Am I A Writer?

I always have been.

But recently, I find it more and more difficult to do the actual physical act of writing. Holding a pen can cause cramping, typing causes a different pain, but neither is that bad. Five years ago, those little aches and pains wouldn't have stopped me. Three years ago, there would have been no problem with the problems.
Some days just sitting at the desk is fatiguing.

I haven't blogged.
I haven't written letters. (Something I love to do; always have, always will. Or so I once thought.)
Signing Christmas cards and addressing envelopes fatigued me beyond reason.

But I write in my mind at all times.
I reword and rework the structure of sentences I am considering writing.
I reorganize the order of paragraphs in planned blog entries for maximum (or minimal) impact.
I choose words that describe specifically.
Active verbs, and passive exposition for effect.

It's just so hard to sit and do the actual work!

Have I gotten lazy?
Do I just not care?
Am I more ill (weak, tired, senile, dying) than I know?

I have always dealt with the grievances and annoyances and, yes, the joys, of an overwhelming life by putting it into words. By putting it into words and sharing those words with my world at large.

The words are still there, and most of my mental energy goes into the composition and selection of the words, but it seems, somehow, to stop there. The words are in my head, and occasionally they will come out my mouth. (Not often)
But that is as far as it goes.

So can I still call myself a writer? Even though I do not actually write?

I have become a composer of unsung, unshared thoughts, feelings, ideas, and ideals.

No longer a mother to children.
No longer a wife.
No longer an eager energetic all-hours employee.
No longer a writer?

What and who then am I, and how do I find myself again, with all my identities in shreds?

For Sale on Facebook.

There are a lot of sale sites on Facebook. Even a lot of local, regional specific pages. I know, I've joined a few, hoping to sell goods, or more likely buy things.

All well and good, but too many of these pages have too many members. I have posted things to sell. Most recently wallpaper.
One lady replied, asking for the coverage (square footage) of one of the rolls. I went out, checked it out, and for two weeks I have been trying to find the post where she made her query. I can't remember which local page she was on, since, like me, she is on several of them.
I was also looking to buy a chest of drawers from another woman. (Her name was Amber something.) A couple of erratic communications went through, but no real communication occurred. I don't know where that post is, or which of several pages I responded to her on.

People are also crazy demanding.

They want pictures of everything. Most of the time this is a good idea, especially when purchasing (or selling) furnishings or vehicles or equipment.
It's a little ridiculous, though, when it is a bundle of children's t-shirts size 3. No, I am not going to take individual pictures of twenty (used) t-shirts. I will send you pictures of the lot. I will answer any questions about conditions. I may meet you somewhere or invite you over to check out the condition and choose whichever you like. (If I'm interested in selling them individually.)
But, no, I'm not taking a picture of each item. And no, I will not take a close up of every stain or worn spot, although I have tried my best to NOT include any of those flaws. (EXCEPTION: if I am giving items away free and there is still a lot of regular use in the product in spite of small problems.)

They want details like how many hours a shirt (to stay with that example) was worn. When was it originally purchased? How does it come to be in your possession? Why are you selling?
Now, some of these are good, reasonable questions -- for an appliance. I always ask why a washer or dryer is being sold, and often being up the "why" when discussing a vehicle for sale.

Facebook sales require a lot of patience and perseverance from both buyers and sellers. The best advice I have is to do your primary communications through private messaging. Take my word for it, responding on the thread is a darned good way to lose your bid or offer on the item for a very long time. It probably won't show up again unless/until someone else makes an offer.
If you see the same people over and over on multiple pages, consider deleting a few memberships. The same people selling the same things on page after page clogs your newsfeed and makes it more difficult to follow through if you have replied on a thread instead of through PM.

For now, I pan to just browse as a buyer. I may post some things on the free (no selling anything) site that I haven't been able to sell. If I do, know in advance that I'm not going to take pictures. It's free. Do you want It or don't you? What you don't like/want, you can get rid of by your own means.

Thank you and you are welcome.

the Grand Mall Opening

Well, this weekend was the grand opening of the Mt. Orab Auto Mall.

The automall that tore up and tore out acres of green space and replaced dirt with tar and trees with cars.

The automall that has destroyed habitats and changed the nature of our corner of the world. (Or, at least, our leaf of the clover -- the leaves are gone.)

The automall that will supposedly generate lot of tax moneys for the community, without providing a lot of jibs. Because the taxes on one sold car equals the annual income of several minimum wage workers. (That's a very rough estimate.)

The automall that will have few benefits for the working poor of Mt. Orab and Brown County while making the rich richer. Without much expenditure.

The automall that as well as making the well-to-do better off, gives the politicians and 'community-minded" (eg, self serving)  reasons to loudly and publicly pat themselves on the back and fool the ignorant onto thinking they have done something real for a community that has many needs.
Needs that have little to do with new cars or used car salesmen.


But, this I will say.


They sure do know how to throw a party!
I don't know who or how or when and where it all happened, but their grand opening celebration -- concerts, fireworks, concerts, and who knows what-all --was one of the best conducted and best managed events I have ever seen. Traffic concerns, traffic flow, food, drink, bathrooms -- all coordinated. All taken care of. (Although God help anyone who needed the police that night.)

