Life of Wry

officially in a mood.

you know you’re over some edge when you cry at a chipotle commercial. yes, i did.  it’s the one about sustainable food production, about “going back to the start,” the cold play song, “the scientist,” sung by willie nelson.  watch it here.  a commercial.

heavy hearted because a friend’s young child was diagnosed yesterday with a life changing disease. not a close friend, but a horrible condition. takes me to questions of injustice, uncertainty, impermanence, fate, powerlessness.  anything can happen to anyone.

defeated because i already need shoring up, here in week TWO, in the challenge to help peter organize and stay on top of school, already hitting the wall of frustration and hurt that is his ceaseless rolling eyes, rejection of support lovingly offered, relentless negotiating for new rules, when the agreed upon rules, just two weeks old, are fine.  his tendency to set his bar ever lower because it’s easier.  my job: to stay the course, be the mom.

pissed because obama’s letting this pipeline go through, backing off of some clean air regulations, presumably all in the interest of deal making? which won’t happen because the other guys will never play fair.  so all the caving’s for naught.  and he took a high road and changed the date of his jobs speech after reps whined it’d interfere with one of dozens of republican debates, but now tea party dudes aren’t planning to show up anyway, which is so disrespectful it makes me want to scratch somebody’s eyes out.  i hate bullies and people who cheat.

aching because one person i know was terribly, unconscionably mean to another.  can’t effing BELIEVE it, and can’t name names, because somebody might read about it and challenge me, or defend themselves, and i don’t need it.  they were out of line.  end of story.  man up.

frustrated because my intents have been misconstrued.  my efforts not appreciated.

for some unreasonable reason, feel overwhelmed.  could cheerlead myself out of this, know my many ways, but i’m not.  fact is, i’m not overwhelmed at all, i’m just allowing myself to sink, to remain stubbornly and lugubriously in overwhelm.  that’s stupid, but what it is.

does this add up to something to write about?  it could, i imagine.  it’s a garden variety sad and pissy mood, but it ought to touch a nerve, parlay itself into a creative spark somewhere.  first, i wanted to let go to see if anything real could pour forth (you can tell it did because there’s not a capital letter in sight… see? an emotional dump.).  but seems a writer then takes that and organizes it into something other than a list.  maybe captures the sentiment in the form of a poem or a short story, or a character description.

what would a writer do?

picking an expansive picture from my archive.. something to suggest taking a bigger view, looking beyond uptight boundaries.

(it’s everest)