Crehabit’s Weblog

dear diary,

just wanted to gush about how CLEAN my house is! usually, there are only about 2 functional rooms with the rest of the house in transition (a.k.a. junkyard, pig sty, accumulated crap overflowing the joint). about once or twice a year, my hubby–bless his adorable, a.d.d.-addled soul–comes up with a brilliant plan for the reorganization of the living space. he watches hdtv religiously. don’t laugh, i know you’re addicted to that stuff too! so we’re all excited and start moving stuff around … and then we don’t ever finish. i’d rather do fun stuff on the weekends (the only time i get to see my hubby) than home improvement, heavy labor, tedious unfun stuff, so i don’t really protest when hubby loses interest in whatever master floorplan he’s concocted at the moment. and the house remains in perpetual disarray.

anyhow, to make a long story short, i threw a baby shower for my sister-in-law on saturday and spent two whole days scrubbing, sweeping, vacuuming, tidying, moving, and generally making spotless the entire 1,400-square-foot abode. aaah … the satisfaction, the pride, the utter bliss of coming home to a clean house … except now it doesn’t feel like my house and i feel this compulsion to wipe up every spot and crumb on the kitchen counter, pick up every misplaced item, rearrange every misaligned piece of furniture. i feel even crazier than i did when the house was a mess … and then the little voice inside my head starts asking, “so how long is this going to last? how many days or weeks before we’re back to pig sty comfort?” and what do i really prefer?

oh, too much thinking makes my head hurt. maybe the j-meister can come over again and we can beat guitar hero, synchronizing our star power rock outs and hanging out at the endlessly entertaining ikea. you gotta love cheap, swedish home furnishings. rock on geek nation! (the name of our nerdy girl band.)

Was there ever a time without You beside me, whispering why I should not, could not, ought not to … to do the things I never dared, but always cared to do? You were my mother’s voice, crooning lullabies of sacrifice and submission, purging me of selfishness and sedition. I wouldn’t recognize Love without You beside her to guide her and guard her against me. Along with my squinty, single-lidded eyes, my hypothetical non-children and never-children will inherit You–You who are written in my genes and racing through my veins, running from potential pains inflicted. I am addicted to the excuses expended to explain why I should not, could not, ought not to … to ask for what I want, what I need, what I feed upon for simple soul sustenance. Guilt, thou art the altar upon which I’ve offered up my bleeding dreams, before which I’ve prostrated my pleading heart. And now I start to wonder at how I might live without You, how I might give of myself despite You, how I might conceive of a way of being and and a way of seeing that retracts your privilege and extracts your power. In my direst hour, I bid you adieu, dear Guilt. From time to time, our paths may cross, and I’m sure to feel your loss as my constant companion and closest confidant. But I’m sure it’s what I want, and I hope you will respect my wishes. — Sincerely, me.

Where have you been? I’ve missed your enthusiasm for all things creative and therapeutic and self-reflective. I find myself falling into well-worn habits and the customary complacency that comes with my humdrum daily life, as I gaily go about my business. Is this how the half life happens? I pick up pen or keyboard or brush or whatever tool can tempt my trembling heart to hand the reigns and growing pains to you. I’m not taking sense, I’m making dense the meaning and the madness of my muddled, sleepless self. So keep in touch and keep me posted and keep your promise to keep the passion and the poetry and prose flowing and keep me going so I can’t forget the feeling of my fingertips on fire with words wrestled from the furthest phantoms of my addled, agitated, agonized defective brain. Gotta go. I’ll write more soon. — Sincerely, me