Ma, if you read this, you will be saying, in a shocked voice, “Robert Scott…”. You’ll be grinning, but you’ll say it. That’s as much warning as anyone gets, and more than most. In fact, here’s more, compliments of the house:

WARNING…SHOCKING TEENS AND BAD, OLD JOKES AHEAD….

Othello and his Imaginary Friend, , were - for reasons it is best not to examine too closely - discussing whether Othello was circumcised. Othello claimed he was, and, perhaps just for the argument, IF refused to believe him. The subject became heated and finally came to a head (ahem) with Othello waving his free hand and nearly shouting, “–then you can ask Dad. He’ll tell anybody anything.”

I was ready for a break. “Bring him on! I’ll kick his — what am I telling who?”

Othello brought me the phone. “Tell him.”

I grabbed it cheerfully (ah, wine and words tapping onto the screen, an uplifting combination) and quickly snapped out some words of wisdom concerning lubrication. There was shocked silence. Fast-moving angst left cold tire marks down my spine. “Who is this and what are we talking about?” The imaginary friend identified himself. “Oh, good. I was worried it was my mother. What are we talking about?”

“Is Othello cut?”

“Yes! Oh, ye - listen, do you know how small a newborn’s winky is?”

(Othello, in the background: “Hey! I was hung like a five year old right from birth!”
Me: “And you still are. Hush, I’m talking.”)

I continued. “So they slip him the knife, see, and everybody’s clustering around the kid with the new boo-boo, so I kind of make off with the leftovers, if you get me. I’ve got this little tiny ring of the softest uncured leather anybody will ever see, so I soak it in salt and dry it out, a couple of times, and end up with this half-inch wide leather pinky ring. It was great, and if I rubbed it I had a cured leather bracelet, instead!”

More silence.

I had more words to type, so I passed the phone back. Catatonic teenagers are the best kind, but they’re not terribly entertaining. I don’t recall teens being that easy to shock, back in the day.

Bridgette’s probably glad she went to bed early.

Oh — and I’m writing tonight, a very happy thing. I seem to have a system that is working reliably to have me get work done. Good, good, goodgoodgood.

This last week I have not returned from work on time even once. Late nights, many errands, unplanned doctor visits, the world in a tumult and all schedules moved to hell’s hearth. And all this week, I have calmly looked over the time and energy left me, and chosen, consciously, what I would do that evening — usually eat and sleep. I have been calm and balanced; the things I did weren’t what I would have wanted, but they were the choices I made, and I knew I was making them. Nothing was foist on me.

It’s much easier to be calm when I remember that.

This morning Bridgette asked me what I wanted to do this weekend.

“I think I should write…while I can…I’m….

“I’m becoming sort of despairing. Like I should find another hobby, housework or something like that. Like, if I’m going to put so little time into the book, I should just admit that it won’t happen and try to move on.” She looked as if she had some things to say to that, but I wasn’t done. “So I think I should get up, check my email, have some tea, unplug the internet from the computer, and write. I should write a lot. So I can see that I will, even after a week without, sit down and write, and that I can do it, and kind of burn out the despair.”

I got smiles and pats on the head and breakfast made for me. And it was good. After a time, I was noticing that the despair was accompanied by frustration over that damnable chapter 2, irritation at taking so long and doing so little…a bunch of stuff. And I decided to do the writing equivalent of “running it all out” in roadwork, the equivalent of running past the cramps, past the shortness of breath, past the little thoughts of stopping, until the runner is just — running. I was going to do that, but with writing.

But there were things needing done.

Othello stepped up; he wished to go out with friends tonight, but the date was to be late-night, and he needed rides both ways. And money.

“I don’t want to stay up that late. But. I can be bought.” I told him about ‘running through it’, and the things I felt needed to be done today. “Here’s the deal. I’ll write. You be me. Not work in the way you would work, but the way I would, as if you courted self-destruction, and each task was balancing the sin in your soul. Be me so I can be someone who writes, and I’ll stay up late and play taxi.”

And so it was. Bridgette worked without me, ran errands without me, Othello worked like a man obsessed. The chores he did are done as I would have done them. And I wrote 1800 words (the first thousand very, very slowly, but steadily) and finished chapter 2. Chapter 2 will always suck, but it is a written chapter that may suck without my attention, now, until it’s time to rewrite.

The way it’s supposed to work … it works that way. Amazing.

This (perhaps inadvertent) meme was yoinked from :

I’m not at work.

I’m in a plush suite overlooking clear-skied forest, scattered crumbs of pastry and an open leather-bound book on the polished-cherry table next to me, sipping coffee so aromatic and smooth that it seems like flavored air.

I’m not at work.

