Procrastination post #2

This is more of a "can't sleep" post than anything else. But, if I stay up blogging, or surfing the web, I'll be doing less packing during the day. On the other hand, I did quite a bit of packing (or, more correctly, sifting through stuff) earlier this evening, in a small fit of energy.

I had been quite overwhelmed, and though I feel relaxed enough to kick back and blather about not much at all, I know I will feel overwhelmed until the boxes I'm packing are safely ensconced in my new apartment.

A few weeks ago, I had noted that my inner dialogue had become rather quiet. Right now, it is not. I keep thinking about how little light I'm going to be living with. "Thinking" is not quite the right word for it, however. It's more like the word "light' keeps popping into my mind.

I've learned not to engage in much inner dialogue. Years of meditation, learning to simply watch my thoughts and not engage them, has gradually caused me not to have a lot of chatter going on in this mind of mine. You may find that implausible, considering how rambling my posts are, but it is indeed true. It seems that when I start writing, the torrent of word-thought comes rushing back. When I'm done writing, it basically stops.

But thought does not stop entirely. Instead, I now have thought fragments. I'm sure we all do, but I don't sit and mull things over like I once did, nor am I distracted by compulsive ruminating. Yet. . .

On nights like this one I can feel my anxiety in my body. Even if there's no racing thoughts, I can feel the frenetic energy that would produce them. It's an odd sensation, and I'm not sure why I'm trying to describe it. If I paced, I would be pacing. If I bit my nails, I'd be doing that. I'm sure if I still smoked cigarettes, i'd be chain smoking.

Instead, I'm writing about nothing. It's a Seinfeldian entry.

Here's a thought fragment that just popped into my head: IKEA. Ha! My nemesis-of-a-blog-entry raises it's annoying head.

Folks, I must go to Ikea! In my new apartment, there's a room divider that's from that store, and it is a six foot square bookcase. I'd like to put more things in it than books, and at Ikea, they sell all sort of boxes, doors, shelves, and baskets that fit inside the squares exactly. I could try to find things that would work elsewhere, but it'd be a hassle. So, to Ikea I will go. . .

. . .in the cinematic version of my ordinary life, alarms will sound as I walk into the store - "It's the woman who has the #1 negative blog entry about Ikea mattresses!" Guards wearing badges in both Norwegian and English would hold my elbows and escort me outside (if I go quietly). Alternatively, I'd be given a golden chariot to keep me from getting overtired while perusing that overwhelming shopper's paradise (or hell, from my prior experiences).

I note that the word "overwhelming" is creeping into everything that I write (and think).

Since I'm just spilling my thoughts all over this virtual page, I'll keep on going. . .

I'd been asked how I could cope with the crowds in New York, considering I've been living in a town with less than 400 people in it for so long. The crowds, in spite of what I said about going food shopping a few posts ago, are exciting.

I've been living in a monocultural environment for so long that it's positively exhilarating to see so many people, and so many people of color, in one place (and not on my computer or television screen).

I will be glad to never hear a conversation about trucks, four wheel drive vehicles, four wheelers, snow blowers, snowmobiles, or anything to do with sheriffs for the rest of my life. Even in a crowd of people in Brooklyn, I seriously doubt that any of these topics will be overheard.

On the bus back to Maine, there was a fellow coming up here to see 'his girl", to whom he was engaged. He had ensnared the woman sitting next to him in conversation for nearly four hours straight. Saying it was a conversation would be stretching things, for she never did more than say "mmm" or "uh huh" the entire time. I looked behind me twice during the trip, and one time the poor woman rolled her eyes heavenward. She could have pulled out a book, or pretended to sleep. The motor-mouthed fellow had sold his pickup truck to re-settle in Maine, and seemed to need at least a full week of verbal catharsis to process this life-changing event. After she exited the bus, he tried to engage me in further truck oriented dialogue, but I too k out my iPhone after ten minute of politeness. He then moved on to the bus driver, who pointed out that he was unable to converse and drive at the same time. Mister Florida was undeterred. He just kept on talking.

When I disembarked from the bus at the last stop, I found myself standing next to him. We were the last stragglers on the bus to nowhere, and he was bewildered as to where he gotten off. His girl was no where in sight. It turned out that he had thought he was going to another town. A cab there would have cost over fifty bucks, so i gave him a lift. He loved my all wheel drive car, and re-told his story of selling his truck for the love a good woman. When we finally got to where he was meant to be, his gal was waiting with a scowl on her face. No hellos. no smile, no nothing She looked at me with suspicion and asked "who the hell is she?!" How sad for her (and for him). Sold a truck for the love of this woman, rode buses all the way from Florida to central Maine, and all she could think of, apparently, is he that had already done her wrong. I suspect this marriage will not go well.

I have no idea how i got from the first sentence of this post (whatever it was about) to here. Now I'm ready for sleep, and if you've made it this far, I'm guessing that you are, too.

And yes, I see the irony (or hypocrisy) of calling someone else a blabbermouth after writing such a long, rambling, and essentially meaningless post.

Photo note: A bus cozy, in Mexico City. Maine, a dismal place six months of the year, needs some of this! It's called yarnbombing, and "Julie says it's very interesting."