Aliens

I’ve been sitting here for a few with Ingrid Michaelson’s last record on repeat feeling a bit weird. Yes, I said record. Yes, I’m old, but that isn’t my issue…well, right now.

Firstly, I feel a lot like Sigourney Weaver and no, not because I’m shimmying around my office in tiny undies trying to fit into a space suit  but because I have a weird feeling that there’s something moving around inside my guts that has nothing to do with my guts. It’s an odd sensation, like a pile of squid dancing the rumba. Maybe they like Ingrid Michaelson too.  Whatever it is, it’s decidedly alien. Maybe I can sell tickets to the eruption. Look out Jonesy!

The cornbread wasn’t that bad…

Secondly, I’m just bothered because there’s been a lot of thinking going on, the uncomfortable kind that makes you question your beliefs and fundamental structures of perception. That can also be good, but the last time that happened, I lost it, not to put too fine a point on it.

I went full atheist. Now some things, some mighty big coincidences have occurred that have made me question that assessment. That’s not to say that I’m down for a bearded deity in the sky, just that it may be more complex than my current belief system is accepting of. The energy system of which we are all made may be more vast and diverse and include things like bloody weird coincidences. That’s it for now, but it’ll start my brain going full tilt. That’s what happens to me.

I can’t leave anything alone. I have to read and explore and dig. I have to think around something until I do the flop. Not that I’m not already in awe of the mysteries of the universe, the beauty of nebulas, the way the structures of the eye mimic them, the way everything mimics everything else in extremes of scale, but I’m starting to wonder about more. More? Surely not!

I’ve found a book of energy experiments. That’s where I’ll start to see if I’m nutty bonkers. I don’t seem to have an off switch. It’s kind of a bad thing. The one thing that is positive here is that it has given me back something vital that I had lost. Hope. Faith. In what I’m not sure. I guess that’s the point of my insanity. I’m not sure, but that’s ok. I need to accept the mystery.

Now the mystery of what’s up with my intestines is another thing…

The Voice

No, not that crappy reality show, but the elusive tone of a writer’s writing that let’s you immediately identify them. It’s the one thing I’ve been thinking about most over the past hours. When I was in graphics we called it the look and feel. The marketing types refer to it as your “brand”.  The “branding” thing is more about making people into a culture. That’s interesting and all, but the feel of the writing itself is the starting point.

All I know is that it’s a hard thing to find. Surely though, this is it right here, right? This? My words? But no, surely that’s not all. No, it’s my unique style of wit (or lack thereof). It’s what makes me, well, me. It’s my stupid jokes and random references to Swanson’s TV dinners when nothing else will do or the fact that I just have to remember a blurb about Alpha Beta supermarkets RIGHT NOW!

It also happens to be the thing that makes my first book complete crap.

Now, ok, that may be a bit harsh, but the truth is while it may be the first real fluid story that came out of me, the voice telling it is an alien one. There is humor in it, even some of my humor, but by and large it’s a foreign perspective. I don’t know what to do about this. I don’t know if I should pursue it or start fresh with another project that I know is closer to me. Everyone has that first crappy book in them. I’ve gotten mine out. Do I release it into the wind or try to release it into the world? Is it representative enough of me to do so?  It’s certainly got a lot of me in it, but my voice isn’t there (whatever that is!).

I suppose all writers go through that period of discovery where they fumble through this and that. Was there a time when Enya didn’t quite sound like Enya or Springsteen didn’t quite sound like Springsteen? Did anyone other than them hear it? Was there a time when Anne Rice read like someone else or Stephen King? That’s the big question, what to do? I need to hone the skills and sharpen the instrument.

I’ve put a lot of work into the book. I’m proud of it. I  also hate it by now. I’m sick of looking at it. I’m sick of thinking about it. I want to work on it. I want it done with. I want it to be better.  I avoid it. I need to sit down and make myself edit it. It stares back at me like a baby that needs a nappy changing and I, knowing how bad it’s going to be walk by just one more time then run back to it feeling like a neglectful mother. It’s forever revolving. I never have enough time. It’s a horrible feeling, that damned unpublished book…

Either way, I see now just how wrong it is in a bunch of places, how the character who is the main is really just one of many in an ensemble piece, how it may be written in the wrong perspective and how another of my pieces may just be the me that’s dying to get out. I just don’t know if I should move on to that. It smacks of giving up and letting the first kid fall by the wayside. I didn’t make it perfect, no, but that’s all the more reason to give it the attention it deserves.

