hunter

Monkey Mind Time, even though it's night. I guess my mind has taken a liking to the monkey. Figures.

As a young girl I never really fantasized about getting married or what my wedding dress would look like or where I would go on my honeymoon. Oh sure, there were moments when I lusted (to put it very mildly) after Ryan Gosling in 9th grade, but other than that I was typically not boy crazy or at all into anything frilly and romantic. I fantasized about other things, such as becoming Nancy Drew, going ghost hunting, traveling back in time so I could be a hippie at Woodstock. Seriously. And now, after all of these loopy years, I have begun to wonder about marriage. Or rather, about a long-term relationship with another person. I wonder if I want it. I wonder if it would be nice -- a relief -- to have a partner. I wonder what it would be like to be taken care of occasionally, to have someone to take care of, to have a plus one, to have a traveling companion. But I am such a loner. A certified loner. A proud and certified loner. Is it okay to be okay with being a loner? Like, I don't even feel that guilty about being such a solitary soul and I feel guilty about everything. Who knows. I guess I am not actively seeking out a relationship. I don't go out, I cancel plans, I am definitely not on any dating sites. Should I try? Just for curiosity's sake? Should I get all Nancy Drew on this? Find some clues. Solve a puzzle. Marry a bozo.

Other, briefer monkey mind musings:

I am began reading The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter today in a hospital park. So far so good.

Speaking of hospitals, I was convinced I needed to go to one last night. Total meltdown. Long, interesting story short, I most likely have a vitamin deficiency. Well, I hope so. I hope it's "just" that. I can pop a few vitamins and drink a few glasses of milk (well, no I can't). I can probably do those things, no sweat. But when things get more complicated, I crumble. Come on -- aren't I supposed to be a tea bag? Aren't I supposed to get stronger when put in hot water? Man alive, a hot bath sounds so inviting right now. Just a hot bath with a few glasses of milk (psych! wine!) and Enya playing in the background... Like, Enya is actually IN my bathroom playing music for me. And not her music, but she is playing DJ and spinning some records or whatever it's called. Spinning some records? Just make sure they don't spin off into the tub, Enya. I'm trying to relax.

I am obsessed with this cumin-spiced bread I make. It's outrageously easy and not even that delicious and I go through a loaf, like, every other day. What is so appealing to me about this bread? Could it be that I am cumin deficient? Mystery solved. Nancy Drew has done it again. Ms. Drew, thirty, flirty, and thriving. Aside from the multiple deficiencies.

Monkey Mind Meg wants to go talk to her Monkey Mother right now. Thanks for reading the insufferable things I write. You are true blue with a heart of gold. Gold and blue, that is you. See ya in my dreams, peach pies.

extremity

They have arrived! All hail the practical penny loafer! All hail the fact that it took me three times to spell "practical" correctly! The shoes are so great. They are so practical and so sensible and so classic. I am so proud of the fact that I made a wise investment in shoes for ONCE in my life. Or twice. Three times. One time I bought really warm snow boots. Another time I purchased excellent running shoes. And here we have some penny loafers! But my oh my have there been countless poor shoe choices in my past. I'm thinking specifically of the pointy stilettos I wore in a previous lifetime in Las Vegas. I walked the strip in them all night long, sober as a skunk with blisters the size of nickles forming on my naive feet. What a darling, podiatrically careless sweetheart I once was. Times have changed. I've magically transformed from a stilettoed 20-year-old to penny loafed thirtysomething practically overnight. Practically. Practical. Practice what you preach, girl. And I'm going to practice good foot care from now on.

I am almost done -- like, two pages away! -- with A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Why have I never read this delicious book before? It fills me with all of the feelings one person can have, including RAGE. Psych. Doesn't do that. I should have read this book in high school, right? Not implying that it's a juvenile book, just implying that perhaps I didn't go to the best of schools. I sincerely cannot remember being assigned to read very many books in my English classes. Sure, we read the Shakespeare and the Salinger (did we?) and those were marvelous. But I remember being allowed to read freaking Fear Street books. In 12th grade. IN 12TH GRADE. R.L. Stine vs. Steinbeck: Who will emerge victorious? Who shall be crowned the king of literature? Who will notice my penny loafers first and shower me with compliments? Sorry, I got sidetracked.

What me? Getting sidetracked? Puh-lease.

