I’ve been feeling more than a little out of sorts these days. A lot of bad news flying at my head, a lot of low-tolerance-for-everybody threatening to fly out of my mouth (and sometimes succeeding). I’m not sure I’ve totally come back to myself after the whole Big Ugly that caught me up short in April.
There was a time when I was afraid to have people know I was angry, afraid to show my anger … afraid, really, to feel my anger myself. That is less and less true. I do try to hold my tongue when I’m being irrational, or when I’m mostly angry with myself, but I’ve gotten better (not flawless, but better) at expressing my annoyance, my displeasure, my upset, my ire, my rancor, my hot-flush-on-the-back-of-the-neck fury.
But this hasn’t only been a week of being annoyed and angry. I surprised myself Monday by bursting into tears in the shower. Yes, I freely admit that I’m a cryer, but it’s never manifested in quite that way — shaking sobs that made me have to stop and hold on until they passed.
And I cried not once, not twice, but three times at work yesterday. Clearly I’m in need of some kind of release … a vacation, maybe. Or perhaps a valium.
The work-crying was good, however; I have to say. By the end of the last flare up, all was well. My even temper and feeling of ease were restored. But I hate when things like this get in my way and I can’t seem to stop them, to pull back and change course. And yes, if I wait long enough I slide back to normal, but a whole week of angry-grey-Stacie is no fun for me.
I have, of course, continued to churn out the tanka. And really churn, like through a meat grinder. I’m not loving any of the ones I wrote this week, but I’m sharing them all the same. So here, in no particular order, are most of the tanka I wrote between Friday of last week and today:
my fifteen minutes
sitting under the hot lights
my real smile’s gone fake
not what I had imagined
I’m not the actress I’d thought
his ringtone jolts us
a busload of sharp recoils
then his quick, loud voice
peaceful, early ride ruined
we frown through his every word
still holding this pain
this hurt won’t scab, heal over
these tears feel wasted
crying changes, helps, nothing
time, now, to find a new dream
sweat stands on my skin
my moisture-thick hair blooms full
here I am myself
in this lush, green, hot, wet place
alive as I’ve ever been
cotton tree surprise
my brain can’t hold onto this
old idea shatters
cotton tree shakes her white head
no need to ‘jump down’ with her