That @$&*!! Buzzing Fly
This is a season when buzzing flies multiply inside our house. During spring and fall, flies come out of nowhere (not literally but I don't want to think about the literal) and hurl themselves at the window, over and over again. They buzz. And thunk. Randomly.
Bzzzz-thunk. Bzz-zz-zzzz-thunk. Zzz. Z. BZZZZZ-thunk.
Because they move slowly, they're not that hard to kill, except that they can be sneaky. Get out a flyswatter, and suddenly they hide behind the blinds and behind furniture. When you start doing something else, the buzzing starts up again, just loud enough to annoy the hell out of you. Me. One.
And some weeks are just full of the damn things. Like this past week, which was full of doing things for others. (Aha! The meta-phor you've been waiting-phor.) Also, to be fair, last week was full of a certain amount of not-doing things, and to be fair to me, that was caused largely by a big two-day storm and a power outage that I wasn't prepared for. It's not that I mind doing things for others, either, except that doing each thing breeds several more things that could be done, that need to be done, that require/beg doing, bzzz-zzz.
And yet. The winds of time still rip those pages right off the calendar. Writing gets done, or doesn't, amid all the other tasks that circle me. Damn buzzing flies.
Yesterday, I was pretty tired. Tired on the inside. Irked with myself and others. Tired of doing, especially on a day that I prefer to spend being. A long walk helped, but I still finished the weekend feeling behind. I had to start a new work-week by scaling back expectations--my own and others'.
I don't like weeks like that, the ones that are less than I hoped before they even start.
However, sometimes that's what happens. So by the time I went to bed last night, I was pleasantly physically tired and somewhat resigned. I closed my eyes.
And then, the buzzing. In the dark. Bzz-zz-zzzz-thunk. Zzz.
I don't mind a fly that buzzes its last against a window. Rest in peace and all that. But I hate the ones that pinball off the other walls of our bedroom, that choose the corner near our bed for their death throes. Because what if those throes involve falling onto/into the bed? Landing on my face? Getting in my hair?
Of course I came awake: annoyed, attention-thready, aching behind the eyes, ready to throttle something. I turned on a light and got the flyswatter.
Silence. That sneaky so-and-so.
I'll spare you the blow by blow, but rest assured that in semi-darkness, several dark fuzzles from my husband's socks became quite dead, while the fly bzz-Zzzzz-ed on.
Eventually I realized I was only hurting myself (and the fuzzles) and figured out another fix for the problem: pulling the sheet over my head and doing relaxation exercises till I finally fell asleep.
Which, come to think of it, is also a useful strategy for getting the writing done. It's a form of extended will, a tool that helps define an environment in which you (I, one) can be successful. (Or accidentally smother, but I managed not to think about that.)
This morning, the fly was still alive, though barely. (zzz. zz.) But sometimes, when you don't pay attention to things like that, they go away. They work themselves out. Someone else with better aim or more tenacity or a better flyswatter gets the damn thing.
I was/am also alive this morning, and I did sleep some, and I'm ready to start the week of scaled-back expectations. But I'm starting by getting back under the metaphorical sheet.
Here's why: while other people are perfectly capable of swatting flies, nobody else can do my writing.
Eventually I may need to adjust my expectations around that too, most likely relating to its quality. But first I have to produce it. Scaling back expectations not allowed there.
Bzzzz-thunk. Bzz-zz-zzzz-thunk. Zzz. Z. BZZZZZ-thunk.
Because they move slowly, they're not that hard to kill, except that they can be sneaky. Get out a flyswatter, and suddenly they hide behind the blinds and behind furniture. When you start doing something else, the buzzing starts up again, just loud enough to annoy the hell out of you. Me. One.
And some weeks are just full of the damn things. Like this past week, which was full of doing things for others. (Aha! The meta-phor you've been waiting-phor.) Also, to be fair, last week was full of a certain amount of not-doing things, and to be fair to me, that was caused largely by a big two-day storm and a power outage that I wasn't prepared for. It's not that I mind doing things for others, either, except that doing each thing breeds several more things that could be done, that need to be done, that require/beg doing, bzzz-zzz.
And yet. The winds of time still rip those pages right off the calendar. Writing gets done, or doesn't, amid all the other tasks that circle me. Damn buzzing flies.
Yesterday, I was pretty tired. Tired on the inside. Irked with myself and others. Tired of doing, especially on a day that I prefer to spend being. A long walk helped, but I still finished the weekend feeling behind. I had to start a new work-week by scaling back expectations--my own and others'.
I don't like weeks like that, the ones that are less than I hoped before they even start.
However, sometimes that's what happens. So by the time I went to bed last night, I was pleasantly physically tired and somewhat resigned. I closed my eyes.
And then, the buzzing. In the dark. Bzz-zz-zzzz-thunk. Zzz.
I don't mind a fly that buzzes its last against a window. Rest in peace and all that. But I hate the ones that pinball off the other walls of our bedroom, that choose the corner near our bed for their death throes. Because what if those throes involve falling onto/into the bed? Landing on my face? Getting in my hair?
Of course I came awake: annoyed, attention-thready, aching behind the eyes, ready to throttle something. I turned on a light and got the flyswatter.
Silence. That sneaky so-and-so.
I'll spare you the blow by blow, but rest assured that in semi-darkness, several dark fuzzles from my husband's socks became quite dead, while the fly bzz-Zzzzz-ed on.
Eventually I realized I was only hurting myself (and the fuzzles) and figured out another fix for the problem: pulling the sheet over my head and doing relaxation exercises till I finally fell asleep.
Which, come to think of it, is also a useful strategy for getting the writing done. It's a form of extended will, a tool that helps define an environment in which you (I, one) can be successful. (Or accidentally smother, but I managed not to think about that.)
This morning, the fly was still alive, though barely. (zzz. zz.) But sometimes, when you don't pay attention to things like that, they go away. They work themselves out. Someone else with better aim or more tenacity or a better flyswatter gets the damn thing.
I was/am also alive this morning, and I did sleep some, and I'm ready to start the week of scaled-back expectations. But I'm starting by getting back under the metaphorical sheet.
Here's why: while other people are perfectly capable of swatting flies, nobody else can do my writing.
Eventually I may need to adjust my expectations around that too, most likely relating to its quality. But first I have to produce it. Scaling back expectations not allowed there.