she moves she

When I stress I tend to not eat.  My emotional brain is in my stomach and it won’t tolerate being satiated with digestives.  Though it loves the wine, red or white.

I’ve had zero days off of work in the last nine days and I have to move tomorrow.  Change apartments.  I cannot eat and I keep saying things like “booyah” and “sucka!” and calling people “brotha.” Possibly losing my mind.  There is a restlessness like churning lava running laps in my veins.  And listening to The Rolling Stones while contained inside a little box, while Chicago produces another unseasonably cold day is torturous.  Where do the excessive vibrations go?

In the last ten minutes I’ve adopted a new philosophy on life.  I’m going to worry about nothing from here to eternity.  Encased inside this day of blah and impending-move dread this approach seems completely possible.  I’ve always heard that whole Worrying Doesn’t Help thing and I’ve adopted it perhaps half way.  But today I feel the “I don’t give a shits” through and through.  It’s all going to happen anyway.  Somehow, whether I worry about it or not, I will end up in a new apartment by Wednesday evening.  I therefore cannot be justified in sitting here at work putting energy into worrying about an Absolute.

This philosophy of course is appropriate only for certain circumstances.  I certainly cannot live out my days not giving a damn about the State of Things.  Giving a damn breeds Passion, Passion breeds Action and I am a Child of Fire and Snow.

Whatever’s right.  Right?

Where’ve I been?

Listening to a lot of rock and roll, hanging out on porches, drinking beer and things, swaying back and forth, climbing mountains and riding a motorcycle through New Mexico.

I only wish that’s what I’d been up to. I really do have a penchant for adventure. When I daydream these days, I daydream of open roads and wind in my hair. I’ve lived most of my life defying my Red Neck Heritage. But my god, I can do it no more! I want to hop on a Harley, tie a Rebel Flag bandanna around my head and hit the road towards some Bonfire Party in Kentucky. My uncles…all five of them are the quintessential Southern Red Necks. Bar fights and Budweiser, Above Ground Pools and Sprinklers, Kools and Cars. My mother’s got the blood too. I grew up with Journey, Steppenwolf, The Doors, Kansas, The Rolling Stones, Led Zepplin, Humble Pie, Jimi Hendrix blasting from our colossal stereo system on weekends in Alabama. Guitar solos mean Saturday afternoons, jumping through the sprinkler in my front yard, drinking kool-aid on the back porch, digging around for worms under trees. Jim Morrison’s voice is a direct connection to sunlight streaming in through the living room windows on Sundays. The best way to experience music is still lying on my back, flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and listening for hours.

I’ve got the blood too. In our family, the phrase “Lippeatt Blood” means wild, quick-tempered, charming, emotional, manic depressive, fun-loving, charismatic, rebellious, opinionated, stubborn AS HELL! My mom’s side, the McCarty’s, are known for being intellectual, practical, rebellious, kind hearted, tough-as-nails, dangerously adventurous, risk-taking. When we talk about it, as we often do because someone in the family has always done something deserving of Furrowed Brows and Dropped Jaws, we attribute it not to the person’s sensibility but to the fact that they’ve been cursed with “that crazy blood.” How many times have I heard my grandmother say (and come to think of it, how many times have I said?) “It’s that Lippeatt temper.”

Being the black sheep of my family I’ve felt disconnected from these traits, as if I’m exempt from it all.

Let me tell you. I’m not. I’m a hybrid of Red Neck and Class and lately I feel like buying a ‘78 mustang, gettin’ greasy replacing the engine and speeding off into the sunset with “Born to be Wild” blowing out the speakers.

Yeah…something’s gotta give soon.