Feeling complicated begins, for me, with remembering beautiful things.

Like sitting on a patio after a too hot day, like today, loving the cool as the dog patrols. He’s upset with me because I recently tricked him into loving me, and wanting to be my beta. He’s confused and happy, if I can read his doggy face. I can’t, and his tail still wags. It’s all the validation I want.

I decided my new definition of anxiety is all the phobias some of the time. And occasionally all of the time. The bad days are all of the phobias all of the time.

The cost of fear.

I don’t like this thought. Although it reminds me of how I fear my psychiatrist. Its complicated.

The art I want to make is subversive in that it wants to subvert me. Change me from an engineer into something complicated that’s much less convenient to explain. Why do we ignore the good geniuses and truly fear the evil ones?

Ego, complacency, all trapped and, aggravatingly, the only tools for escape. Maybe MacGuyver was Sisyphus, but sane.

I’m smiling, thinking about how I fear speaking in cryptic zen riddles. And the aggrodolce of knowing if I’d spoken this way as a child, I would have been chided.

Puns.

Far more pleasant company than the other uninvited guests. Maybe I’m having fun with it because I need to. And that’s ok.

I negotiated with my husband. We both walked away winners. He’s kind enough to let me save face and admit my first choice of 3d printer was fail and never going to be worth the time. He’s asleep in the next bedroom because he doesn’t like the fan.

I have fear, hot flashes, and pets for company. The house is quiet. My life is beautiful because it is complicated. At least, that’s what I’m crazy enough to believe so I retain what sanity is left. It makes me happy that I live a good, complicated life.