Merely Intrusive Thoughts

Focus is still coming hard for me this morning, but the eye pricks of neighborhood security lights are merely unpleasant. Down from mind-ripping pain. Merely unpleasant is the best I believe I can do on those eye pricks. I don't think I'll ever fit the human norm of finding comfort and beauty in them. The racing thoughts have slowed to merely intrusive. So far. . . Inserting superstisious gesticulations. . . The day is still young. . . The subject of this morning's intrusive thoughts has shifted from the nightmare my river dreams have become to the family problems awaiting me in Texas. Last night's ear tickle from Hubs included another round of parental venting. Little ones, little heartaches. Big ones, big heartaches. And the need for parental venting goes on. . .

K had to tend her own family business yesterday, so I worked The Pile alone, moving in small, manageable steps with lots of breaks for self-care. I think the biggest accomplishment of the day was finding some peace with the fenceline quarterbacks. Those fountains of wisdom and quotes from the obvious who have no intention of putting on work gloves. They interrupt far more work than they facilitate. The number of pedestrians in this neighborhood is shockingly high for the 21st century and yesterday's beautiful weather brought them out in droves. 5 months ago, at the beginning of this project, I embraced the fenceline conversations with nostalgic enthusiasm. I've heard about this custom. . . It was a surprise to me to find physical evidence that it had traslated into the 21st century. By the time I was seeing Breach of Contract litigation in my near future, the fenceline quarterbacks were driving me to tears. I like your version better than my realities, friend, but. . . Do my realities count in your wisdom? Yes Ma'am/Sir. I'll try that ASAP.

Yesterday's breakthrough(?) in dealing with the fenceline quarterbacks came through an art channel. A youngish man walking by stopped to interrupt m work with a compliment on the jumble of bricks and rocks I had moved from the back yard sculptures into a rough sketch of a raised garden bed in the front. He was respectfully mindful of the fact that he was interrupting a work flow. My only certainty for those bricks and rocks is that I didnae want them where they were. I amnae certain I want to keep them at all, but for the interim, they can be stored in a rough sketch as easily as they can be stored in traditional storage piles. The youngish artist loved the sketch. The conversation rambled into some first rate art therapy.

As we were saying our good-byes, the buddy he was on his way to see skidded to a dramatic entry on his bicycle. The feisty old fellow was an accomplished fenceline quarterback. Another of my most vocal fenceline quarterbacks was working on his perfect yard within earshot of the good-byes and overheard my artistically empowered slam of the newest fenceline quarter back. My new art buddy was greatly humored by the exchange. Dunno. . . It *felt* like a breakthrough.

The dawn outside the studio window is progressed enough to have washed away the inky black shadows of the security lights. The light sensors will begin turning the lights of soon. The clear sky is beginning to show the blues of the coming day. I'm feeling reasonably confident as I nudge myself toward The Pile.

Sleep restless but adequate. Appetite good. Persilly content.