My Life is a Myth: The New Year Begins

About the title: Nobody was on the phone giving bad news to someone, when he reached a final "I give up" moment, said, "The new year begins in February," I cracked up, relayed this to N, who said, "that should be a blog title," and so it became the title for this. Then it became "The New Year Begins in March," then April, and here we are in summer. Or winter, depending on from where you are reading.

I last left off exhausted in Miami, having just arrived back in USA. Was drifting off to sleep in a hot bath when I hear "Lydia Lydia Lydia Lydia Lydia" come shrieking down the hall, and arrive booming outside the bathroom door. Viv remembered me from when she was 6 months old:

It took me forever to get out of the tub and dressed. I mean, it took a long time even for me. I was dying to see Viv. I found her poised to "dive" the 5 inches from the walkway onto the living room carpet. I asked her if she was going swimming, she said "Yes!" and "dove" into the carpet. She "swam" across it waving "Bye bye!" then got to the other side said "Hello," dove back in and "swam" back. Then she jumped on the couch where we had some more deep conversation while she crumbled into the floor breaking her neck, shoulder and both legs before I could save her. Or at least, that's what I thought happened before she climbed back up and did it again, over and over, carrying a doll each time, which also looked like it was being smashed to pieces. She had several of her favorite books laid out, and I was about to read her one when her mother came in to "change her diaper." I was like, "wtf? How old is she?"

Viv's mom is pregnant again, so I'm going to also be a third cousin again, and I'm also a grand aunt again and I haven't even met my first grand niece yet. Which has me contemplating another trip to visit family in New England, which actually segues nicely into the fact that my brother has been on my mind.

In Miami, he expressed dire concerns about my blog that left me terrified that I may never be allowed back into my country if I ever leave it again because customs could search the internet and find my blog and object to it. Why put my whole life on a blog? Why not be a real writer, and write stories? He wished I would do my art again, like the kind he has on his wall:

I never knew what he was talking about, so he finally sent me a picture of it. I don't remember doing it, but I do recognize it as mine. It was one of the few college assignments that survived both the dorm fire and the trash can. I had to admit I got a piece of myself back looking at that photo. It's not bad for my short career. I dropped out of art school in my first semester with one stellar memory: an art teacher doing a double take behind my easel, muttering, "Jesus!" and walking off with an awed nod of approval.

I have never approved of myself.

My brother asked a simple enough question. Why put my whole life on a blog? I've waited to post this because I had no answer. I really should know the answer if I am going to do it.

Because things like this reveal themselves to me: "I have never approved of myself."

Because it's how I connect to life. Or feel like I am connecting. Maybe I'm deluding myself. It's been so long since I have blogged that I have probably lost my followers, anyway.

While I ponder these questions, I'll continue. Having remained unemployed I entered both poverty and retirement. Rats and Yay! I moved away from the beautiful sea. While filling out the rental application I heard the manager describing me on the phone with confidence as a great tenant who just "fell on hard times," which isn't really an endorsement for one's own apartments. I'm so ghetto now that when I recently told someone where I lived he actually asked me, "oh, the park part or the ghetto part?" But, the apartment came with new appliances! Here they are being delivered:

I also got a new toilet and will be getting a new heater.

Now that I am alone, I fell into such peace and developed anxiety disorder at the thought of ever leaving the house or getting a phone call again. I think I have been healing all that time, but maybe I'm just losing my mind. I may need help, but I feel too blissed out to worry about being depressed. I have no obligations to anybody or anything, and have no reason to be anywhere. So, I never leave the house. As I ponder my new inability to leave the house, I travel every day just looking out my window. A lively car business takes place on my corner. Here is some guy under a truck: