My Procrastination Jottings: Hunger Walks

Photo Courtesy of Me

I’ve done this so many times.  (Photo Courtesy of Me)

I am desperate again.  This time it’s because I’m hungry.  Terribly, ravenously hungry.  I’ve been hungry for days, there’s no end to it.  I can’t do anything except agonize in the clutches of the goddamn hunger.  I suppose this might be premenstrual hunger.  Who knows.  The gnawing makes me so bitter and forlorn that I’m not bulimic anymore and therefore can’t appease the hunger.  And that’s not good; it’s been so long since I’ve really, sincerely wished I could throw up.

I’ve been walking my ass off in an attempt both to stifle the hunger and to counter the effects of it, but I just can’t keep up.  This afternoon I desperately stormed out of the house in a ravenous frenzied fury, to try to escape the pain and panging and beating of the goddamn hunger against me.  I got in my car and drove to the bay, shaking, too hungry and anxious and tormented to really think about or realize the movements and turns I was making while buckling my seat belt, backing out of the driveway, driving across town and stepping out onto the sand.  I walked in the sun from the end of the beach over to the ferry, where I couldn’t walk any further because a fortress of rocks was piled up across the sand going out into the water, and everything past and around the fortress was roped off and there were signs posted in all directions that read, OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY.  NO TRESPASSING.  VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.  Because I’m one of those lackluster, risk-averse people who never have the balls to cross No Trespassing signs, I turned around and plodded back disappointedly, in the sun, this time at the edge of the water so my feet could get wet and I could more easily take the blaring heat.   Continue reading

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My Procrastination Jottings: Things I Would Rather Be Doing Than Writing This Newsletter Article (That May or May Not Even Get Published)

  •  Run away.  Road trip.  Out West.  Do the Zen-And-the-Art-of-Motorcycle-Maintenance thing.
  • Go to sleep.  For hours and hours.  Wearing very, very soft pajamas.  I’m talking very soft.  And sleeping forever.  Like, Sleeping Beauty style.
  • Strong cappuccino at a very quiet and dim coffee shop, very strong cappuccino, and very quiet and dim.  And cozy.
  • Wander around in an endless meadow full of wildflowers (indulge my frivolous fancy, here).
  • Wander around a quiet garden or meadow or woodland or hilltop or riverbank on a balmy summer night.  Quiet and balmy, and fragrant, is key here.
Image

Crappy cell phone photo of a full moon on a balmy summer night that I took last July from my front porch.  You really had to be there, to feel…the intoxication of it all (*gasp*).

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My Procrastination Jottings: Swimming Inside My Mind

By U.S. Embassy Tel Aviv (_D3S9680FL) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By U.S. Embassy Tel Aviv (_D3S9680FL) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Instead of writing my freelance piece last night I scribbled out the below garbage in my Procrastination Jottings:

I still can’t write this article.  Because my mind is swimming, swimming.  Or rather, I’m swimming inside my mind.  I’ve noticed I use that metaphor a lot, the swimming metaphor, with reference to my mind and what goes on inside it, and how I inevitably drown in it.  I always feel like my mind is a big tank full of all the garbage and remains and gunk that you find washed up on the beach or entrenched into the sea floor, and that I’m stuck in this tank.  And I just want, need, to purge my mind of everything, all the junk and putrid debris and detritus.  If I were to successfully purge my mind, crack open the tank and dump it all out onto the ground outside, probably I would find a lot of slimy rotting fish and the decaying soft bodies of mollusks inside their shells, milky proteins oozing out and marbling over; abandoned, torn tires; rusty nails from who-knows-what; dead and decomposing horseshoe crabs and limp, flaccid eel bodies; pieces of wooden planks and driftwood of an unknown origin, with grotesque white linchen growing all over it; plastic bottle rings; beer bottles and broken whisky bottles covered and filled with sandy grime, and rusty beer bottle caps; tossed, corroded gasoline cans; brittle and bare grayed feathers from unidentified birds, and the heartbreaking carcass of an injured seagull that fell into the sea; a discolored and lifeless crab tangled inside a broken fishing line; a discarded and rusty crab cage covered in brown seaweed; and piles upon piles of cloudy, dense pebbles and stones and broken shells, all over the place, handfuls upon heavy handfuls and no bottom and no place to push them over to, they scrape my hands when I dig my fingers into them and pierce into my feet when I try to walk.  And everything grown over with ripe and pungent algae.