I woke up and felt a space inside - a distinct space. I'd say "I just wasn't feeling like myself," but I was...except without a component thereof that completes the rest.
I recall a moment in The Dark Crystal, when the Skeksis strap the teensy, pop-eyed Podlings to a chair, tap their plump little arms with cruel-looking needles, and drain their life essence into gothic-looking glass jars. I felt as though someone had pulled a similar trick with me as I slept. I knew it upon waking, and automatically intuited that the best course of action would be to tuck in and stay there until the missing bit reappeared.
It made me think about the incredible chemical balance that we all tiptoe across - how can it stay with us, this thing called 'happy'? It's coaxed out so capriciously, and chooses its companionship with an unbelievable fickleness.
On introspection, it amazes me that we are ever happy, healthy, or sane at all. These things are miracles. That fact should command more respect.
this is freedom
lying on the backs of angels knees apart head tossed back and laughing throat lain open and throbbing and chalk-white to the world because none can threaten the thinness of this skin if those blue eyes are on me
we are a rock we are an island we are full of each other we are each others' worthiness we are each others' blood
i have walked through the shell-strewn wastelands to find you so many narratives so many third acts abandoned
i have left footprints on water for you
i have left my old skin crumpled and rejoice when you touch the new pulling it around my shoulders lips pressed to my forehead
- Happiness is getting out of the production office before official sunset. - Twenty-hour days can be good for you, if the moho WC isn't broken. - Happiness is receiving a correctly filled-out timecard, petty cash envelope, and mileage log (but while I'm dreaming, I'd like a pony.) - Barns smell good. - I will never have to eat sushi, cake, or ice cream with my own chopsticks/fork/spoon again. - I've realized that I've had so much to do of late that I'm triaging.
I'm not feeling terribly writesy today, but I'll muddle ahead - my mind is in a bit of a jumble, so I suppose I'll just expectorate what's inside.
Santa Barbara was exactly what I needed - hours zooming around in the breezy coastal sun, cuddled up to my Bear. We wine-dabbled. It was't a real out-and-out, serious tasting day - just a lackadaisical meandering through the valley, stopping here and there. I wasn't up for serious, anyway, and the undeserved snobbery of so much of the over-Rhoned wine culture up there doesn't really support the fee system. The tasting fees are almost as obnoxious as the sommeliers, honestly - $10 for four one-ounce pours? C'mon. Let's drop the pretense and acknowledge that you're just running a bar that happens to open early, aaight?
I could go on in my snooty-poo anti-snootiness rant, but I was really overjoyed to be up there, making faces at kids as they ran around us in circles in the park and stealing sugarcubes for the horses and discovering that - yes! - they do make a pretty good Albarino over here. And always there's my Bear beside me, surprising me over and over again with his incisive mind and preternatural observational powers and endless capacity for play.
In any case, it was a brilliant end to one hell of a summer.
I booked a job for this coming week (beginning tomorrow) that's shrouded in mystery. I'm sort of on the edge of my seat about it. This setup will be new for me. I can hear the rollercoaster clickin' away underneath me, and at 9am tomorrow morning I'll be hearing the catch spring and the sound of my own screaming. God, do I take every single job really freakin' seriously. I mean, It's just a bunch of pretty pictures. C'mon, me. Get over it. Um - wish me luck?
I'm starting to marinate in the Los Angeles Public Library's extensive collection of books about relocating overseas. Damn, this is going to be a hell of an adventure. I'm stumbling all over myself with joy and trepidation already.
It's making me remember that evening after school; it was several years ago, true, but it feels like another lifetime entirely. I remember being on the stationary bike, pedaling away - an evening like any other, with mom close by in the kitchen. As I'm sweating my way up a massive invisible hill, dad comes sweeping in the door. His face is drawn almost imperceptibly into the I'm-working-through-it tightness that I inherited for use in stressful situations, so I'm automatically on guard - and there it was. "We're going to the Caribbean," he grins.
And really, it was just fine. More than just-fine - defining.
But this time, I get to choose who, and I get to choose where, and I get to choose (y'know, sortof) what. And that fills me with toe-tingles and dreams of adventures to come and that prized, but sometimes elusive commodity - hope. Lots and lots and lots of hope.
I went to a raw-stock house the other day to grab an armful of HD tapes.
Behind the front counter were four women - all between 26ish to 33ish, I'd say. None of these women were particularly jaw-dropping. None would have drawn notice in a crowd.
The thing that caught my eye (and, as it turned out, my musings) is that as all four were on the phone, their receiver-clasping hands were all pointed directly at me. I couldn't help but notice the ginormous rocks they were all sporting.
I got to thinking about the practice of engagement rings. Where do they come from? As far as I can tell, it's a quaint tradition that stems from the same women-as-chattel practices that have been followed since time immemorial. It's a mark of ownership. It's purpose-driven to make the following statement: "This woman is owned by someone with the financial means to keep her in luxurious worldly goods." It's designed to be ostentatious, obvious - and removable. Ain't that sweet.
I got to thinking about how far from love that symbol is.
Cut to a moment later that week, when I met a girl who had taken the gesture and made it express what I believe the symbol should be about.
She had a simple tattoo of a ring around her finger, with her love's name forming the band on the inside. She was no pierced-up suicide girl, either - it seemed to be her only tat, from what I could tell. The "ring" was simple, elegant, and permanent - a mark of her own intent, not of anyone's worthiness to possess her. I was struck by the elegant simplicity of it, and of the glimmery, ruddy-cheeked glow that she got when I asked her about it only underlined the fact that she was doin' it just right.
I'm having a lot of moments like that lately - the millions of revelations of a life re-examined with a perspective so fresh it's completely unrecognizable from What Was.