I’m poking my head from my sleeping bag into the sharp morning air high on a mountainside, red hair pooling around the top of the sleeping bag next to mine.

I’m not at work.

I’m jittery with excitement as the four-seater plane circles down to land at a tiny northern airstrip, a double-handful of houses strung, beadlike, along the boardwalk trailing away toward the river.

I’m not at work.

I’m climbing a goat-steep trail in dew-soaked pants, rising above the fog layer to see morning sun shattering off of saw-toothed winterclad peaks.

I’m.

Not.

At.

Work.

Where are you?

Since Orycon, I have been asking for help with chores. I have been asking for other things I need, from a cup of tea to cuddles.

I have been writing. I have asked that I not be talked to when I write, and I’m getting that, and no one died and I am doing a better job of it.

I really, really must find something very nice to do for Thingmaker.

When last we visited Our Hero he was firmly tucked under Thingmaker’s arm, suffering epiphany and the rythmic boffing on the head Thingmaker was using to punctuate his sentences.

boff
I take care of everybody else….
boff
…I try not to be someone who must be taken care of….
boff
…which means other people don’t get the chance to do so….
boff
–I shot out an arm and pressed my finger on the wall. You have to do that when an idea comes and you can’t follow it through, or you lose it.
bo– “What is he doing?”

Bridgette was unconcerned. “He’s holding down an idea. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh.” –ff Thingmaker released me and as I stood up he was eyeing me for hurt feelings. I eyed him back.

“Thank you,” I said, “for not only being smart, but being smart at me in a way that I could hear you.” Thingmaker went off to find his panel, promising to see us later, and I turned to the ladies. “I stand before you a changed man, better in all ways. I have numbered the parts of my soul and found the patterns that they form. I recognize good in all things, and all things respond to me. I shall,” I finished, “have to find a bo tree to sit under, should I become any wiser.”

They both know me well. They knew this to be the warming up exercise, wherein I listen to myself talk, feel good about myself for being erudite and clever, and then — eventually — get on with what I have to say. Further, they both know that interrupting me or otherwise trying to shorten the auto-agape only acts as inflammable liquids on open flame. Bridgette may have checked her watch.

Hrm. I just checked my own watch. I’ve little time; I shall make this march.

…

I’m less than articulate, here. Make allowances.

If I’m … perfectly self-supporting, no one has to support me where I am lacking. Which means that no one can fail to support me when I need it, because I never need it.

Uhm. Clear English. I am reaching for clear English. That bottle is nearly empty, though.

‘Kay. If I am, say, writing a book, and it cuts into other people’s time and convenience, they might resent it. They might bitch. They might not help with the cooking or dishes. And then I will have evidence that, when I needed them, they didn’t want to be there for me. I will have to choose between going back to being non-intrusive and self-sufficient, and doing things that I want…I will have to choose between my loved ones’ convenience and something I want for me.

And that’s against the rules. You always, as much as you can, show how much you care, all the time…because I have personal experience that demonstrates that there will come a time when you can’t. People get hit by busses, trampled by ducks, whatever. How can I decide between demonstrating my love for others in little ways and what I want?

And then Thingmaker talked to me. (boff)

How can I deny my loved ones the opportunity to show me that they love me?

But what if they don’t do it?

Then I can ask them to.

*grits teeth*

…and…trust them…to love me…and act like it.

*panting*

That part was hard.

Ah. Clear English: If I never need help, I never have to trust others to love me and help me, and I will never again be disappointed by how much my loved ones don’t love me. How much, in fact, they don’t care at all about me.

I have more people who love me and show it, in small ways and large, than nearly anyone I know. I have no need, anymore, to question whether I can get the help I need, support for what I care about, participation in my life. I am loved, one and all, by people who understand what that word means and know how to act like it, not merely say it.

I am done with living one-sided relationships, have no need and have not been requested to I do so.

…unless I keep forcing my relationships to be less supportive of me than I am of them.

So, as is my habit, once I understood the problem, I stopped.

Bridgette & , you will recall, were waiting for me to finish. I did, much more quickly, being fresher on it than I am now. They nodded and smiled as one does to a backwards child making good effort.

Bridgette said, “That’s good. We’ve decided that you need thigh-high boots from the dealer’s room. We are prepared to beat on you until you relent and let us get them for you. How much beating do you need before you will let us do that?”

Silly girl. I could easily outlast her minstrations, could distract her with pretty-shinies, and we would leave the dealer’s room with something for each kid and her, not for me. But… “No beating needed. I’ve wanted them for two years. Let’s go.” They looked disappointed, so I let Ambar twist my arm behind my back a bit before Bridgette paid for the boots.

They’re really nice boots. I’m really very, very lucky.