Speaking of please, will you please find me a summer job as a camp counselor along the coast of Maine? For some goofy reason, I am suddenly highly interested in the East Coast, specifically Maine. And this is all due to watching one stupid House Hunters episode. I have flavors of the week, folks. And this week it is imagining myself living in a wooded area of Maine eating rare blue lobster with my incredibly practical life partner who also happens to wear incredibly practical and finely crafted penny loafers. Anyway, I've never been a camp counselor, shockingly, and I've always thought it would be delightful to blow a whistle and fall out of a canoe.

Okay, well. Work beckons me like a lighthouse beckons travelers seeking adventure and tranquility. Can you have both adventure AND tranquility? Seems as though you have to choose one or the other. Oh well, make up your mind. Not your mind, but my mind. Make up my mind for me. But not about the shoes. My mind is set on sensible shoes forever. See you in hell, stilettos.

moon swings

Yesterday, from the second I opened my haunting hazel eyes to the second I closed my glorious green eyes (they change colors), I was a basketcase. A total nutso. A freak on a metaphorical leash. But definitely a literal freak. I was irritated by eeeeeeeverything and everyone and I kinda sorta hate it a lot that I was that way. And today? Today I am, like, totes chill. Totally chilled and ready to just love everyone and everything, even the idiots who block the aisles with their shopping carts and idiot children. Not that I plan on going to the grocery store tonight, but if I was I would be totally chill and mellow and... Okay, probably not. I'd probably start panicking by the time I got to the avocados, which is at the top of my list. Hey, I'm human! We can't be chill all the time! But we can purchase avocados and then throw them from our car window at that idiot who blocked the aisle. (Note: I have never done this because I would never want to waste a perfectly good avocado. But I came THIS close to doing something similar yesterday during Hurricane Meghan.)

What's up with the mood swings? Is it something to do with the moon or some planet in retrograde? What does retrograde even mean? Does the moon give us amorous ideas? And why haven't I gotten my period yet? Hey, I'm frank on this blog (and Meg on the streets ha ha ha). If I still had a period, I could "blame" my mood swings on PMS. Can I still get PMS symptoms without a period? Oh wait. This isn't Google. Why am I asking so many questions? Questioning questions. Quite qunfused. <--- That was me trying to spell "confused" in a clever way. Missed the mark.

A part of me wonders... Crap... Am I bipolar? No, really. Am I? No more questions! Sorry! I wonder "what" I am more often than is probably healthy. One week I'm diabetic. The next week I'm bipolar. In a few weeks I may even think I'm pregnant, but then realize NOPE! No period and also no human contact whatsoever. Immaculate conception? Who knows. What I think I am, however, is simply tired.

I wish I could sleep. I wish I would let myself take naps. I wish I would let myself sleep in just, you know, once in my life. I wish my doctor wouldn't be so crappy and would help me figure out why in the crap I can't go a single night without getting up at least 6 times to use the bathroom. A good night is when I only get up three times and get five hours of sleep. That sucks. I've said "sleep" a lot in this paragraph, but at least I didn't ask any questions!

So the mood swings might have something to do with the lack of sleep. Sure. I still think there's more to it, though. Want to diagnose me? I welcome all diagnoses. I may not believe them, but I welcome them. I welcome a lot of things I don't truly believe. I guess it's just because I am so chill. Don't catch me on a bad day, though. I will yell, "Screw your diagnosis!" from the safety of my Ford Focus as I hurl a perfectly unripe avocado at your lovely head. I apologize in advance. I hope it doesn't leave a bump.

There are bumps in the road. I will be okay. I just have to keep on driving. With the windows rolled up. And both hands on the wheel. And calming classical music on the radio. And an avocado sitting next to me, being a perfectly delicious passenger. What a long, quiet highway.

misérables

As the astute and loyal reader that you are, you may recall that I love rainy days. Well, upon waking, my room was flooded with light! What the hell! Not true. My room was not flooded with anything but odd phrases pulled from the realm of dreams. (One such phrase which I believe I shall use as the title of the memoir I'll never get around to writing: Unreasonable Adjustments to Everyday Life) But when I pulled back my curtains, there was light. And it was good. Did I create the light? I did not. Morning light and a memoir: two things I will never produce because 1) I am not the sun and 2) I have a hard time meeting deadlines.