I was impressed with their handling of the crowds and the traffic.

I was impressed with their handling of events.

I was impressed with many aspects of their Grand Mall event.

But I would still rather see the trees behind the Kroger store than pole lights and the hard glare off shiny metal death traps that I'll never be able to afford.
I would rather see the deer by the side of the road (not in it) than car carriers (and helicopters, but that is not part of this.)

But, man, if I ever have an event, I'd sure like to hire their organizers.

A Not What It Was Day.

Today has just been strange. I am moving into my own trailer, next door to Tammy's. Today is the first day in a week I've sent much time in there. Did homey things like hang curtains.
Used a staple gun.
Used Rex's staple gun.
It felt weird.
I felt weird.

It's funny moving all our stuff out of storage and back into daily living.
I have a lot of papers and stuff to get rid of.
A lot to keep; a lot I want to keep, but should I?
How can I throw some of it out?

Found my dad's little coffee maker, but don't seem to have the pot for it.
Found my DVDs but have no player. Used to watch on my computer while Rex watched tv. Now have a laptop that doesn't play Cd's, No doubt I could buy something, either for tv or computer, or both, but it's different. It's not gonna be the way it used to be.

Odd to have a closet with only my clothes needing kept.
Odd to have a bedroom that is probably only large enough for bed and nightstand.

It's gonna be really strange when I get moved in, to be coming home to an empty house, even if the babies are just next door.

Everything Does NOT Mean Something

I, for one, am getting tired of seeing and reading about all the secret signs and symbols that "don't really mean" what we think they do. Or that they have any meaning at all.

The latest secret meaning is a safety pin. I haven't read any of the details yet, but apparently, especially in the UK, wearing a safety pin has some secret ritual meaning that the world is only now becoming aware of.

Nope. If you see me wearing a safety pin, it means I found one and picked it up, and stuck it in my clothes to keep it until I get to my safety pin keeping-place. That's all; that's it. (Unless, of course, it's perhaps holding my clothing together until I can get to my clothes-fixing-place.)

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A purple butterfly means a lost twin. Yes, but only a specific design in specific places -- a NICU.

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A black dot drawn on the hand means "help I'm being abused." Seriously?

First of all, after all the publicity, do you think an abuser is going to let his (or her) victim out with marks on her (or him)? Do you think an abuser is NOT so controlling as to notice every detail of dress, hair, markings? You don't know much about controlling persons, do you?

Imagine the confusion and embarrassment this could cause. For you, for the assumed victim, for the assumed abuser, even for the police involved.
Because if I have black dots on my hands or anywhere else, it probably means one of my grandkids got busy with an ink pen or marker.
It could mean I washed (and maybe dried) an ink pen that broke when I discovered it in my hopefully clean laundry.
It could mean I was pondering phrasing while writing something out longhand, and I tap-tap-tapped myself while rearranging the words in my head, trying to choose which looked best and sounded better.

Please don't make me have to explain that to the police.

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Pink or purple heart designs on girls toys are a secret symbol for child predators.


Pink and purple hearts have been part of girls toy designs for godonlyknows how long. At least 60 years. Major toy companies have used some form of these designs for decades Are they in a conspiracy with perverts, and have been all these years?  (There are probably those who would say so.)

What if the child predators prefer boys? Some do, y'know,

Buying girls' toys, whether they have purple hearts, pink butterflies, yellow daisies, or anything else symbolic, are by themselves a sign that there is a little girl in the buyers life. Age indicated by product. This is obvious and about as unsecret as it gets.

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Quit worrying about secret meanings.
Worry about common sense.

Posting your child's school and school functions (especially in advance) will do more harm, and put her in more danger, than buying a baby doll with a pink heart.

If your coworker shows up with black eyes, fingerprint bruises or often just moving tenderly, suspect possible abuse and react accordingly. (That is according to your personality and theirs; your circumstances and theirs; and how supportive and involved you are able and willing to be.)

If you find a safety pin, don't be afraid to pin it to your lapel. You might need it if you lose a button.

There are plenty of real symbols, with real not-hidden meanings, like swastikas and burning crosses. Like earthquakes and meteors. Like wars and rumors of war.

We don't need to induce panic with ignorant modern superstition.

The Rhythm

Yesterday's entry was NOT what I meant to write when I started out. It took off in an independent way that surprised even me.
Although, while my fingers were flying and I was wondering what the heck, the words and feelings coming up were true and honest and deeply felt.
That is why I let it stand.

But the faint persistent rhythm I had in mind was the daily rhythm of my life; perhaps my circadian rhythm.

The day begins around 4 when I am finishing up work. Home and playing on the computer, sometimes writing, until 6 or 7, depending on mood, fatigue, and insomnia.
Awake at 8 to make sure Hailey is getting started on getting ready for school. Most days I am mire observer than participant in this ritual, but some days I am fully involved.
Then, if Warren is still sleeping or sleepy, I can get some sleep. Depending on Warren, who loves to play with his mammaw, this can last to anywhere between 10 and 12.
About 2 I start feeling tired again and sometimes can nap, but usually not.
4 is time for Hailey to get home and I try to be awake for that, just so she knows I care.
5 is average suppertime, and time to eat and sleep.
7:15 time to get ready for work, which usually starts at 8.