Damn it, I hate it when I answer my own questions.

It needs attention. It needs to be the best it can be so I know I did it. Period. Then I can make the next one better and more me. Then the next, then the next. The next may have some broad cracking Swanson TV dinner jokes in an Alpha Beta or buying meat lumps. Who knows? The future is work ahead that I hope I don’t hate like I hate this one.

They tell you a lot about writing but hating what you make isn’t part of that pep talk.

Creativity. Check.
Expression. Check.
Inspiration hitting you randomly. Check.
Amusing your friends writing about them. Check.

Hating the hell out of it. Wait..what?

Yeah, let’s see that in the NanoWriMo Pep talk after you’ve finished your fourth revision and you just want to burn the thing. It’s hard. It’s hard to keep sounding like you and not like whatever show was playing behind you when you were typing at 2 am. Just in the interest of being honest, it happens.

So, I’m going to put aside my differences and try to shake hands with the manuscript and try to once again work on it and this time find me in it. That might be what finally makes it not suck. Let’s hope it doesn’t suck! Huzzah!

Doubt

I’ve written a book.

Yep, a full on, 300 page manuscript that I’ve rewritten a good four times. I’ve kvetched, I’ve redone, I’ve rethought, and planned. I’ve spent a good year’s time avoiding the next steps because it involves getting other people to read it. How odd is that? But I’ve recently crossed that hurdle and signed up for crowd-funding so that I can hire an editor, which is no small expense.

The small amount of feedback I’ve had has been mostly positive, though it was put to me that perhaps, having only taken a single writing class, that I was getting ahead of myself, which may be true, but I’m still pursuing the dream. I’ve had to get myself fired up to do these things. A few positive signs here and there keep me going, but I have to say, today I’m hitting a doubt patch.

It’s been a long time since I’ve tried to read a novel just because every book I’ve read lately has had to do with either mental health, writing, publishing, or other non-fiction subjects. Today I started one I’ve been wanting to read for a long time.

Within a few pages, I noticed myself dissecting sentences, picking out and repeating similes, obsessing over structure and taking note of how the scenes opened, the portraits were painted, the wonder of the plot, and I was reminded why I love to read. It also came to my attention that my work is generally not something I would read. I started to compare. It didn’t turn out well for me.

I tend to get intimidated when faced with other people’s work. God knows, that’s how I ended up dropping most of my art classes in college. Painting: someone drew better so what was the point? Out. Writing: someone wrote better, the same. Music, film, photography, all ended the same way, though I still do all of those things in secret because I’m driven to.

When it comes to the book though, I want so much for it to be good. Of course, that’s  the point of an editor, to polish. I know my idea is good. I know that there’s something there, I’m just not sure I’m clever enough to write it. I can’t help but think that there’s someone out there who could write my story better, which is a toxic thought really. What came out of me is mine alone, but comparisons are making me doubt.

I’m terrified of having the review come back bad. I’m scared that I can’t do it, but behind all of that there is this need to try. Of course it’s horrid right now. It’s my first attempt at a book, but if I don’t go all the way with it, I know I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll sit and wonder what could have been if I hadn’t been so intimidated, so afraid. I suppose my fear is that it won’t be as good as it could be, that I can’t adequately translate what it is I see in my head, and that is frustrating. I also have trouble handling criticism. I take it as a sign that I’m just not good enough, not to try harder and work on it, but to just quit. Not helpful.

My big dream is that someone, and hopefully more than one, will truly like the story. That’s all anyone who writes really wants in the end, for something we make to translate into someone else’s experience, for the story to be meaningful to someone; a little bit of their life that was considered time well spent and enjoyed.

I suppose my lesson is not to compare. I should celebrate that I wrote a book in the first place, whether it be good or bad, it’s an achievement. I’m just never satisfied with small victories. I need to get to the next step and not stop until it’s the best I can do and all I can do. Then I can truly say I’ve tried. I just wish my brain would get out of my way. In the meantime, I really wish I could sit and enjoy this book! I’m going to try again…

Britannia Rules

So, yes I’ve hit another fangirl moment. Funny how I can write all sorts of  personal stuff, but when it comes to something I really love, I get all verkelmpt and weepy. (I told you guys I was sentimental!) The story is, I finally got my passport! Despite my bad luck of late and my current inability to travel, I couldn’t be more excited. It’s the prospect of being able to finally get to the one place I’ve always wanted to be, Great Britain.

