MC Escher portrait of a month

There's that M.C. Escher drawing of the man looking into the glass globe at himself, who's looking at himself looking into a glass globe.

I find myself picturing this image almost weekly-- subconsciously, or fully lost in the dreamlike stance that is almost foreign to me in this month's crazed schedule.

Sometimes, it feels like life-- the news, personal events, health-- starts spiraling according to my mood (caused by: the news, personal events, health). But in months like this, it seems like my psyche isn't the only psyche that's clinging to bubbles to avoid getting sucked down the drain.

A week ago, I would've written:
This has been an important month, full of unexpected change, and life leaps, and ideas bursting out of my brain at the possibility of real change.

Today, I'd write:
Things are a real bitch right now. My life has changed dramatically in the past month, but by next week, it might be eerily the same-- like waking up with Auntie Em and black and white furniture, scratching my head at the faint memory of horses that change color, and fields full of poppies.

It doesn't help that I'm writing from bed with a sinus infection, with achy chills running up and down my back.
It doesn't help that I got sick last night immediately upon hearing mostly bad news from the employer I've been trying my damndest to get a new job from.
It doesn't help that I want the new job because for the past two years, I've convinced myself that secretly, I don't want a new job and the scary, net-less leap of changing identities, apartments and salaries.
It doesn't help that every time I look into this globe, I see myself looking right back into my reflection in a smaller globe.

I am honestly dismayed at some of the things happening right now. And I thought hey-- maybe it's just because I have a fever, and ennui, and fear of the unknown, and I'm standing in Safeway in my pajamas watching a guy make my turkey sandwich for probably far less money than he's worth.
And then he said it.
"How are you? You look tired."
"Oh. Yes. I really am."
"Me too. This week's been-- it's been chaotic. It's been tough."
"Oh yeah? You ok?"
"Yes. Do you want tomatoes? Yes, I'm ok it's just..."
"Tomatoes, yes please. It's just like everything's off right now, isn't it?"
He put down the tomato and looked me straight into my eyes, with the biggest expression of relief.
"Seriously. It feels that way."

It's felt that way watching the polls drop, and my jaw along with it, as Obama continues to 'it's just grandpa!' his way through the Rev. Wright crisis. It's felt that way watching Hillary's eyes light up with glee after the Pennsylvania primaries and the bloodspatters of Obama's clean record in the media. It's felt that way with nasty comments being flung around at work, in rooms where people think they go unheard, and with people driving like they don't care if they're going to kill you and your precious cargo of friends on the interstate.

The world feels like someone's vaccuming in a galaxy a little too close to us.
I can feel my hair raise a little. I see a few strands of dust bunnies leaping away from the horizon where we're not looking.

And the weather doesn't help. 80 today... flower smells and the most pleasant breeze dancing through my apartment, over my cup of Sprite and my sweatpants... wasps finding tiny holes in my screen and bouncing off my vaulted ceilings. Tomorrow will be freezing-- the heat turned off in my office due to a suspicion of springtime, and another 12 hr. day spent shivering and pink-cheeked at my desk, with a bottle of amoxycillin and a cup of organic coffee that tastes like the plague.

I'm so hungry for something to bite into that will last more than just a fantasy in my mind, or a day, or a week.
Something larger than the turkey sandwich the Safeway employee handed to me over the Deli counter, looking sympathetically at my basket, which just had soup and tissues in it.

As I wrote in an essay on my dad's website-- the eccentric things take the sting out, but the quarter-life-crisis is no laughing matter.

Miscellaneous:
Maureen Dowd's column, which I thought actually had some strong points on Obama's "I refuse to portray the angry black man in today's critically modern political scene" versus his 20 year stint in the church of... the angriest black man.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/30/opinion/30dowd.html?em&ex=1209700800&en=bcf5d601b00f5a27&ei=5087%0A

a photo of my parents on dad's birthday, in Santa Fe:




















and also, a brief glimpse into my 60 hr. work weeks since March... my desperate organizational techniques look soooo "A Beautiful Mind" that people are actually starting to look nervous when I add to these notes:




















I can tell that this is just babble-- unrelated thoughts. I really don't feel well, and I shouldn't write a lot when I'm crabby.

It's just one of those months where it feels like you don't fit into your skin, for more reasons than one. And I'd love to fit into my skin just to help keep my chin up through May... which looks just as ambiguous as April did...

Ironically, as someone who is not religious, superstitious, or even a little "-igious" of any kind... I took something home with me last night. It's a polished piece of rose quartz, which a co-worker gave to me after she'd been heckling me about giving her a free copy of my dad's book. I told her I didn't have any free copies-- hell, that writers barely get any. She thought I was joking.
The next day, I bought a brand new hardcopy version from Borders and put it on her desk, signed from my dad.
At the end of the day, a beautiful handwritten note appeared, and the rose quartz-- "this brings you luck. It does. I met (my husband) after getting this. I hope it brings you luck too".
It's been sitting on my desk at work, mostly forgotten, but yesterday I put the rose quartz in my pocket, and left for my 8 hr. shoot... 3 people cancelled, one showed up, the bill skyrocketed for renting the studio that long with no talent there.
I took the rose quartz out of my pocket and actually held it in my hand when I emailed the producer, asking her if she'd hired someone else for the job yet.
I held it in my other hand when I dialed the phone at 11pm to tell my dad that I might not get it.
I put it by my bed on my nightstand and was up all night, feverish, with bizarre zombie dreams and crazy g.i. joe pains returning from a long slumber.

Is it my lesson? To not rely on luck and just rely on what I can do to help myself?
Or is it Dumbo's pink feather-- I need to just keep hanging on to it until I forget it one day, and leap out of the burning building on faith alone?

Maybe it's unlucky to take someone else's luck.

I guess we'll have to wait and see.