Stir Crazier

Day 6 or 7

In answer to a couple of suggestions.

Delivery anything is not an option, I've got stuff waiting for me at the post office, but I don't know how long they'll keep it.  Just as I cannot get out, no one can get in.  There is now about two feet of snow piled up along a 700-foot looped driveway.  Plus there's a berm near the road - created when the snowplow clearing the road goes by - that may be even higher.  The guy who used to plow snow for me, who had a nice, big Kubota tractor, dropped off the grid and I'm incapable of finding someone else to do it.

Having more supplies wouldn't be the same.  That scenario would be just like any other time I go two weeks without leaving the house, not seeing or talking with anyone, and not dealing with the Internet.  This is very different.  As my truck and trash bin vanish beneath the snow and I'm forced to eat food even less appealing than what I've been living off of during my 18-year-long permanent Lent with its ever-increasing list of denial; and there are full trash bags next to the kitchen garbage can as if I've graduate from pack-rat to hoarder; and the cats are going stir crazy because there is too much snow even for them; I'm now inspired to work on things like the books no one will read, one of which I've been writing on and off for 20 years.  These things, and others like them, have always been pushed aside because my life has gotten in the way.  Now that I've reached the point of really not caring I can work on them, along with, and not instead of, Crazymeds, which is no longer making enough money to support itself, let alone me.

Creative types know the drill: those bitch muses with their perfect timing of getting your juices all hot and bothered right before someone in your life needs (or is just especially insistent upon) you for something that is, or seems to them, to be extremely important.  Or your life makes demands of you along the lines of doing something that pays the rent or seeking medical attention.  Which choice do you make?  Pablo Picasso probably was called an asshole by numerous people, especially the women in his life.  The list of artists who suffered for their work is endless, and most of them not only died young and broke but remain anonymous to this day.

Knowing the likely outcome and not caring is very liberating.