News

My father is in the ICU. Thanks Amanda for the updates.

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After 3 weeks, my headaches are gone.

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This week continues to be busy beyond belief.

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Have a happy Halloween. And ya'll please extend birthday wishes to the original "boo baby," Whit McClendon, who turns still-not-as-old-as-me-dangit tomorrow.

[EDIT]

I'm at an okay pausing point with my projects. (Wow... alliteration)

I thought I'd better seize the opportunity to post something while I had a few thoughts rolling around in my skull. It could be the last time for a while.

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I do my best to be mindful regarding situations like the one with my father. It's huge news to my family and me, but still, it's his business more than anyone else's. That's why I'm not going into much detail. The family believes we have reason to be optimistic at this point.

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Okay, my Thursday paper is written. I need to polish it up, including a cover sheet and bibliography. Easy.

My Saturday presentation is coming together. I've written the book summary. Friday night (or maybe tomorrow night, if trick/treatin' doesn't wear me out) I'll go over it a bit and knock out some visual aids.

Then I've got ANOTHER paper to write for the following week, not to mention a huge powerpoint to put together for my day job. Oh, and I'm about to start co-facilitating a Monday morning group.

Life's just busy busy busy.

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Saturday night is Smashing Pumpkins... trying to coerce Geoff into going with me.

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I'm... feeling my age. Feeling the years, feeling the culmination of my history, my direction. Feeling myself at a point where I see the results of what I've done, choices I've made. In some instances I'm very pleased. In others I'm not.

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BB's current therapy: "Gun" by Soundgarden.

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All the days and directions and whims of your life lead you this way and that. Here, there, and everywhere, like the Beatles sang, right?

I still find it best not to look over my shoulder much. There's not denying, though, that there's always the temptation to look at one's route and wonder where a left turn at Albuquerque would have led.

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A therapist told me last week that this restlessness of mine may actually be Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Go ahead and laugh, sis. I'll deal with you after the voices in my head quit telling me to write letters to Jodie Foster.

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I nod off at this machine for a minute, then wake up and write.

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And sleep is what I crave. Just that peace, that surrender, that quiet. Dark room, cool sheets, and nowhere to be and nothing to worry about except drifting off in the arms of Morpheus.

So there I go.

Good night.