My mother loves this house. Every time we pass it on our way to the 100-yr-old little grocery that makes sausage to die for (marjoram and blueberries, omg), she says "my my!, this town is so lovely!"

It would be a thrill to get that house just because she loves it so, to give her the Benjamin Moore color wheel and let her go crazy with the cheese whiz on it. It'd be like I'm magic, which I am (just ask my mother). Then I'd create a line of credit for her at the "antiques mall" in town with the billion stalls of old lady shit that makes her gasp with memory. "Do you remember?!", she asks about the vintage butter hen, which oddly I do kinda remember, some genetic memory of a great grandmother feeling well enough surrounded by milk glass in her kitchen. And I could do that. If I were mad enough.

It would be quite mad to go to Phoenix to guest lecture as part of my recruitment this month, while simultaneously buying another huge fixer upper in NY, while simultaneously trying to land the duplex sale around squatters, while simultaneously readying myself to sell my current home (probably) despite it being now covered in murals that my mother painted - and what if she dies (!?) then I'd be bereft of all these touches of hers (!!) - while simultaneously brewing a pheromone miasma so strong that I think my bare feet might spontaneously sprout leather boots. 

I should be thinking about a condo in Phoenix. But I am not. In the first place, I'm not sure I want to work in Phoenix - they're test driving me, but I'm test driving them too. 

Plus I'm sick, planted on the couch with a nasty cough, my body pressing the pause button for some much needed rest after pulsing for months with gameness = incandescent with feeling(s) + silent + self determining. Trying to crack myself open to let in what wants to come to me, and to let out some of the steam. Putting distance between myself and everything, working my body as a tool to get that done, carving myself into my own Galatea. I don't want to spend any unecessary energy on condo (beige) thoughts. Wherever I go, there will be a bed, I trust.

Fun fact I am learning: health humanists could work kinda like travel nurses, demanding more money for less commitment. I wonder if working that way requires being a person who could throw their lives into bags with little warning, or if working like that turns you into a person who can do that (?). Nature v Nurture (?)

There is something so planted in me that it's difficult being mutable. Until I lose my temper. My tantrums reverberate far beyond detonation, waves of consequence beyond what can be known at ground zero(s). My mother put her foot down only once in her life, the day she left my father, and 38 years later they both still think about that every single day, think about each other every single day, living out the significance of that moment, both of them endlessly mulling it as if it might be relitigated even now. 

Be careful where you plant a foot. You might later wish to root out just what you planted. But maybe that's part of the process, the effort it takes to yank yourself freer showing you what power you still have. 

Forget Me - chris klaaford (kitchen version) what the close captioning lyric robot does with "vitriol" (great word) is hilarious 🙄

"gameness"