I happen to be an Angophile of epic proportions, which isn’t to say I’m all geeky about it. I tend to keep it to myself most of the time, but I can tell you all of the time I spend in my head is somewhere in, related to, or in some way based on the United Kingdom.  Ever since I first watched films from the moody Wuthering Heights, Oliver Twist, The Hammer films, and Sweeney Todd with Angela Lansbury to Mary Poppins and Shirley Temple meeting Queen Victoria in The Little Princess as a little girl, I’ve been in love with the place, the culture, and the people. To me, that’s the way people were supposed to be. I identified with all of it, much to the confusion of my parents. As a child I thought they were terribly clever having a woman president (little did I know) and found the culture to be everything I wanted to experience. Everywhere I looked I was in awe of the cleverness, the elegance,  the innovation, the discovery, the humor. I spent most of my growing years trying to be like them, though I can say that I’ve failed miserably in the end. (I heard myself speak on tape and I sound like a more punk rock version of the little mermaid, oh, the horror!) I don’t sound anywhere near as posh as I’d hoped. It doesn’t matter though. To love something, you don’t necessarily have to be of it.

My dream for years has been to finally make it there to the countryside of the Brontes to smell the air and feel the essence of the place, to see the Kent of Dickens and Whitby where Bram Stoker penned Dracula’s arrival in England and the place where Captain Cook hails from. To visit the places where my favorite books were written, to walk in the footsteps of the people I admired from the past and get a small sense of what it may have been like is what I look to. I want to see the haunted places, the infamous places, and the great buildings of history. Ancient buildings are something that we sadly don’t have much of on this side of the US where I live. 

Being a writer who’s stories tend to be based there, I don’t feel like I can do it justice from afar, no matter how much British television I watch or books I read. So, I’ve begun to look for contests for trips to finally make it there. I’ve entered one so far. It may be a long shot, but it offers me hope and, in the long run  the more I try the more the numbers will be on my side; or, I may just get extremely lucky. Now that I have my passport, it’s an open field of possibility that I’m supremely excited about.

The more I talk to people, the more I find that everyone has a passion, for different places of course, but everyone has that lifetime dream destination. One has a passion to visit Latin America, another, Italy, another finally made it to the Holy Land. As for me, I hope to be writing a post from mine soon. I apologize in advance for my gushing…

Blankety Blank

 

It’s a little weird to have no more questions to answer at the end of the blogging challenge. I can say that it’s been a bit odd not having the daily post to do.

I thought that I was on a roll and decided, like every year, to sign up for National Novel Writing Month. I had a couple of overlap days which was a little much, but I was both excited to jump in but worn out at the same time.  Then there was a crash. A few things unraveled. My car broke down, I got sick, and…I couldn’t write.

Seriously. Crash-o-rama…

In the midst of chores I started feeling crappy and…bam! Fever. Aches. Being stuck on the couch and most of all, no word count. One day turned to four and I had nothing behind the eyes but a massive headache.

I’ve never tanked the contest before and I’m still feeling kind of bad about it. I’ve been, to be honest, feeling a little depressed and cursed with bad luck. Out of nowhere, I saw another 30 day test of dedication. A random diet page I follow came up with 30 days of gratitude! Instantly that was a real challenge. I’m without wheels, missing appointments, miserably sick, isolated, and to top it all off, facing complete apathy from my Doubtful Guest (the boyfriend).

Of course I know I’m supposed to be grateful. I know it! But faced with it as a 30 day challenge I had to remember than knowing something and practicing it are far removed. Obviously, the problems tend to stick out and occupy your mind, especially when your mind feels like it’s getting ready to make a break from your skull towards the cat door.  So, today I’m thankful that I have something to write about and for the fact that there are suddenly people reading it (Thank You!). I’m thankful for everyone’s kind comments and for the opportunity to be completely me (as off as I can be). I always seem to forget that for things to get better, you have to focus on the things you want, not the problems.  I’m done circling the drain, as my bestie’s mom says.

