Skipped going to the gym tonight. I made up the lame excuse that I had eaten too much vegetable stew and would definitely be having stomach problems because of it. Turns out it was true, but, eh, I feel lame for not even making an attempt. Was then thinking of getting a bowl of cherries but couldn't picture the bottom of the bowl when picturing the bowl, so decided to let it rest while the demons in my intestines fight it out. I'm just the bystander that rubs their shoulders, wipes their blood clean and puts Vaseline on that cut just about the eyebrow from that right hook. Touch gloves, let's have a good clean fight.
I haven't been writing much lately. Well, writing about dentists and fires and gas and kittens, but not WRITING. Something that grabs your collar and pulls an emotion right out of you sort of writing. I haven't been doing much of that at all. In a funk.
Yoga would be half way over right now. I could be very pretzely with legs flailing about every which way and zen and still confused about which side is right and which is left immediately, checking out what the guy in front of me is doing. I need to start wearing a wrist band on the right or something, brain just doesn't process quickly enough to avoid being a dumb shit and not knowing right from left.
About vegetable stew: it's delicious. Mom used to make it and say "you're gonna wish you would've learned how to make this some day!" and I would retort with "I won't need to! I'll find myself a man that cooks!" That battle ensued between approx. age 7-12 until my teenage hatred boiled over and the only talking we did was yelling when she dumped beer on my head or something ridiculous. I really do wish I'd've learned how to make that damned stew the way she makes it though, I really just don't quite get the right taste. Sure didn't find myself a man that cooks. And then again, my memories of ravenous pleasure from eating it could have been due to being poorly nourished. Only went shopping once a month when the Food Stamps came in. Mostly bought junk. By week three we were making sandwiches out of stale white bread and mustard. Week four was pasta and licking the school cafeteria tray. I really do think she could cook though. When she switched the recipe to meth, I guess her brains shriveled up and she sort of forgot. I tried to get her to make some things for me while she was here last. She made 'em, but they were missing something. Maybe the brain cells, maybe that I wasn't ravenous, or maybe that my great grandpa (Pappy) wasn't sitting there with his cowboy hat and soft dark leather skin waiting for his supper. I loved that man.
My mom told me a story while she was down here that shook my mind up and made me giggle like a school girl. Pappy from time to time let my mom's drifter friends stay at our place. He was letting a friend of hers crash out and I guess she thought it was in her best interest to seduce him in order to stay longer, so this twenty-or-thirtysomething woman got all up in my great grandpa's business (he was, I imagine, in his 60's or 70's at the time) and afterwards he booted her ass right to the curb. He told my mom later he figured she was trying to help her case by sleeping with him, "but it was like shoving a wet noodle up a cat's ass!" Holy shit that made me laugh! I was always under the "my word is my bond" and all those golden rules followin' impressions with my Pappy. Turns out he was just as ornery as the next guy. He was really a great man.
Anyway, I don't know how I got from stew to yoga to a wet noodle up a cats ass, but I sure feel like I accomplished something. Don't know just what, but a little part of the levy broke on this one. Thanks for listening.