Synapse Lapse

For the life of me, I could not muster any of the brainpower needed today to shop at IKEA - IKEA, people. It's IKEA, you say? NO! There's no excuse - Twig decided that he wanted to go to IKEA's childwatch so that I could shop alone. Of course I let him go - free childcare?!

I simply wandered around the store with only the memory of a memory of what I wanted, much less needed, to get to work on Twig's bedroom project that's been clamoring around my mind. Just like the faint, illegible marks on a chalkboard after it's been erased, my mind wouldn't let me see anything - everything was all smeared together; dirty, cloudy and dusty.

My mind is gone. Gone, I tell you. And no, this is not temporary. It happens all the bleeping time.

Even when I do have the time and space to think - unencumbered by the clamor of my family - my ideas don't form into anything substantive. And don't even mention the times when I'm getting paid to use my melon, or when I have an audience (especially of my peers) - things get even worse.

That word, you know the one... that fantabulous SAT word worth, like, 100 points, that used to sit there on the tip of my tongue for a second or two and then find it's way into the conversation at the perfect time, with the perfect cadence...well, it can't seem to make the four inch journey from my head to my mouth. My words aren't anywhere near my tongue any more. They must be in my little pinkie toe.

What the you-know-what? I'm not pregnant so that's an unreasonable excuse. No longer breastfeeding. I'm not 40 (yet).

Jeez.

Treasured Time

A week or so ago I got a bug-up-my-butt to build corner shelves for Twig's room. Wood's not interested in doing such a project with me. Maybe he doesn't want me using 'his' tools. Who knows? So, I asked a friend who has been rebuilding his entire kitchen to help me out.

Sure, I absolutely could have done it on my own. But it would have taken 4 times as long and created 20 times the frustration. And it's something I've always done with the men in my life. Mom's first husband, Mr. T (and the boys) in High School Wood Shop, Crooked Nose Tom, Uncle Mike, Wood, and now, Twig and Eee.

Working on this project made me think of the times spent with these great people. I miss Crooked Nose Tom in particular. He was quite the craftsman, and we spent some of our best father-daughter time re-finishing furniture, building beautiful and functional things, in his little garage workshop.

Since the project is a little less than half done, there will probably be more on this subject. Actually, there will be a photo at least.

Finding our voices

Last night, I had a dream about needing to quit smoking, an appointment with the doctor, and being pregnant with another September baby. It was at the exact same time hubbie was having a dream that someone was breaking into our house (and - accidentally - hit me in the face).

So, I went to an on-line dream dictionary and learned that smoking really means that I have trouble letting people in my life. What I really need to do is stop trying to shield myself and others from my emotions (that could be dangerous).

The Doctor could be one of three things; strife amongst members of my family (check), a need for emotional and spiritual healing (check); it could be highlighting some medical concerns (check) and/or indicate the need for a check up (can you say Asthma out of control?).

The pregnancy piece is a bit more complicated. I think for me it represents the "birth of a new idea, direction, project or goal". When I told Wood about it, he laughed at me. The dream interpretation also said that pregnancy may also symbolize some aspect of my personal life that is growing or changing. And while I can't identify exactly what that could be at the moment, the piece of the dream that included the month of September apparently signifies a positive outlook - even good luck and fortune. I think that's very nice.

On the other hand, Wood is dreaming of our home being broken into is a bit disconcerting. This is what the website says about that: To dream that your house is broken into, suggests that you are feeling violated. It may refer to a particular relationship or current situation in your life. Alternatively, it indicates that some unconscious material is attempting to make itself known. There are some aspects of yourself that you have denied. I hope he figures it out and moves forward.

I'm busy thinking about my strategy.

Underlying psychosis

I received my long-awaited copies of Sweet Charlotte's Seventh Mistake today and was consumed with reading every single page the moment I got home.

"Wow, I've never seen you this way before" Said Hubbie.

"That's not true; I was like this when your mom turned me on to the Octavia Butler books. Remember? It was before Twig."

Reading the Flowers in the Attic books as a teenager, I was exactly the same way. Compulsive and mesmerized.

This is the same. But different.

I'm mesmerized by the story not just because it's written by someone I know. But because it's the story of someone that I know that I knew way back when. No, more like she knew her.

We're not them anymore. And still she can't be conjured up (or maybe she won't be conjured up). The compulsion centers on the possibility that reading and re-reading her memories and studying her photos will miraculously allow some deeply buried memory to break through. To allow a breakthrough - before something unexpected surfaces and she rages like she would have, way back when.

It's got me thinking... maybe she can't remember for the same reasons her memories are so vivid. Could it be that each is a form of acceptance of what was and what could never be?

No. Her fears have been faced; published for the whole world to see. She's simply afraid to unearth... something...

A Stitch In Time

As I wrote Two Decades, the sadness crept it's way into me again. Indeed, I had set most of it aside as I read the email. I was at work after all and even though I have an office with a door, it simply was an inappropriate time to experience the crusty and oh-so-complex feelings around the man that I fell in love with (at first sight) when I was 15 years old.

By the time I clicked the PUBLISH POST button, the tears were unsuspectingly welling up just as they had when I read his response. As I re-read the post to ensure there weren't too many obvious errors that needed to be edited after the fact, my cheeks were well streaked. Despite the fact that I was the parent-of-the-morning-on-duty and that I had closed the laptop (as if doing so would shield me from the surge building), it all came pouring out. Hoping for a few moments to feel (and process) in private, and that the shower would be less enticing than toys, I mustered up all the strength in my gut to tell Twig with my usual voice that I was going to bathe. Thank god he was engrossed in something.

The process of shampoo, detangling solution, soaping up and rinsing off was slower than usual as I sobbed and gasped for air during the entire routine. When I stepped out, my face, staring back at me in the mirror, was unfamiliar. I don't recognize, nor understand, me at this moment.

The last time I experienced such a wave of unbridled emotion was a couple of years ago when my Dad died. And about 6 years before that when my step dad died.

But my First Love is not dead. And as you know, he never was.

The truth is that our relationship was so tumultuous that when I was done, I walked away and never looked back.

Until. An. Email. About celebrating the marriage of our friends. A marriage that's lasted almost 20 years... And because of it, I've regressed to the age of 20.

He and I made big plans together and then walked away from them. We didn't honor our promises to one another. We moved on, made new lives for ourselves.

But we never sat down and had a cup of coffee together (who cares that I didn't even drink coffee back then). We never decompressed.

The bridge burned. The embers died, ashes blew away. Nothing here and now resembles anything that was and yet...