Make Shit Salad

My brain itches.

I’m not sure how else to explain that feeling.  My brain.  It’s itchy.

That usually means that I want to make something.  Something creative.  Act, sing, dance, write.  I just finished practicing the National Anthem that I’ll be nervously wailing at the bout next weekend.  I frogger-danced across the street to get to the office this morning.  I act like I’m not exhausted every time the alarm goes off.  So if my brain is still itchy, that means I must write.

I have a few big pieces that I’m working on but I’m not interested in telling a story at the moment.  I just want a good brain scratch so I’m rolling out randomness to squelch it like a bear rubbing his back on a tree trunk. 

I love bears.  I love big huge giant furry animals.  I would love to have a pet bear.  Or a tiger or a lion.  Something large and warm and snory.  If I had a giant animal I would throw out all of the pillows in my house and just sleep on that.  My bear.  Or my tiger or my lion.  I would go for walks with them on a leash like it weren’t no thang.  That would be awesome. 

My eye hurts today.  My left eye on the lower lid.  Inside, underneath.  It’s red and tender.  There’s one of two things that could be causing it.  Possibility A.  This week has been hell.  I’ve been sailing this crazy theatre ship for a year now and I’ve passed through several minor squalls with expert precision, managing to keep my crew intact.  However, this week has decided to, as Will Arnett would say, “Take it up a notch” in the realm of the dramatic.  I feel like Joe in Empire Records.  One big motherfucking tsunami of a week.  Everything that could go wrong, everyone that could get upset, has.  I guess when you actually know people on a personal level, being an impartial captain gets a little trickier and after a year at sea, the sailors get all restless and start dreaming of mutiny.  But I’m learning and trying to take it as it comes.  Wrapping my slicker tighter around me and climbing higher up the mast to see past the storm.  I must ensure their safety.  Lots of HR meetings over the last few days just to try to make everyone happy and keep the doors open.  Artists.  If you can’t beat ‘em…they’ll never learn.  So anyway, Possibility A is that all of the tidal waves that are crashing around inside this little old bubble are finally breaking IN MY EYE.  Possibility B.  The 32 year old teeny tiny ragged excuse for a pillow that I freakishly insist on balling up under my face when I sleep shed an ancient, crusty feather in the night and pushed it into my eye.  Either way, I’m glad it’s the weekend.             

In other news, I miss my Grandpa.  Of course I do.  But not in the way that I was anticipating I would.  I don’t miss hanging out and talking with him, or playing cards and singing with him.  That stuff was amazing but it’s also long gone.  I had two years to mourn those losses, while he was sick.  I miss…worrying…I guess.  I miss the closeness of the family as we dealt with his decline.  I miss the daily phone calls and weekly gatherings and doting on him.  I miss planning transit and meals and appointments.  I miss the struggle to come up with some insignificant little gift for someone who’s had 93 birthdays and christmases and 64 anniversaries and Father’s Days, just to give him something to enjoy for a moment.  I miss waiting and watching.  I miss him occupying my thoughts.  There are times now that I’ll go for several days without him popping into my mind and when that happens I realize that until then, I had thought about him every single day of my life.  Until I hadn’t anymore.  I’m afraid to lose those thoughts.  I’m afraid of the memories fading.  I miss him.

I saw a great show last night.  I was too tired to really get punched in the gut by it but it’s a gut puncher nonetheless.  Well staged, beautifully dressed, soundly acted.  Good classic American drama.  It was a nice two hours of head clearing and enjoyment of my favorite art form in the way that it should be presented.  I don’t get that nearly enough anymore.  Ironic.

I had breakfast with a great old friend this morning.  There was gravy on my breakfast.  My friend was delightful, as always.  That was nice.  But now I’m at work.  How did that happen?  I’m going to turn in the last of my overdue reports and then to the gym and then home to commence my weekend of pajamas and TV.  I need it.  Maybe I’ll go visit my mom.  But then maybe I won’t.  Who knows.