I thought I saw Elvish

I am in a really bad mood. You’d expect me to be in a good one, considering where I am right now. I’ll just tell you. I’m sitting on my bed with a laptop, well, on my lap, firmly planted in one of my prevailing dreams: to own and operate this light piece of machinery. Van didn’t want it, if you can believe it. When I presented it to him he thanked me, but said he’s planning to buy a new one when he gets to Fort Dix; a widescreen, DVD-burning, wireless beauty that doesn’t have a loose mouse button, a rickety screen, and the heft of a large dictionary. I don’t mind those things, dinosaur that I am. He does. So he thanked me and said, “Mom, you keep it.” I swear I wasn’t using my mind control this time.

But I’m in a bad mood. Maybe because I’m tired and in the afterglow of a stressful weekend. Last night, instead of attending the family readiness briefing, we went to Van’s last show. It was a much better choice. I want to tell you all about it, but to do it justice I have to be in a better mood and as I already mentioned, I’m not. All I feel like doing is throwing myself on the floor, flailing my little fists and wailing red-faced until I pass out from exhaustion. It’s not fair that adults can’t do that. It’s not fair no one past the age of two can. This morning we went to the deployment appreciation ceremony at the college auditorium, and popped in at the luncheon in the armory. But those I’m really not in the mood to write about. You’re just going to have to wait until tomorrow.

So what’s uppermost on my mind? Our house… The constant need to clean it and how impossible it is to keep it clean. Yardwork, which Scott hates and I don’t mind, but prefer not doing alone. Dogs that bark and shed. Cats that shed and pee on the couch cushion (dead. cat. meat.) Kids that need rides. Kids that no longer need rides, or us. School looming, and all that entails. Jobs, as in “do I look for one; let one find me; or keep making papier mache’ bookshelves et al”? Last summer I wanted to go to school, so I registered at the community college, met with my advisor, took my placement tests, got all my paperwork in order and even got to watch the school’s welcome video with three other new students, when I found out I didn’t get the Pell Grant as I’d hoped. My heart just kind of spilled out onto the floor and I didn’t have the heart - since it was puddled on the floor - to pick the whole thing back up and try again. I’m at loose ends. I started writing a book about a zillion years ago - no bestseller, just a simple book about a boy and his family and their friends - but I just can’t seem to get back to it, even though I have tremendous affection for them, think of them often, and believe other people might like to know them, too. I miss them. But I have no heart.

I have no heart, I have no heart, I have no heart… Translate: Where’s the passion? Is it passion I’m missing, or something else altogether? Am I just in a funked-on mood because my kid’s leaving for a year? Will I be better tomorrow? Even if I am, that doesn’t negate all the stuff that’s risen to the surface today. It’s all in there lurking no matter what I do to occupy my time and it always rises to mock me when I’m vulnerable. It’s a nasty, vicious hobbitses, my precioussss.

Now there’s a picture: me as Gollum, huddled over a gold ring. What is my particular gold ring? I don’t want to think about that today. I’ll think about it tomorrow.

So, when I can’t deal, I move immediately to Ireland. Sometimes I live in an apartment over a store in a quaint downtown area. Other times I live in a small stone cottage overlooking the sea. But I always always always always live alone. I don’t have any responsibilities in Ireland, though sometimes I work in the bookstore underneath my apartment. Other times I’m a novelist. Every day I walk for miles, bundled against the cold, and I make friends as I need them. I don’t spend a lot of time in the pubs, unless I’m playing my guitar and singing my songs, or want to dance. I’m not a pub person. I want to be alone.

I watched an episode of the X-Files today, and one of the characters told Mulder he saw the place where Mulder would go in his mind. He said that everybody goes somewhere. Is that true? Do you? I often wonder if I belong in the same minority that goes to Star Trek conventions dressed as Klingons. Okay, or LOTR conventions dressed as Legolas. I never have, but deep down I want to. Dear God, I AM a freak.

But you know what? I’m a freak who feels better now that I’ve written myself free from all those mocking voices. I’ll keep getting up every day and feel my way around, like I always do. Maybe I’ll go to school; maybe I’ll get a job; maybe I’ll finish my book. For sure I’ll finish my bookcase. And this post, since Scott’s waiting for me to finish so we can watch more birthday X-Files. Happy Sunday! xo