I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I might be up for a Life of Brian sing-a-long instead of ruminating on the issues to be solved. (ok, yes, I may actually like show tunes after all!)   A rousing round of “Don’t Rain on My Parade” might scare people I know, but a little enthusiasm may yield better results.

Day 22 – Sweet Villainy

What fictional character in a movie, tv show, or book do you identify with and why? On to a juicy one. As every one of my friends knows, I have always had a thing for the villains.  It seems odd, I know, to go straight to baddies when asked who you identify with, but there really is a good reason, besides I never think of villains as bad per se. A villain is simply someone who’s had their happy ending taken away, and who grows increasingly desperate in their means to reacquire it. We all want the hero to win to make the world better but we rarely identify with him. Everyone loves a good villain because they’ve been damaged, hurt, and forever changed by it. Everyone can relate to someone else’s pain, can’t they?

As usual, I’m torn between two answers. The first is Queen Regina from Once Upon a Time, aka the Evil Queen. Since my son started calling me Regina, and my ex-husband jumped on that bandwagon, I’ve been paying attention to her story. She’s lonely, wounded and trying so hard to be better for her son. That does strike a chord, plus she can actually shoot fireballs from her hands and keeps boxes of hearts, who wouldn’t love that? Ok, maybe it’s only me… Something about getting older as a woman also makes that character resonate in the classical Snow White sense and really, I wouldn’t mind keeping specimen hearts in jars somewhere. Yes, I do watch Oddities now that you ask.

However, like Highlander, there can be only one and the character closest to my heart (was that a bad pun?) has to be my beloved Captain Hook. In this case, it is NOT the Once Upon a Time version, nor the Disney. Everyone who knows me is familiar with my Hook obsession. I gave a good amount of my arm for a tattoo of him so that should say something. Given the way he’s usually portrayed, that may seem like a bizarre choice but when I read the original book to my son. I found a character I didn’t entirely recognize or expect. 

Firstly, I love his style. I grew up in a house that was all about the velvet drapes and gold scroll work. That ornate classical style reminds me of something I lost when I left my childhood home for my father’s more minimalist style. My place now, with a little more work, could be Hook’s captain’s quarters. If I could explain how much velvety drapery and gold is going on in my apartment, well, it would be obvious why I love the man’s extravagance.

Secondly, Hook has a temper to be sure, but he’s an extremely lonely character; brilliant and tormented by an immature boy who cares nothing about the damage he’s caused. He is most often described in the book as melancholy. He feels all alone, even around his crew because they don’t understand him. He talks to himself, deflated, because he’s so terribly alone. He’s been injured, lost something vital to him and is left to deal with the fallout. In that way, anyone who’s been left to pick up the pieces after being injured by someone indifferent to the injury they’ve caused can relate to him…you know like that guy who broke your heart and was out partying the next day and moved on like you never existed? You know how you were tempted to slash his tires and lay waste to his truck like Carrie Underwood sang about? You just wanted him to feel something like you felt, right? (Or kind of like how my husband left me alone with a kid to raise and flitted around like a demon sprite with no responsibilities…Yeah, like that) He simply wants recognition for his loss. Instead, he has his attacker flaunt his victory and freedom at every opportunity with no remorse and worse, a cocky pride. If you’ve ever tried to get someone who doesn’t care feel something for what he’s done to you, well, that’s all Hook is trying to do and as a reward, he’s portrayed as a villain for doing so. 

Lastly, he’s an example of duality. Here is a character who was well-educated, elegant, and well-spoken. He was an Etonian and a PIRATE! It doesn’t get more rebellious than that. In that way, he’s totally punk rock. I’ve never seen Hook as a villain. I see him as the book says, a not wholly un-heroic character who is tragic in his way. I can guarantee I’m the only one who can’t watch his demise without tears, especially with a pile of creep children cheering on the crocodile, but that’s alright with me. If no one else can relate, I have my lonesome companion in print and under my skin reminding me to let go and disengage, reminding me of what I can become if I don’t and where it leads. At the very least he reminds me that I really need some cooler coats.

Day 12 – Victory!

I wanted to say that my proudest accomplishment was my son, but I can’t really take credit for that, at least not all the way. I steer a little here and there but he’s his own driver. It’s also a cop out answer.

