Nowhere for Mr. Hyde to Hide

Here I am with the two sides of my nature at war again. There is so much going on inside me, and nothing going on inside me. I've been home from the May hike for two weeks now, and am just beginning to get my energy back and interest in moving ahead. I always have that overpowering need to just float in the spaces between activities and wait for the quiet to re-emerge. It is taking a long time.

This is in direct conflict with my choice to be the first woman to finish the trail. I realized before making that decision that this would be a serious internal problem, but decided that I want to be first. I hope I can survive that decision. I once read that everyone needs some proportion of time absolutely alone; some people need a lot. I am one of the ones who needs huge doses of it. This is more than some theoretical wish. If I don't get those spaces I eventually just crash and burn into black holes of depression and anti-social behavior.

The hike with first four, and then five hikers, was quite a test of my social capabilities. I liked everyone on the hike. That's not the problem. The problem is that as the number of people in a group increases, my internal tension also increases at some ratio that is greater than a simple geometric progression. I'm sure it can't actually be quantified, but it seems to me to be exponential. I've learned to function on that parabolic curve, but there must be time for the parabola to return to the baseline before I can force myself into the next arena.

Meanwhile, I simply have to keep writing for Textbroker to earn some cash. All of the assignments about pool filters, chair rail moulding or dog training do not seem mentally demanding, yet they seem to take a toll on my energy to do anything creative. I find that while I used to bristle with ideas for creative writing, now I find myself wondering if I will actually be able to dredge up the energy to write interesting chapters for the sequel to North Country Cache. I have occasional ideas for children's books, or fantasy stories, but I just can't beat myself into doing anything about it all.

I want to sit in the recliner forever and float. The weather this week has been conducive to that desire. It's been mostly mid-sixties, sunny, with a light breeze. The leaves of all the trees around the house quiver and sing with a breath of song. The starlings, generally a dirty ugly bird, that have nested on the deck seem to me to be the source of beautiful music as they squawk and whistle, carrying bugs to their babies. Although our house is close enough to the highway that there are extraneous sounds, I've felt as if none of the world exists except me and the trees and the birds and the wind. The jumble of experiences in my head and soul has reached a level of unsortable inscrutability and has become white noise. I can't even deal with it until the gabble abates, as if the wave has to retreat down the shore before the pebbles can be seen again.

I've had the fortune, or misfortune, to pick up three books in a row that were compelling. So instead of being able to discipline myself, as I often can, to read only during lunch, I've simply been pulled into the safe harbor (for me) of someone else's creative storm.

I'm managing to stumble through life... grocery shopping, going to the bank, keeping up appearances of being a functional human being. But it's all a charade.

Well, my next charade is up for the tableau. Have to take someone over to look at Josh's plumbing.