A Matter of Time

It's like a burp, or one of those backwards hiccups you get sometimes when you are in the middle of a long, descriptive sentence, only its on the psychological level, and somehow it morphs you into something bad.
A big enough to be frightening muscular, gnarling, huffing and puffing troll-thing now stands where you just were.
There's a circle of faint objects spinning around it's head not because it was just bumped, or smashed with an anvil or anything, the thing is just always disoriented- that's how it comes.
The thing bawls and screams, throws anything not too precious and which is not nailed down, into pieces all over the floors of your life. Rips flesh from idea, and love from bias. The damage is not sufficient enough, strewn next to the troll thing's feet, so the troll reaches out to cut, rip- hurt those around it and when not allowed it's violent compulsion, draws back within you and cuts deep gashes in inconspicuous places.

I have not wanted to write my verbal doodles for a while now, too distracted by the mess left by my bad.
Too grossed out to entertain the thought of publishing my thoughts.

I see now that what ever the mind scientists want to call it, my life will be polkadotted with messy troll shit if I am not diligent!
And if there is a place in this world for plain ol' wanderers, a purpose for the personification of one thousand puzzle pieces from one thousand different puzzles in one box, why shouldn't there be a reason why I stop running from my ugly- face it and try to love it like a painfully ugly mutant of my own design?
It's about damn time for me to quit trying to find the money and the dr. willing to name this thing, and some how free me from it.
Oh ali, you know better!
I am trying to decrease my raging testosterone levels with anti-androgen water pills, in hopes that the hormonal rollercoaster will ease and my ups and downs around you-know-when become less violent, aggressive- agitated. But the cycles we swim in- no reason, good for nothing blues are a natural thing. It's understandable that a conversation might hit at hurts, or whisper to things almost forgot- but there is a force just as powerful as rage, which is a little more complicated to conjure up, and I don't know what I want to call it yet. Grace? Acceptance? Maturity?
It's what it takes to force the amygdala out of it's hijacking terrorist costume, and back down into the brain where it belongs. To take that grouchy snap and breath through it, be honest in a careful, patient way with the folks around you about how you are feeling trollish and maybe should leave the room, or re join the convo at another time.

And it's a matter of time before the fear, and hate and other residue leaving nastiness flush out of your mouth. Those flavors take time to get rid of. Maybe it's a number of laughs achieved within that time, or a song at the right time during that time, or a nice note telling you someone is thinking about you after having isolated yourself from anything nice for a time. I don't know what the magical proportions of good things required to clean up and make you nice after a visit from your troll, or someone else's bad thing. But I do know it's a matter of time.

I will be moving forward into the second week of my re established barista career. I like it there. Though after only a four day week, I am somehow sick of classical piano. I have requested some tasteful jazz. Maybe as I earn my stripes I will plead for Dylan, Nelson and Baez.
The baking thing has been shrunk into a covert operation, where I bake muffins and cakes in Someone's private kitchen and serve them at the store under the guise that they are ligit and legal. They are delicious.
Today it was coffee cake muffins, and Cranberry Orange Pecan bread.

Tomorrow morning, I will talk with Nancy Main about a legitimate baking apprenticeship, complete with some sort of wage for my time.
She is one of these super accomplished women in this area. I hear her name all the time, and about the delicious and smart things she does. I would be an absolute fool to turn down an opportunity to bake beside her, but I am SCARED.
If my inner self was carrying a coffee cup, the thing would shatter into a million pieces on it's saucer before I even took a clutsy step, I'm shaking so bad.

All of the burners on the stove and the oven element are functioning again, thank goodness my man-friend has such handy skills! My bread has been sucking ever since!
Perhaps I will cross stitch a homey framed piece which reads, 'salt your fucking doug, bitch!' for the kitchen. I don't know what it is, but after baking loaf after loaf of homely but workable bread only to find it tastes like glue just chaps my batoot! Of all the other little intricacies I pay attention to, so often the salt alludes me till the end, when I remove the bread fromt he oven and wonder what it will taste like. Oh yeah, it's going to taste like flour. Damn it.
Fred told me the morning after I stayed up late to bake bread for the next day's breakfast, that I yelled out "God damn IT!" in my sleep , loud enough to wake him. Well, I'm glad that i am fairly open about my cursing problem. Had that been the first time he heard me utter the words, he may have been offended.

The garden is going along. Still no potatoes- I think we have maybe missed it.
THe onions are still alive! The broccoli lost two or so of it's ranks in the wind storms, but the ones that have held on have really held on and seeds have sprouted in their midst. I'm hoping for a double harvest- we LOVE broccoli!
Garlic has sprouted and is out growing the onions. The squash are looking pale, but I couldn't keep them inside any longer. Our indoor tomatoe experiment is making me anxious. The Early Girl has four big tomates and has for a LONG time which show no inkling of reddening for us, while the roma has pooted out a whole wopping four toms, none much larger than the top section of my thumb. at least she stopped throwing her flowers all over the place! The poppy seeds I mentioned earlier have gone gang busters behind the house. I am actually wondering if too many of them are viable- a carpet of sprouts I tell you! Hopefully they won't all murder one another with proximity because theose posies are to die for!