about writing the story about my mother. It's being put off like so many things. I just have to take a little time to sit and think about it, do a meditation, just look at what I've written so far and see where it might take me. Why am I doing none of these things? Why am I so afraid of everything falling apart? Why do I just want to run off and have an affair with a stranger and then forget about him (/her) as though such a diversion would enrich me in some way and do no harm to anyone? Why do I so keenly want to disconnect?

Answers to these and other life-affecting questions will be made apparent in some sweet-ass by and by.

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I got three great-looking books on croning and women's life transitions which I'm very much looking forward to reading. Might start tonight. Carol announced this week that she's having her first period in a year and a half. How bizarre this getting older is, and unpredictable. I sit in wonder of it all, in spite of the less than cheerful atmosphere in which I comport myself today.