My little corner of the sky

You know the kind of day that I’m talking about. The kind of day when, from the moment your little toes hit the laminate in the early a.m. nothing quite fits. Like you are a complete stranger waking up in a body and life that can’t possibly really be yours? Can it? Really?

You stare at the clothes you’ve selected to wear and don’t remember buying them or when you last wore them. Your body seems to be so incredibly plastic that from one moment to the next a roll of flesh shifts 3 inches up and your shoes don’t fit and the exact same pair of pants that was, just yesterday, tight on the thighs and loose on the waist, is now tight on the waist and loose on the thighs?

A voice is speaking - apparently issuing from your throat, your body, but you are hearing it through some weird echo chamber. What did you just say? Why are you telling that story that is stupid. You are being boring and offensesive. This person you are talking to is just wishing you’d shut up and walk away. Jeepers YOU wish you’d just shut up and walk away. Seriously did every word out of you mouth today not sound completely contrived and wrong? The words from your fingers were great, even good, as was the music you coaxed from the guitar. In person though, like a movie shot out of focus and out of synch, what the frack? – who am I ?

Happens sometimes, days like this. Usually after a day where I’ve caught a glimpse of my little corner of the sky – I feel brilliant. I shimmer in the light – gorgeous. Then an awkward view of the Buddha belly in the mirror, a stretch that results in popping noises so loud your office worker, from behind her headphones, looks startled.

My little corner of the sky. For you Glee geeks that is from the Broadway Musical “Pippin” the lyric goes something like this. “Rivers belong where they can ramble. Eagles belong where they can fly. I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free. Gotta find my corner of the sky.”

That’s what I’m gonna go work on right now. I am a writer of story, a spinner of tales. With that talent I am going to build my own castle, slay my own dragons, rescue one (or six) prince(s)and bring in a bumper crop, then a nice late night glass of brandy on a turret top and a long deep gaze into the stars above before the prince(s) calls me into the warmth and embrace of bed and love and dreams.

Why is finishing so hard?

Okay.
So I am in fact in bad, bad, bad mood.
For absolutely no reason I might add.
I had a great day. Work worked, laundry done, nap, guitar, waxing poetic about the perfect man.
But I do have to finish something. Why oh why oh why does this have to be like walking over glass every time? I don’t even want to try and finish. What I want is to have another drink and play Vampire Wars until Glee is on TV.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Because it isn’t what I really want. What I really want is to have this movie outline finished. But no, not the least of it. I want it to be finished in grand and pleasing fashion. However ya big schmoop, it can’t even be a bad outline if it ISN’T FINISHED!
Resistance. The knot of phlegm in my head that must be expelled each and every day in order to get writing done.
If you pray, please pray for me.
Cripes, now my glasses are dirty and I must arise and clean them. And get a glass of ice water. Heavy on the ice. And wash my face since I’ve been crying and it feels all sticky.
Then I have to resume the position, tell my self again that writing is joyful, god damn it. And finish.