It is supposed to be a rainy day today, yes? There is an 80% chance of afternoon showers and and and... And you didn't really come here to read a weather report. Did you know I always fast forward through the weather when I watch the news? I know the weather is important. But I only have so much space in my brain and heart for important stuff. I am resigned to pick and choose which important things end up in my filing cabinets. Sometimes I have to add a bit of fluff so that the sharp corners don't draw blood.

May the gods smile (or cry?) down upon me and our dry earth and give the gift of rain. Give the gift of rain! Today! For only 1,997 easy payments of $1,997. That would be... Hold on a second... $3,988,009 for a day of rain. Sold.

This post is scattered again, sure, but maybe not as much because I am trying my damnedest to not drink caffeine. And that brings me to one quick observation: I feel like an Onion article or some kind of character in some kind of comedy sketch. Like, hello, folks! It's me, white middle class American girl, age 30! Caffeine makes me bonkers and I am going to quit it and it is, like, the biggest deal ever. And are you cold? Brrrr. And ugh, split ends! Should I cut bangs? I can't decide whether or not to go to the grocery store. I just hate crowds, you know? But I need my organic kale. Ugh, why is someone messaging me on Facebook? Facebook is soooo stressful. Life is soooo stressful.

And so on.

I don't want to go on being this "ugh, blah, I feel weird" girl. I don't even want to be a GIRL, dammit! Not surprising you with news that I am transgendered, because I'm not, just surprising you with the news that I want to grow up. I guess I'm saying I want to be, um, a woman? I mean, technically I became a woman back in the 8th grade in my bathroom at home while wearing an oversized Les Misérables sweatshirt, but now I really want to grow up. I need to start mellowing out and begin zeroing in on what I truly want. I can't keep focusing on the small annoyances in life and turning them into massive tragedies. I am not always a victim unless I make myself one. No more of that, though. I am going to make myself into a woman! Hear me roar! No more whispering! And I am going to make myself a sandwich! Eventually! Hear me spread so much wasabi on that sandwich! No more denying that I like bizarre sandwiches! Bon appétit!

I hope it rains today, though. The clouds clear my head. And I have a lot of thinking to do and memoirs to write.

anthophila

These cloudy days are the best. They really really really are. In Meghan's ideal world, there would be lots of overcast hours with light rain followed by a golden hour or two of nearly mythical sunshine. Did I just describe the Northwest? Maybe I am beginning to embrace the introvert that I so solidly am. Growing up I thought being shy was shameful. I was embarrassed anytime someone would call me quiet. TAKE IT BACK!!! I screamed in my head. Out loud, however, I just looked down and whispered, "Nah."

But being quiet is marvelous. It gives me time to see and listen and then to organize all of this collected data in my head. Up in this cranium of mine is a goldmine of glimpses into other people's lives. Glimpses. Not fully fleshed stories. It is my job to take these scenes and connect them into some sort of a story. It's a job, by the way, that I have given to myself. Nobody is asking me to create. I wear the hat of employer and employee and sometimes this hat doesn't fit. My head is rather large.

Anyway, I'm trying to be too thoughtful right now. My brain doesn't work that way in the morning. Nope. My brain is a basket of buzzing bees in the morning, searching for their hive. You know bees are dying out, right? What does this say about my brain?

Bear with me. I'll write something... Calmer tonight. My brain switches from bees to a hibernating bear at night. But the bear isn't asleep. The bear is stuck in his cave (why is my brain masculine? curious.), pacing around the fire he created from matches he found left by forgetful boy scouts. Yes, the insomniac bear in my brain knows how to make a fire. Doesn't yours? If not, you really should teach him. Or her. You should also teach him/her to tie knots and read good literature. Reading good literature will 9 times out of 10 save your life more than knots will, I promise.

Back to the bear. I have absolutely no clue where I was going with that. Such is the nature of the bee. BUT WAIT. Bees are actually very productive and focused, yes? Yes. So is my morning mind a monkey? I guess I don't know a lot about species outside of the homo sapiens. Hell, I don't even know much about the homo saps. It makes me think I should have paid more attention in biology. But I must have because I walked away with an A. I walked away from almost every class with an A, yet somehow I still feel unschooled.