An accomplishment should be something that you plan and work toward and complete from beginning to end without quitting. That’s what makes my answer hard. I’m not really great at celebrating victories or taking note of small steps, which really is a lousy habit. I tend to notice the things I didn’t do. I never learned to swim. I can’t ride a bike (no, really), I never got that degree out of indecision…

An accomplishment is something that should have you falling asleep in your corn flakes, buying extra concealer for the dark circles, and drowning in coffee. Thinking back, I do this every year in a contest called NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month, It’s really more of a challenge than a contest because you don’t really win anything other than a little winners badge and the satisfaction of knowing you’ve written 50,000 words. I’ve finished every year for the past few. I have a bunch of almost-books in the wings just sitting there waiting to become something. 

One of them, however, I actually went back to, revised, revised again, and revised again until I had a 300 page piece of…work. I stayed up day and night for weeks. I drank tons of coffee. My eyes went blurry. I did laps. I procrastinated. I tore out hair, I yelled out loud and sat alone at my desk in the middle of a world of my own making. It was mostly a filthy world because I was too tired and engrossed to do much cleaning, or actually anything else, but hey, I was dedicated. I wrote when I hated writing. I had fantastic moments of sudden inspiration. I came up with things that were amazing that I can’t believe I wrote and then I came up with things that were horrid that I can’t believe I wrote. The experience was both wonderful and so much more difficult than I can ever describe.

The book is still nowhere near perfect. It’s still not agent ready let alone sitting on a book store shelf, but I did see the story to the end. I fleshed it out and I intend to keep working on it until it is something that people will read. Now those people may be the population of my office and my family home, but hey, it’s people!

The point really is that I finally did have that experience of seeing something through. I know now that I can do it. The next time it will be a little easier and hopefully a lot better. I hope to have book signings and maybe a graphic novel (and maybe people arguing on a forum about what some nit picky thing in one of my chapters really was supposed to mean) one day. Why not dream big? There’s nothing to lose by dreaming. Anything can happen. Make it big and then a little bigger! I just want fan boys! Not too much to ask…

Day 7- Where to, Lady?

Day 7. I’ll give you yet another topic. Where you are in your life vs. where you thought you would be at this point. Discuss…(That only worked if you read it in Mike Myers’ Linda Richman, Coffee Talk voice but that’s how I keep reading them now!) So…the Where Are They Now special of the 30 day challenge…

It’s kind of hard to say where I thought I’d be but I know I’m way far off course. I named this blog Tangent Off the Lifeline for a reason…My mind has changed so many times over the years I mean, I couldn’t even pick a major in college. For a while I wanted to make films, for a while I wanted to paint, and I loved photography like nothing else…I still do. I have a passion for creating the weirdness I see in my head and making it tangible so that other people can experience it, therefore I also love to write and saw that as a possible future (preferably on the moors of England in a corset, but that’s another, very long, story). I wanted to study marine biology and then had a real serious push towards meteorology for a while and pictured myself in Washington state studying another passion, lightning. I love storms. I more than love storms which is ironic for someone who lives in a spot where there are hardly any. There’s a real feeling that I’m not where I’m supposed to be…

Most of the time when I was younger, I pictured myself at this age, living in a house or a little cottage with a dog, a fireplace, a mantle and a big library, maybe a roommate, and doing one or a few of those things listed above living sort of carefree. I thought by now I would be in on the joke and have my life in order. I would understand the talk about escrow, trading, and finances and it would somehow hold my interest now. I would be nodding with the best of them. I would be secure and set up. I would have complicated taxes. I would own property and be at least a moderate success in my occupation of choice. But then a guy came along. I didn’t see that coming. I never did.

I was a fat kid… or I was told I was. Looking back, it wasn’t true, but it became my identity and became true so I just always expected that I’d be alone. I certainly never expected to get married and never in a million years would I expect to be a mother. I never wanted to be. The thought of children made my face curl into an expression you’d expect to see on someone who’d just walked past last night’s dorm party bathroom. I wasn’t into it.

On top of that, I never thought I’d ever be divorced. A single mother? What? Never.For the past several years I’ve been swimming in uncharted waters, shark infested, without a life-jacket. It’s not bad, it’s just…different and a little scary. (Now, no worries, I really do like my kid, actually I like him more than anything ever in the universe  that was or will be *sniff*  getting a tissue *sniff* ok…) As hard as it all was and is, I can see it now as necessary change that I wouldn’t have undertaken otherwise. I sort of see my marriage as a brief hiatus from myself. I stopped my studies, I stopped my interests. I stopped everything for so long, even after it ended out of grief and shock that I lost myself all over again.

