That Song by David Gray, or, Defying Love

My brother is agonistic. This probably makes him stronger than I am.

This ain't no love that's guiding me.

*****

It's been one of those weeks where I wondered where my head was at the end of March when I signed off at the last employer. You have to have a strong stomach to do this, I thought all week. Probably a stronger one than I have. It's not just a financial aspect. It's proving yourself to what you did last. If you are alone and have no coworkers, do you make a noise when you fall in the woods?

This ain't no love that's guiding me.

I went to bed last night completely sad. Not just "Titanic" weepy (although it probably didn't help that I watched that movie just before bed), but downright alone. My mind tends to tangle up in knots way too easily these days. About the only moment of clarity I've had over the past week was a friend stopping by while I wrote at a cafe (God bless FourSquare) and this morning staring into the irises of paintings at the deYoung. Worse, all this shades of sad and alone were very boxed in. I couldn't get away from them, save for that brief respite of bending someone's ear over coffee yesterday. He's a computer whiz. He showed me a page he created on the web that allows him to follow his friends without signing into all of the popularity contest of Facebook, Google+, LinkedIn, Twitter, whatever. He showed me how he could see me.

I was shocked to find that I wasn't invisible. And I knew that should something happen to me, someone would know. Someone would see a pattern.

I do leave footprints. I'll be damned. Or am.

When you are alone, and don't punch a time clock, that is very, very difficult to prove.

This ain't no love that's guiding me.

*****

This coming week's agenda looks like this:

• Apply at all of the staffing agencies
• Lead writing groups on Monday and Tuesday nights (I am taking a break from the Wednesday group)
• Write a marathon of words on Friday
• Fly out of Northern California this coming weekend and go be with my family in Carlsbad

Oh, good, says the reader...she's off to where someone can shower her with love again for a little while, show her attention, make her happy. God knows we can't do it.

But my mother was here. Nothing is permanent, but occasionally she was here. She stopped in a couple of times this past week, and I believe she wouldn't have shown up if I would have been showered with love. Or showered with "like." Or acknowledgment.

This ain't no love that's guiding me.

Damn, right there. Her footprint. While I led a group in moving their pens, or sat in the library with the immigrants and homeless, while someone somewhere crowed about what is only followed on Facebook--through all of that turning of the Earth, my mother was present and whispered something I either couldn't hear or couldn't understand.

And then I wrote down a controlled burn of the forest I stood in and was immediately shown my footprint.

Ain't no love...that's...guiding me.

Skipped stones splash, happily defying love of gravity.

P.S. - This song is where today's title of Life for Rent comes from. Guide me.

That Song from Hello Dolly and Wall-E, or, Wardrobe Malfunction

Something that tends to happen when you are not conventionally employed is that the clothes that you pick out on a daily basis tend to get sloppier and sloppier. Especially if you had to wear a uniform for four years.

I was in black (mourning? Heh, heh) for those four years, so the tendency now is to steer clear of black handbags and clothing. (I'm not so particular about shoes, as long as they are comfortable, even better if they are comfortable AND cute, and belts can be black for all I care. See yesterday's post. You probably can't see my belt half the time anyway...for NOW.) Still, there's no reason to dress up, even for my writing groups--most of the people who attend those are free spirits who are as relaxed fashionably as I am (or even more so, in some cases). The most girl I bring is my handbag (yes, the same cherished one that got me into adventure trouble with my brother) and my jewelry, which my sister-in-love calls my "bling." I brought the "bling" on a somewhat smaller scale when I worked at Grainger, but stayed away from anything dangling as best as I could due to safety concerns. Now I bring all kinds of loose change to the party.

My sister-in-love is what I call my brother's fiancee, and on my last trip to Carlsbad she ran an idea past me for her wedding--would I consider wearing a tux? I, um, no. Emphatically, NO. I've been a pseudo guy for four years, where the only distinction between me and the boys was the silver I got away with and the V-neck uniform the last year (yes, I know I'm physically, visually different, but that's another post)--I had to put on the same damn gloves, the same damn steel toes, the same damn black pants, and no, I said, no, I mean, no...I'm not wearing a tux. I'll sit outside the wedding party if you want to do that, or I'll just wear the tux vest, and fitted, but I will not dress like a man when the rare chance I get to be a girl is finally here. God knows I'll never be married with my baggage. Let me show off my womanhood at this one.

This situation reminds me of the movie "Always": "Oh, Pete...girl clothes."

Yes, for now, I'm bringing jeans and plaid (not flannel, 'cept for sleeping) to the daily party. Hopefully when I get more in shape that will end and I will stand strong in something silk. I like being a girl. Really.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where today's title of Life For Rent comes from. I have been watching a lot of classic movies lately and having been missing the style of womanhood in the past (even though I'm fully aware that other things for women were compromised, and I hate having to add that disclaimer).