Okay. So. Breathe. How can I tie all of this up? I could say something about how I'm shy on the outside, but inside I can't shut up. I already said that. Just a reminder, I guess. I could say that no bees are wingless, that bears are the national animal of Finland, and that next year will be the year of the monkey. I could say that the fact that I can't quite get out what I want to say this morning is frustrating me and causing me to chew not one, but TWO trays of ice and that I need to just step far, far away from the computer and go, like, practice tying knots or something. So that is what I shall do. Thank you for reading this post and stay posted for later when I am in my cave, pacing and throwing another log onto the fire.

safety/return/kickoff

It is later in the day when my thoughts begin to slow down and I am not as frantic as I am in the morning. Hallelujah. (After 30 years I still struggle with the spelling of "hallelujah.") Why am I not watching football? you may ask. You may. You may ask that, but I do not have much of a response for you other than "just because." I could tell you that I don't care, that I would rather read, that I feel compelled to go on a walk, that I want to bake banana bread. All of these things are true. But we're not here to hear me discuss my reasons for not watching the Super Bowl. Or are we? We aren't.

At night, after most of the sane members of society have gone to sleep, I stay awake watching cartoons from the '80s because it reminds me of my childhood. The smell of my hair after being outside in the sun and the way golden light shines into my room after a long day also reminds me of those mythical, magical years. Lately I've been stuck inside of those years, observing them now through the eyes of someone who is technically an adult, but doesn't quite believe it yet. I still feel unrefined with scraped knees and jars waiting for fireflies. I still feel small. And I am waiting. I am still waiting for my life to begin, for the real stuff to happen, for the world to open up and offer me the treasures of a spouse and children and fences and yards. Turns out the world has always been open; I just need to stop standing behind the door.

But I continue to stand, frozen. I am not sure I trust my legs yet. Once I start walking and find that I must accept what is offered, I am then responsible. I am responsible for sensible bedtimes and bandaged knees. I am required to fill the jars with fruit, not fireflies. I must reach new heights rather than staying comfortably small. And so it's no wonder I remain frozen behind this door. Who wants to brave the elements when they have worked their whole life to stay warm?

Warm isn't worth it, though. I can't breathe when there is no breeze. Besides, there are always old coats I can dig out when the weather calls for it. Point is, I need to begin feeling the weather. I need to begin experiencing the passing storms and lingering sunlight. I need to let the rain touch my skin and the soil bless my soles. I need to let myself finally grow.

Touchdown.

inhabit

Coming to the realization that I don't have to write might help me recover from a little malady known as "self-loathing." Yes, writers tend to be people of both bravado and timidness, a confusing mix to say the least. I know that I simultaneously feel as though I am the smartest and dumbest person in the room. What room? Any room at any given time. This roller coaster personality is in itself exhausting. How to handle the climbs and dips and loops without getting nauseous is anyone's guess. At least the metal bar around my lap is secure. I wouldn't want to end up stuck on the tracks.

So if I can rationally tell myself that I don't have to write, that it's not in my current job description, that I don't have a gun pointed to my temple while sitting in front of a typewriter (which has no ribbon), then why do I still secretly feel as if I do? A part of me thinks it's just the ego grasping onto some kind of meaning or purpose so I do not fall into an existential black hole of despair. Another part of me is more romantic and probably delusional and believes that to be a writer is my destiny.

But I already am a writer. Just by writing. You can be a writer, too, right? I guess anyone can. No, not anyone. Some people are typists. Anyway, just because I am not on some book tour across the Midwest stuck in a dismal Barnes and Noble signing copies of my bestselling teen apocalyptic novel does not mean I'm not a writer. It just means I'm not a wealthy writer. But I've never wanted to be that. Well, sure, wealthy would be awesome. And bestselling would be awesome. And a book tour would be better than sitting in a dark room grading math homework for almost minimum wage. But still. I'm not terribly competitive and I don't write to get rich and famous. I write... Well, I'm not exactly sure why I write. Yes, to chase away the existential demons. Yes, to feel as though I have a purpose. But there has to be something more. Right?

I believe I write to connect. It's not that I even have a story in mind that I wish to tell when I begin to write. I just want to make other people, myself included, less lonely. I don't mind if we are alone; alone is different than lonely. Alone can build muscle and offer healing space. Lonely is the grey leftover snow in January. Lonely doesn't melt right away, it just lingers. I want my writing to reach out across the distances we put between ourselves and everyone and everything else. I want my words to place a hand on a shoulder and offer reassurance. We don't have to go through this -- all of this -- estranged. We don't have to be homeless anymore.

I am finally at home while I am creating. And it is my wish to compose a home out of my words for those outside. Come in and get warm.