Banausic
1. Merely mechanical; “a sensitive, self-conscious creature... in sad revolt against uncongenially banausic employment”
2. Of or relating to a mechanic.
3. Ordinarily or not refined
Nearly perfect. It's always heartening to find a good word. My favorite is when the word has multiple definitions and all of them fit; all of them contribute to your current need. Banausic doesn't quite work that way, but it seems to be how things are going for now. Nothing is excellent. It's just... going. Routine.
I'm rather at a still point, I suspect. Nothing bad in particular has happened; I'm just set on coast. Work is good, soccer is average, smoke is decreasing by the days and I'm working out again (running that is).
It's not all deliriousness, of course. I haven't been out in awhile, and no one seems to want to go(or maybe it is me who don’t). The swollen gum decided to join in the fun with tonsillitis, migraine and flu bug last weekend. It could be that I'm still feeling low from my own three weeks of sickness that seems to be dragging on. My voice is still not completely there, but I'm able to sing along with the music on MTV(badly) and I answer the phone more often than not.
I've rearranged the books on my shelf. I'm catching up (again) on the bank statements. I've written a pretty good short story lately which stretched my own social and writing mores (the one piece that doesn't seem to raise my ire at my own inability.) I bought a few good books to read. I bought new stuffs for the house and I'm getting a fresh coat of white paint on all the trim in my house--a much needed, yet significant, expensive undertaking. But still... I'm obviously needing to organize or shake things up, because that petty shit isn't working.
I think it's that life is set on a roller coaster while I'm shifting through still shots.
It's because of the work, of course, though I haven't paid nearly enough dues to feel this way. I haven't received any recent major rejections; I haven't been scoffed or derided. Not sure on the back though. I'm writing, every day. But right now cleaning the house looks fun in comparison. Everything I do is shit. All my past work seems to be shit, as well--rife with stupid mistakes and missed opportunities.
I realize it's as simple as perception slanted by temperament. Why else would one day I love my work and the next hate it so? But the real question that nags is which slant is correct? Is the mirror right or is my perception correct? In other words, if it truly is shit, then why proceed? (Well, I know I would continue to do what I do--that'd be like stopping the tides) But I could give up on "the dream" I suppose. I wouldn't submit happily, but it's not as if IT is all I've got in my life. I'm extremely fortunate by any standard. The best mom, two great sisters(still enjoying in Dubai), good buddies, blah blah blah...
Only, I can't. I can't feature a future without it, or actually many, in print. I suspect this is when the tough get going?
And so, this is why I'm so still. So eh. Over damn work.
I’m reversing the banausic. Still. With still shots hanging over my head and one shot to the night sky. Happy reading.
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