And then I am one with LOTR, until sleep takes over (which is never before Liv pulls Frodo to her stylish Elven cloak and cries on him).
Tonight, I’ve resisted LOTR and instead gazed at the same page of my manuscript for an hour, my mind plotting what will go into tomorrow morning’s smoothie, revisiting that one thing that one person shouted that one unfortunate time, wandering the aisles of IKEA Burbank, ransacking my closet for appropriate shoes for Saturday’s Day Out With Thomas, imagining a yoga mat patterned in ocean—oh. Yes. Etc.
Just. Be. Sick. My husband’s advice as he watches me torture myself with checking out vs. not writing. If I could just Hulu and not know that I wasn’t writing! If I could just Frodo my way into the weekend without guilt—or, not guilt, something worse–something so all-seeing and fiery when looked at properly, I scream. And maybe throw up.
Note: after my yoga sessions, I meditate. Meaning: the world flies like Oz monkeys into my brain for 10 minutes during which I madly process, delve and deflect while breathing as though I’m calm—and then I ask a question. There is always an answer. Lifted from that Nike commercial.
Just do it.
I’m sick! Gollum, Gollum—hear that? See my misery? I think I’ve been stabbed! Whimper. Precious.
Just. Do. It.
Pardon? Padrone? Tecate? Bueller?
Donde esta el bano gringa.
Ah, si, si—no se. Gollum! No se.
Riiight. Sleep. Comprendes?
I am not one to shirk my Higher Self. And hopefully not one to throw up anytime soon. Studies show that throwing up may cause—
Pretend I am wielding a staff above your head. The staff has knocked your head. Quite hard. There was a sound. Like that of a stick meeting a nut.