I ended up in a town I don’t particularly like. My family moved here from the city a while ago. I came to live with them after the fallout. I stayed not knowing what to do with myself. I made roots. I have a job, an apartment, the kid has his school and his friends. It’s…ok.

Ok isn’t really cutting it though. Ok isn’t living. OK has been slowly making me fall apart.

It’s taken a long time for me to get here but I really feel like now is another one of those crossroads moments; a moment to choose my beach instead of letting life dump me on whatever heap it decides on. It’s that movement that really affects change, like Frances Mays buying her Tuscan villa and finding the rest of her life…

So I’ve decided to not give up on my dreams. I wrote my book. I’ve decided to take pictures again. I’ve applied for my passport so that I can finally make it to Britain to write my next book (I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I’m getting there!). I’m doing the things that bring me back to life. I want to see where it takes me one small step at a time. You never do know what can happen. One day you look up and you’ve come so much farther than the amount of steps you’ve counted and you find yourself in a whole new place.That’s what I’m hoping for. I’m not quite sure where we’ll end up, but it’s an exciting idea. It’s the sunrise of a new day and so far it’s looking like butter…sorry…like butta!

Crazy, That’s How It Goes

When I started to blog, it was a diary of sorts. I named it Tangent off the Lifeline because I believed that I was taking a step towards a complete and utter change from my automatic, reactionary life into something completely different. I had no idea how right I was.

Of course, what I intended was a complete life makeover in the image of the dreams I had in my head, paved with strong intentions, affirmations, meditation and a daily dose of the guru blogs that had me enthralled for so long.

Then, reality happened.

I was hit square in the face with it. I can’t recall what I was looking up, advice on this or that. I was feeling weird and down a lot and my anxiety was rising to levels I hadn’t seen in some time and I found solace in a special put on about Bipolar Disorder called “The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive” hosted by Stephen Fry; one of the people I admire and always listen to whenever he speaks. That led down a strange path of self discovery, wondering if I had a mood disorder, if I was just tired, who I was, what I believed in. I ended up falling upon a debate with him and a striking figure by the name of Christopher Hitchens. My life took a dramatic turn off the main highway and far from the one I had so carefully mapped  in my head. I watched debate after debate and heard words spoken that I’d only ever previously kept to myself; questions I’ve asked in the secret unseen parts of my soul, if there is such a thing. It changed everything. And then the crash happened.

My health took a dramatic turn. A new injury to my previously injured spine caused pain and numbness which caused my already high anxiety to spike to unseen heights. Then  digestive troubles added on, stress headaches, worry, irritability, loss of interest and eneergy and then the inevitable…I had what is commonly referred to as a nervous breakdown. It’s not the sort of thing one admits in public, and hell, most of the people I know don’t fully know the extent of what happened to me, just that I’ve had a nerve problem. The diagnosis came after a bad weekend where I was unable to get up off the floor and unable to stop crying, feeling somehow out of my body and unable to breathe. I had hallucinations and every nerve felt like it was being strummed like the strings on Tiny Tim’s ukulele. I had to take a week off for “health reasons” and had to try to explain to my employers my situation. Severe Panic Disorder and Major Depression were the labels. So much for my meditative guru lifestyle. I had to accept that I wouldn’t be guest blogging for The Daily Love anytime soon. In fact, writing has been out of the question, my mind blank in sometimes near catatonic states and my focus in the trash bin.

No one was surprised when I decided to just come out with it. Everyone had seen it coming but me. My refusal to take care of myself before my other responsibilities, my empathetic nature, my inability to leave things at the door when I went home, and a lot of negative thinking brought me to where I am now; trying to slowly and deliberately get better. It’s ironic in a way. One of my fears has always been, from the time I was a child, being locked up in an asylum or losing my mind. While I’m not considered psychotic by any means, I don’t quite make it to healthy. I just came in after looking at a startling array of pills lined up on the counter, the latest of which makes me sick and groggy. Another one bites the dust, but it’s a beginning. I plan on making it to my destination, but I think there might just be a slight detour; a breaking down and a rebuilding that needed to happen but that I definitely didn’t see coming.