2/365 As Seen From the Vantage Point of 3/365

There are only so many directions I can process. And while I appreciate—in a mildly frightened way—the manic intensity with which my new Pilates trainer person approaches my body mechanics, I have to admit to being overwhelmed. In one hour I was urged to think...

...of each part of my body as having wheels
...of myself as wearing a corset
...of a rod running straight through my glutes (um, ouch)
...of sending my breath to my ribs
...of scooping
...of a sail filled with wind
...of a ball laying on my stomach and myself rolling over it
...of the inner sections of my knees as magnets

It was kinda cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs inducing. But perhaps this was more a function of the fact that Lea was up all night with a fever, complete with nightmares in which I was very sick and the spousal unit was a skeleton. She was so warm I threw the blankets off the two of us. She attached herself to me monkey-style, and it felt like some sort of bizarre hot-child spa treatment. This might have been great for my back, but I got very little sleep because of her random little screams and because her continually frightened state resulted in her strangling me every ten minutes. Fun! And so it was that I moved through most of yesterday with puffs of fog floating all lazy-like around my brain.

***

In other Nesting Ground news...I'm more curious and excited about my writing than I have been in a long time. Short-ish pieces that I've written and filed away seem suddenly to belong together, like a family. Part of me is wondering why I didn't see it before, but the other part is thinking gift horse. mouth. don't look. As in any family, there are a slew of characters. Normally, this would stymie my efforts because I'd get all tangled up trying to decide on a pov before moving forward. This time, though, I'm writing in any voice that pleases me at the moment. It's possible that the narrative only makes sense to me at this point, but I think it's actually working so far. We'll see. Or we won't see. Either way, I've decided failed experiments count.

If I had a theme song, I'd insert it here. And it would be all sweeping and all climb-every-mountain-ish and you would laugh at me, and I'd deserve it.

Meanwhile, I'm reading Lorrie Moore and Gina Berriault again because, well, you can't really do that too often.