Fused Fingers

Here’s to selling out:

Oh, wait, I cashed that check before I even snapped the  picture I intended to post here. Which I honestly intended to do–partly as proof that I wasn’t totally slacking the past few weeks of my relative silence, but also because writing purely for money, well, that’s about the only reward you ever see:  money. And as pathetic as it might feel to be scratching out inane paragraphs about heat pumps or local athletic companies (that the goons in layout will grammatically mangle in an effort to make it fit around a graphic or on a page) it can make the difference between paying the bills or not.

I’ve also been hanging out in various clinics and doctor’s offices, shooting up with radioactive imaging substances, and just generally living the life of a freak. None of which makes for particularly fascinating reading.

I did, however, over the last two weeks:

  1. Survive two more weeks of Ann Olson’s literature classes, which, in case you were wondering, I’d recommend you never take more than one of in the same semester.
  2. Write some pretty awesome math lessons. For the first time in my life, math is really making sense; I never dreamed I’d consider teaching middle school math, but that’s the direction I’m leaning at this moment. And no, my own middle-school-aged children’s vociferous hatred of their English classes doesn’t really factor in here–I don’t think…
  3. Quit running entirely. Not once in three weeks, actually. Testing out the theory that my liver cannot handle the waste products from muscle breakdown. Not sure I see a correlation yet. But how crazy would that be? I could actually claim to be allergic to exercise.
  4. Locate every single pair of scissors in my entire house.  Proof that 20+ pair of scissors can effectively conceal themselves in the crevasses of your life: 
  5. Begin a  program of self improvement which involves this:

(Go ahead: try to take a picture of your right hand…)

No, this project does not involve sharp objects or peril for my fingers. Unless I totally fail I suppose: because what I’m really trying to do is break a perniciously bad habit, pernicious because it is a habit purely of thought. The idea is that if I catch myself choosing to engage in that spiral I lose the use of yet another finger for a week.

Note that I said “engage” which has an entirely different connotation than just, say,   “acknowledge”, I can acknowledge the existence of a thought without letting it control my behavior or poison an entire day.

Because I believe that we are creatures of perfect freedom: we choose our thoughts, even the ones we tend to feel are thrust upon us. We choose to get angry when someone wrongs us, we choose disappointment when our reality doesn’t measure up to fantasy, we choose fear when we face the unknown.

Or.

We choose something else.

And I refuse to live a fearful, sorrowful, or disappointed existence. Because that would be like living with your hands taped into useless sorts of clubs: perfect only for flailing about in impotence and frustration, but not much else.

Yes, I am typing this with fused fingers.  And it’s only the morning of Day One. But since the fusing thereof, I’ve caught myself a dozen times and made more coherent choices.

I’ll let you know how it  goes.

(Unless I end up without any fingers at all, in which case I’ll just hit “Add New Post”  and “Publish” with my elbow and you’ll know because my next post will be titled something like “#876” and have nothing at all in the body thereof…)


3 responses to “Fused Fingers

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