Tagged: beinglizardek

You know, I think I do pretty good with my little half hour walks 2 or 3 times a week, but usually Martin, and sometimes Karin, goes with me and I know I must subconsciously reduce my pace to fit his substantially shorter legs. He’s game for the walk and he keeps up just fine, since I don’t dawdle, but I know I’m not REALLY pushing myself. Because today? After power-walking for FIVE KILOMETERS with 9,300 other women through beautiful Pildamms Park in central Malmö (and another 2K from the parking lot and back again) I know exactly which muscles...

I like going fast. I like driving fast (at least, faster than I should, though I don’t like going TOO fast, because that triggers my control issues) and I like working fast. I read fast. I type fast. I eat fast. (which I’m told is not a good thing) I respond quickly in conversations with snappy comebacks. I make snap judgements sometimes. I don’t live in the fast lane, though. And I have never fasted in my life, though I understand it can be quite cleansing. I have no idea why I wrote all of that. It just came out....

I said, I don’t know how to get started again. I don’t know where to begin. It seems so trivial to just write a diary-log of my days, what I did, where I went, what I bought. What I ate. It’s more fun and it means more to me when I write things that seem to reflect the inner surface of my shiny and distracted brain. Things that I want to read about when someone else writes them. Things that make me smile or think or go “huh, that was cool.” My mom said, write about your family. Write about...

Wasn’t gonna write tonight because my brain is in translation mode and I had to literally tear myself away from my work in progress (almost half done! woo! I rock!) and my scanned PDF source file and the Swedish-English dictionary and the Stora Ordboken and the SAOB and PUT THE KEYBOARD DOWN. I pictured myself whirling about the room in a long white lacy nightgown while the maidservants turned down the bedcovers and hung up my robe, hugging the keyboard to my breast and crooning I could have worked all night, I could have worked all night and can’t decide...

I woke up in time, propelled by the urgency of my bladder and the heightened noise from the brightened living room; they were done with breakfast and ready to go. Pulled in for farewells, their heads are reaching to my breasts, just as they did years ago—it’s the bodies which have elongated and stretched them up to these heights. “Goodbye,” I say, “have fun.” We kiss and they are gone, out to the still dark silence of pre-dawn. The car was loaded last night and I turn on the kitchen light again to wave from the window; otherwise they wouldn’t...

Why do I do that? Why do I mentally turn away, begin to tune out, slam up a wall as soon as someone starts talking about it? I can feel myself doing it and I have to force myself to listen, force myself not to roll my eyes, not to mentally cover the conversation with a loudly silent YEAH YEAH YEAH inside my skull? Do I do it because I’m in denial? Because I’m so sure that I already KNOW everything that is coming, everything that is being said? Because I hate being lectured at even though I know everyone...