My intentions are good.

I like writing unless I have a formal project to work on and then I procrastinate it.  I do a lot of head-writing but don’t put it on paper.  Fear of failure?  Needing an adrenaline surge to produce?  Right now, I have hanging over my head, an article that I need to write from an interview of one of my all-time favorite people.

Photo by Martha Dominguez de Gouveia on Unsplash

I think this piece will get a reasonably large readership.  Everyone knows her and everyone loves her.  She’s more fun than a box of puppies. 

I like having an audience.  I do write to know what I think, but I also write to be read.  Of course, I have some pieces that will never see an editor’s pen, but others I want out there for anyone to read at will. 

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My Fantasy Self

If I could fly, I would soar to Mexico

If I could soar to Mexico, I would bask on a beach with a margarita.

If I could bask on a beach with a margarita, I would think of nothing.

If I could think of nothing, I would find my breathing deep and relaxed.

If I could breathe deep and relaxed, I would think through all these problems.

If I could think through these problems, I would have a plan.

And if I could have a plan, I would work it and work it.

I would work that plan and create the life I’m striving for. 

But real life keeps intervening and derails my planning.  If I could, I would.

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Calypso

It is cold as shit in here and I have a Calypso earworm in my head.  Daylight come and I wanna go home.  Like reggae, it’s impossible to be anything but happy when the music is blaring.  And blaring it is.  I want to go home — home where things are organized and orderly and sane.  I am home, but my home is anything but what I need it to be.  Still, I’m oddly cheerful.

Photo by Stéphane Juban on Unsplash

Greek mythology says Calypso was a nymph who kept Odysseus on her island for seven years promising him immortality, but he preferred to go home instead.  I can understand that.  I want to go home too, but technically I am home.  Home is just not very homey right now.

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Monsoon Season in a Temperate Rain Forest

I am not in the mood for this rain this morning.  Not in the least.  I need a crisp fall day with crystalline blue skies and the occasional orange leaf wafting past my window while I write.

Photo by Nick Nice on Unsplash

I have two deadlines for two major projects that have already gone by.  I asked for and received an extension on both, but now it’s do or die time.  I do not need to be drowsy and in fear of my power going out.

I’ve never lived anywhere where it rained like this.  Not even in Hawaii in the rainy season.  I call these the monsoon seasons and we have two of them – one in the spring and one in fall.  However, this past spring, they never ended.  It’s just been one very wet summer.  I am weary of rain.

West Virginia is a temperate rainforest.  Really.  I looked it up once and Seattle has nothing on us for rainy days.  It’s just that we concentrate our rain and have deluges.  I had a girlfriend visiting from San Francisco one time during one of our downpours.  She was both amazed and terrified.  She kept saying different things in the vein of, “If this was California we would be ordered to shelter in place.”  Here?  Life just goes on unless it floods.  I surely hope Ian doesn’t treat us to floods.  We’ve had more than our fair share.

When we moved to West Virginia the first time, I lived on the third floor of an old Southside Huntington brick.  There were sloping ceilings and one set of windows near my bed that went from floor to ceiling.  I could lie on the bed, watch the rain, read, and dream my high school dreams.  It was lovely. 

As the years went by, it became less and less lovely.  We transferred to Wisconsin where monsoons don’t happen and there is an abundance of sunny days, albeit often cold.  Very cold.  Blue skies in the winter guaranteed subzero temperatures.  It had to warm up to snow.

We transferred back here and moved into the barn with its tin roof.  Oh, how glorious, rain on a tin roof is!  My family room is still under a tin roof – I negotiated with the insurance agent who made us get a real roof if we wanted coverage.  So, I still get that roar of rain in this room.  The room where I write.  The room where I have to, have to, have to be productive today.

The sound is hypnotic, and I want nothing more than to curl up on the sofa with the puppies, a cup of coffee, and a good book.  But I procrastinated myself into this situation and I must muscle my way out of it.  By the sounds of it, it will still be raining after I’m finished.  I’ll get cuddle time, yet which is good.  I’m in sore need of downtime.