I have tried to sleep through these days, or sometimes remain awake through them so that I can dramatically collapse at work or in the middle of a store, but I'm a darned failure at that type of self serving drama. The confounded infernal, persistent rhythm takes over and keeps me living my (somewhat boring; somewhat routine) life.

I don't like it.
Don't want it.
But there it is.

No Rhyme, but a Faint Persistent Rhythm

No reason.
No Rhyme.
No sense.

But, through it all, a rhythm persists. The emotional equivalent of a heartbeat. It may be slow and troubled. It may be clamorous. It may be nothing more than there, but it persists.

I watched my husband die. He couldn't breathe anymore, not effectively. But that big ol' strong loving heart of his kept on beating, in spite of everything else in him shutting down.

What a waste that was, once death was inevitable, and of his choosing. (He could have been kept alive, by a machine breathing for him. But being alive and living are two different (too different) things, and if he couldn't live, why remain artificially alive?)

But his heart didn't get that message, and it continued on.

That is where I am, emotionally.
I am worn out,
I am tired.
The joy is gone.
The curiosity us gone.
The drive is gone.

What remains is a beating heart, prolonging the torture of a nonexistent existence.

There is no life support machine for my dying parts (although grandchildren come close) and I'm not so certain I would choose a tethered artificial life anyway. Probably not.

Perhaps there is hope for a cure, or a remission. Some part must think so.
Too bad it isn't a part that knows anything.
Perhaps it is just a reluctance to leave the known for the unknown. Or just wanting to remain where we know love.

Whatever it is, the beat goes on.
Even when there is no hope.

No Reason

I hate my life.

I hate waking up every day.
I hate going through the motions of living life.

I just want to sleep.
I just want to rest.
I just want left.

There's no real reason for this feeling.

It isn't a lack of gratitude or appreciation. There are a lot of things I am grateful for , and there are many things I love about my life.

I have a roof over my head and people who love me.
I have a darling monkey boy who grabs the back of my shirt, pulls himself up my back, and throws his skinny little arms around my neck. Those are the best hugs ever, and I don't think life could give me anything better than that.

I have food and a job and probably more financial freedom right now than I have ever had.

But day after day, I wake up.
And I just don't want to.

I'm tired of it.

Oddservation: My Sister's Voice.

At my work, we have and use towel buckets.
The white towel buckets say in red lettering, "Clean Towels in Sanitizing Solution."
The gray buckets with black lettering say "Soiled Towels"

As is common, on the opposite sides of the buckets the same info is repeated in Spanish.
"Toallas Limpias" and "Toallas Succias"

Limpias I get. Same root word as limpid, meaning clear/transparent.
Succias I don't get. I can't think of any similar word in English. Whatever the root may be, it does make the use of the word "suck" or "sucky" seem reasonable. Just non-English.

The thing is, every time I see these Spanish equivalents on the buckets, I hear my sister.
I hear her say, "Give me one of those limp-ass towels."
I hear her say, "Here's a sucky-ass towel."

Yes, I have a sister who would say that. It's just how she is.

It bothers me sometimes. Her voice ordering my towels and buckets around is not something I need at the end of my working day.

But it's there.

It's Free. Isn't That Enough?

I am a member of several Facebook groups that are buy-sell-trade, and a couple that are free stuff only. Not just because I like finding and getting free stuff, but because I like to give away stuff. I have had so much given to me over the years, usually appropriately to my needs. Even when not, the intention has always been . to somehow help, so it's all good, and I want to return that favor. (Those favors?)

I usually don't have decent stuff to give away. I tend to use things until they fall apart. So, when I do have something to give, it's a big deal to me. And a special joy.


I have posted a few items with what I think are accurate descriptions. And have learned to note : No pictures.
The first thing SOMEONE always asks is "Pictures?"
Well, no. (That would be why it says no pictures.)
I have a family, a job, a life. I am not going to spend my time taking pictures of stuff I am giving away. (Selling, yes. Giving, no.) I don't have an adequate camera, I don't have adequate technical skills, and I don't have time.

You are either in need of a couch or want the bag of shoes, or you don't.

I don't mind questions about the offer. Are there holes? What color? Can I choose which ones I do or don't want?

But the requests for pictures drive me insane. (This may be a personal quirk. I'm fine with that.)

I've seen similar responses on other threads. "Pickup only, mornings, in Mt. Orab. And the other party says "Can you bring this to Batavia at 5 pm?"

Greedy lazy and that almost always adds up to ungrateful. (Not always. Sometimes it's just a matter of not being able to make arrangements. Stay at home single moms with very young, no car, vs third shift worker who also has no car, for example.)

Anyway, either you want or need the item offered or you don't. Don't waste my time, or yours.

It's free.
That should be good enough.