see my windows wiping clean.

Day 23 | Holding Out | Where’s My Inspiration [oh, here it is]

Watching Possessed.

There’s something I didn’t tell you.

I had been watching the movie weeks ago, under the influence. The film remained stuck in pause mode; one of many recordings listed on our Tivo. Two days ago I had gone in searching, under the weather, craving a TCM Classic thriller I hadn’t yet seen and the title Possessed, appealed.

The movie had been run three-quarters through. Had no recollection of this. I backed it up a bit, still had no memory of it. Backed it up more; the same. Nothing.

If this appears glamorous, it’s because she’s not cocked.

[drunken chronicles]

The full length of the movie is a bit over 1:45 hours. I paused it at the one hour mark which means I had sipped through the entire 6-ounce martini [a 30-minute duration] and was into dinner [or right into chips] and wine.

Fifteen [itty-bitty] minutes into consuming the martini, I’m stoned and begin losing track of time [cognitive function]—what I’m watching on the screen no longer penetrates my brain. When Husband and I are “engaged” in a series on Netflix and Husband is drinking alongside of me [he drinks wine like his body spouts holes], we have to repeat watching the same episode two or three times before we can move onto the next.

And even at that, we retain half the details.

[Do you remember this? No. Go back.]

And reading my favorite subjects?


Last night, we were watching Bloodline. We’re re-watching the second season because the third season was recently released and well, we can’t remember watching the second season while we were blasted, so we had to go back. And the episodes are long [but totally worth re-watching—Kyle Chandler is a major hunk and the plot of the story is riveting].

This morning before opening my eyes, I did the check-inside-the-body thing.

It’s 23 days. Remember watching Bloodline last night? How ya feeling? Isn’t clarity something? No heavy head, eh?

I recalled the details of watching Bloodline. But my body didn’t respond. No tiny voice brimming with joy either.

When I opened my eyes, though, I was stunned.

An orange balloon, a remnant of the party from the weekend, had crept its way to my bedside from deep inside the dining room and adhered itself to the back of the fan. The thing moved gently with its rotation. A curly ribbon dangling from the knot, holding what remained of the helium inside of it, giving it life.

To Google, I go:

The color orange is associated with joy, sunshine, and the tropics. Orange represents enthusiasm, fascination, happiness, creativity, determination, attraction, success, encouragement, and stimulation.

Here in these days of writing everyday and unemployment and going without what takes the pain away and feeling misplaced and displaced and unplaced, a profound message is sent.

The orange balloon.

It’s 23 days.

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