I am tore up from the floor up, Charmers. I feel like it’s been a constant stream of go! go! go! since the NYC Pagan Pride Day. My Tiny Charges have been getting bigger and their naps have grown shorter, making writing a challenge.
Jow and I just got back from the Caribbean and we had a blissful first week back with the memory of cream rum drinks, endless afternoon teas, cake flour like sand, warm azure blue ocean and long meandering talks about the books we are reading and potential blog posts.
It soon became clear by the primal howling in my head that my previous work schedule was not going to work. So I’ve taken back Mondays and I’m thinking about other changes we can implement. Last weekend was crazy with an Iron Woman shift on Friday (sounds impressive here, but I’d just be called “Mom” if I were not a paid professional) and then a super crazy Trenton Punk Rock Flea Market on Sunday and . . .I’ve just been going home and crashing like the least cool punk ever.
Jow and I are supposed to be eating at the table like civilized animals and we’re supposed to be waiting until after dinner for pajamas and then taking care of our faces so we don’t need Botox later (now) and then listening to a book on cd and then watching a narrative based program on telly. Oh and dinner is supposed to be pretend French – a salad course, a main course, a cheese/fruit course and a small bonbon. This lasted a few days, along with our beauty regime and then . . .
The usual manic shove food into our maws/try to ship/try to craft for the next show/watch reality telly/drink a jug of wine/pass out in front of the television/wake up/go to work/ lather/ rinse/ maim is instead what we’ve been doing because we are the worst.
I’m definitely starting to make enough at shows that a change will be coming soon. How soon, who knows?
In the interim, I’m trying to work on my personal practice as pictured above. I have moments of progress.
But for now . . .
To sleep, perchance to dream
Aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all.