Chloe Stowe's Blog: The Words and Madness of Chloe Stowe

Relaxation must be forced on me. It does not come gently into my bones. It does not settle upon me and sigh like a dove. Oh, no. Relaxation, my friends, has to be duct-taped to my squirming mind. Held tight and secure against my psyche until I exhaust myself or the “sticky” runs out. Sometimes the absurdity of my life astounds even my sticky soul. Until Monday (travel day tomorrow)… Chloe

Restraint. I’m trying to show it. I’m a gung-ho, all-in, see a crack of opportunity and I’m cramming everything I’ve got into it. However, some situations do not require my kitchen sink to succeed. So, I’m reining myself in with my sports writing. Giving it my all, but not my indoor plumbing. My OCD and anxiety will not be happy about this. At all. Until tomorrow… Chloe

After being properly doctored yesterday, I feel better about myself. Why? What wisdom did the psychiatrist impart? Hardly a word. He asked me how I was and I started talking… and then I started listening to all the good stuff I was saying and realized that “better” had happened when I wasn’t looking. Bottom line: Open your mouth and listen. You might be surprised what you hear. Until tomorrow… Chloe

Tune-up day. I’m sure my psychiatrist looks forward to these days. Head-shrinking a skittish monk is probably not the professional challenge one spends decades of study to tackle. I feel like I should apologize every time I walk in his door. Ok, self-worth goes on today’s agenda. Until tomorrow… Chloe

I fear, my ratchet is rusty. The whole mechanism I have to employ to work myself up to my full (though stunted) potential is getting a little wonky. The gears are scratching, the locomotion creaking, the entire process grunting under strain. Oh, it still works, but the gig is getting old. Just saying. Until tomorrow… Chloe

Does an unsteady mind breed creativity? No, but it often coughs it up. Mine has hacked up all sorts of nonsense over the years. Gobbledygook that will never (and should never) see the light of any critic’s eye. However, there are bits of phlegm worthy of exam. And if these specimens are one day found of value, will it be the crazy or its infected to earn that bloody check? By that point, I doubt my legal guardian will care. Until tomorrow… Chloe Post-Note: Apologies for this bleak spit-up. For this, let’s blame the crazy.

The answer: “A big, throbbing heart buried under boulders of the mind. Rescue dogs needed.” The question: “Who are you?” (I don’t know if this is sad or clever or simply just Chloe. Whatever it is, it is.) Until tomorrow… Chloe (on some kind of weird philosophical jag I wholly disapprove of)

My gut reaction to anything I don’t understand is to panic. Big panic. All inside, of course. I haven’t yet run around in circles, hands waving in the air, crying out that the sky is falling. But still, inside panic is still panic. And, you know what? It really sucks. A nervous twit with Chicken Little tendencies. No matter how rosy a set of glasses you put on, the sight of that is not pretty. Until tomorrow… Chloe, arms down and sitting quietly

A realization smacked me in the face last night. I spend so much time (five out of every seven seconds) and energy (five out of seven heartbeats) holding myself together to handle the world that I miss enjoying the world. What would happen, I wonder, if I reworked the math? Stole half a second, half a heartbeat from the desperate struggle and freed it to have fun? Do I dare try? Would I crumble? Or would I fly? Perhaps it’s time to find out. Until tomorrow… Chloe

A period of calm has been reached. I hope. That flat spot in the middle of the pond where the sun naps? That’s where I’m at. I hope. Anyhow, for the next ten days, my blogs should once again come regularly. Of course, I’ve probably just doomed all that. Thrown a big, fat, mossy log into the napping sun, splashing mad frogs onto the shore. I hope not. Anyway, here I am in a flat spot, wary-eye out for frogs. Until tomorrow… Chloe