It is always there, lurking beneath the surface. Microscopic. Whether the sun is out, or the breezes are gently tempered with relief from placid stillness. It’s there. Surrounding conditions are unpredictable in their ability to influence changes in it. It blooms, of its on accord, like an undesirable high maintenance house guest. It’s indiscriminate of survival conditions, and unpredictable in duration. Ever present and under the best conditions, self-contained in innocuous packaging like generic seasoning that remains on a dusty shelf long after the flavor loses its intensity.

What it is, exactly, is difficult to define, whether due to the limitations of my vocabulary, or the plethora of words available. Some too general, lending an unfair blanketed assessment, other’s too specific, not allowing latitude for varying symptoms. Maybe in definitive terms, it doesn’t matter. The point being simply it is there. In good times and bad.

It’s not debilitating, nor deserving of an over-priced pharmaceutical solution; there are plenty of worthy neuroses that are, but this isn’t one of them. It’s knowing logically, and humbly that there is nothing worthy of complaint, yet indifference blankets most of the expressive of emotions. It’s possible to present it in embossed packaging with a silver foil logo as the ultimate in pragmatism, but it is nothing but overpriced packaging. Just an artificial allure to present a product in a better light to make it more marketable to the masses. But a pig in a tuxedo is still a pig.

I warned my partner before we married, I was this way. Distant, brooding, and blatantly inconsolable. I didn’t want to drag him into the emotional inertia, but selfishly I wanted to be with him. He assured me he could handle it, but I don’t think he knew exactly what it was or how long it could last. It’s easy to be optimistic about your influence in someone’s life when you are madly in love, or passionately in heat, whichever applies, as it is difficult to determine the difference in the moment.

It’s different being me with a partner. I have to put more effort into casting my selfishness aside, and not having negative influence over his mood simply because I am lost in my head. He isn’t to blame, as I have need this way since adolescence, I don’t want to subject him to my inconsolability. Though in truth, I don’t think he’s noticed. He wouldn’t be aware of my lack of posting; the most obvious sign. In fact, I prefer he not notice, as it means I haven’t upset the balance of his life too much.

Ultimately, what does it mean? Not much. I have trouble finding the right words. The good things, are usually ordinary things of little significance when translated into words, and read like utter tedium. Fuck me to tears, pass out from boredom normal. The things that get under my skin, stinging like nettles, and spreading like poison ivy? Those translate into self-indulgent whining. After eliminating those self-serving narratives, there is frequently little to say.

Some days are like that. One moment life is proceeding in a predictably mediocre and tedious manner, then the next moment your are flopping, and dehydrating outside the comfy wading pool of life.

I keep a small water garden on my deck. It isn’t anything more than a forty gallon bucket, a pink grapefruit water lily, and two one comet goldfish. They fish lived there, virtually unaffected by hardship by the elements for almost a year. When we acquired them, one was more dominant than the other. Chasing, smacking, cajoling. Regular old fish hazing. The fish in the larger pond never showed any signs of domination issues.

Because there was noticeable aggression and competition issues, the “deck” fish earned names. I named them after my spouse’s parents (for the sake of anonymity, I will call them White Comet, and Red Comet. I rarely name fish. Everything else that requires feeding, and a few things that don’t, have names, but fish, not so much. It isn’t as if they come when called, or give a rats ass about affection. Their needs are food, water, habitat. Check, check and check.

Since the end of winter, the deck fish have been rather mellow. No aggression, no chasing, no harassment. Life is good, or so it would seem. I thought White Comet might have mellowed in part to the long cold winter due to six inches of ice on the water garden. She wasn’t nearly as obnoxious after the spring thaw. Red Comet, well he was as mellow as always, at least until yesterday.

Apparently, he just couldn’t cope with the absence of confrontation in his life, and jumped out of the bucket, to an extended a painful demise as he dried into a wide eyed crispy critter. White Comet, made kissing gestures and continued swimming in a circle.

I transfered two fish from the large pond to keep White Comet company, but I won’t burden them with names. Notoriety has unfortunate consequences.

Last night we arrived home jet-lagged and almost giddy. Sleep deprivation and the desire to mark your territory can have that effect on the most mild mannered of woman. Not that I could be mistaken for someone mild mannered. We spent a few days driving across California and exploring Yosemite National Park. (I’ll link to photos later. Tired. Thanx). I seem to be adjusting well to traveling without a laptop, and out of cell phone range. I didn’t suffer from the shakes once. But I did get nervous when I discovered my book wasn’t as interesting as I had hoped.

Major travels start and end much the same way, a high level of anxiety, a surplus of stress, and a driving force to accomplish tasks in the shortest amount of time possible. The Hunter and Gatherer don’t understand why the activity, but they are intuitive enough to be suspicious, and therefore a little clingy. They do their part to an envelope my entire suitcased (like they way I make up words when I need them?) wardrobe in wispy contrasting fur, so that I might be returned safely to them, should I lose my way home. A non-digestible trail of bread crumbs, if you will.

After returning and crossing the threshold, I regressed into my obsessive compulsive organizing self, trapped in a circle of soiled laundry, tall grass, and empty cupboards. All of which prevent me from sorting photos. I feel guilty about having a good time. When I enjoy myself, the house falls in disarray, the grass tickles my kneecaps, and we spend three days eating oatmeal and quesadillas because I detest grocery shopping.

I won’t bore you with the trip details, but as advocate for outdoor public spaces, Yosemite, Kings Canyon, and Muir Woods all earn their stripes as National Parks.

*Feel free interpret with or without the sarcasm as it serves your purpose.