Archive for February, 2009

It’s Over. And I’m Taking the Bounty…

Posted on February 24, 2009

Over and Out

Over and Out

When did taking the contact solution become the solution to mending a broken heart?
When did even division of the bulk toothpaste you purchased together, make separating any easier?

Some months ago, my sister-in-law left my brother-in-law.
I mean “left” in the truest sense of the word. She wrote a note, took half the money from the bank account, 6 rolls of toilet paper from the “Economy Size” package they’d purchased at Costco the week before, and called it a day on their 15-month marriage.

When I heard the story, the thing that struck me as the most bizarre was not the “taking half of the money.”
If you are silly enough to have a joint bank account with your Other in the first place, I think it’s wise to take half on your way out the door and risk having to give some back later should the court demand it, than fight for months just to get what was yours all along.
So the money thing, I was fine with.

In terms of the note, I thought it was moderately heinous and disrespectful, but if things were as deteriorated as I understood them to be, perhaps she felt it was the only way. Plus, she was 19 when they married. Emotional maturity hasn’t exactly peaked at this point.

The thing that struck me as peculiar was actually the toilet paper. I understand that breaking up is hard and, you know, expensive, but really? The paper products??? You took exactly half of everything that wasn’t nailed down; you can’t relax on the Charmin?

Still, I chalked it up to a “mid-west thing” and hadn’t given it much thought since.

Until the other day.
I sit with Lady Earth, (I swear I’d have given her a better name if I’d known that I’d be speaking of her situation so often) discussing her big move.
Yes, she is, in fact, moving out of the apartment she and Gentleman Earth shared, putting her things in storage and skipping town for awhile.
But she isn’t gone yet and she is currently mid-crisis on the “what to take” debate.
Or as she cleverly puts it, the “Mean Vs. Mine Conundrum.”
Their arrangement had been that he paid a bit more in rent, but she took care of the groceries and household purchases, to compensate.
So now, she feels entitled to what is “hers.”
She speaks of the hand soap in the kitchen that is ¾ full and the unopened shampoo that she just bought. She says they obviously fall into the “Mine” category. She concedes that leaving the half full contact solution in case he is out when he returns home from his 6-week shoot is the right thing to do.
Because, apparently dry contacts are just “Mean.”
She asks me my thoughts on taking the Salt.
I tell her that she should certainly take my opinions with only a grain of it, but that I think the whole debate is a huge song and dance around the reality. And the reality is that this is sad. And that she never wanted this to get here. She wanted to save their relationship. And she’s now hoping that he’ll walk into their place after having been gone for so long and the weight of his choice will hit him in the gut and he’ll realize he has no option but to beg her back.
I remind her that “anger” is a far easier emotion than “pain and sadness,” and that if he’s angry because he has no condiments, “sadness” is going to be trumped and the “begging back” will be far less likely.
Not that I think that it’s highly likely anyway, but I stop myself before I get there.

I do point out that she is leaving and has no need for spices or cleaning products anyway.
Perhaps, if she was immediately getting a new apartment and would have imminent need for household items, the dish detergent debate would feel more valid, but at this point it just feels trivial.

I suppose I have my gypsy blood to thank, but I’ve personally never wanted any THING after a break-up.

I could never be bothered.
I’ve always just wanted out. Clean. Neat.
With as little blood spatter and the lowest body count as possible.
I’ve had awareness that no amount of mouthwash or Q-Tips would repair the hurt of lost love.

Which is not to say I’m above the fray.

To the contrary, I can be petty as hell; I’ll just surrender the tissue before I start hanging out with your best friend.

“I prefer women with a past. They’re always so demmed amusing to talk to.”
Oscar Wilde

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Revelations of Madness…

Posted on February 17, 2009

Finding Reality?

Finding Reality?

I have been so stuck. My brain buzzes wildly yet I am entirely incapable of completing a written rendering of a single reflection.
I believe I am guilty of mentally monitoring and considering the consequence of actually articulating these opinions. I am fearing judgment. And it is wholly paralyzing.

It is not my intention to be disrespectful, but sometimes the truth is thoroughly disrespectful.
When the truth is, in fact, true, it often manifests in the form of total dishonesty.
I attribute this to the fact that “honesty” requires a human intermediary for conveyance.
And I don’t believe humans are biologically programmed to be truthful.

I woke up feeling inexplicably broken hearted today.

Three consecutive nights of negative-energy sleep, (where one expends copious amounts of effort tossing about, and experiences few tranquil moments of actual rest) and I just feel somewhat rejected.

By my bed. By my body. By my mind.
My mind is certainly the root of the problem.
I wish I could find an “off” switch.

So today, I am allowed to freely hate and be openly angry.
Because when you wake up and feel like you’ve just participated in some crude seven-hour dance-a-thon, you are given carte blanche to be disgusted by everything around you. And I am.

I’m fucked up over timelines right now.
I’m thinking that there has got to be a better way to say that.
Admittedly, I have recently been researching this topic for an alternate purpose.
I swear it started out rationally enough.
I hadn’t aimed for self-imposed mania.

But the can is open and the worms are everywhere and I think I’m either onto something or completely certifiable and the line is so thin that it is impossible to deduce with any certainty, which is closer to reality.

I think I was born with a something of an infinite sadness. In more sentimental times, I’ve identified it as a “heart problem.”
And while this may sound unnecessarily dramatic, it does feel like an apt portrayal of my affliction.
I mostly avoid dealing with or openly acknowledging it, because it’s actually pretty disheartening to admit that for the better part of three decades, I’ve known that even my most blissful moments have been tainted with an overarching melancholy.

I used to think it was a sense of foreboding.
A bit of a presentiment or hyper-awareness of the inescapable crash.
I’m not so sure about that anymore.

Now, I am considering the possibility that this feeling, this almost intangible but ever-present void, could be a sub-conscious effort to realign with another plane. Another version. Another path. Einstein himself concluded that time is not fixed, it expands and it contracts. And, time has a vertical dimension. There are many “lanes of time” running simultaneously and multiple possibilities existing in any instant, subject to our conscious and intentional choice.

What if our most “inane” desires and “rubbish” dreams, are not nonsense at all?
What if instead of writing them off, we regarded them as intuitive indicators or directives towards that which might allow honest contentment?
What if that thing or person or idea, that we’ve perhaps “moved on” from, but deep down have never “gotten over,” is less “symbol of insanity” and more “suggested route on a map?”

It is said that single-birth babies, who are actually the surviving half of a twin conceptions (such as Vanishing Twin Syndrome), have been known to have a deep and unrelenting sense of grief due to the loss of their counterpart.
The kicker is that most cases of “vanishing twins” occur within the first eight weeks after conception.    Before we even qualify for “fetus” status.
So, if our dead sibling with whom we shared some amniotic fluid for short while can haunt us, why is it implausible that our restlessness or inexplicable internal constraint couldn’t be a symbol of some grander Universal discord?
Tabula Rasa? I just don’t buy it.

I think it’s fully plausible that by the time we are “born,” we already exist on other planes.                      We’ve already set about another path.
Maybe, our flashes of future and past, and those strange, foggy memories are just helpful hints being passed on by our concurrently existing selves.
Negative feelings could be symptoms of a “tugging” from another timeline.
Those times when you just don’t feel “right,” and easily chalk it up to stress?
Maybe those are actually chemical signals…but we rarely see them as such.

And on dreams…
Should I honestly believe that these “hallucinations,” created by a massively underutilized brain, and manifested in Technicolor through your subconscious are “meaningless?”
I am not suggesting that the answers are simple.
I don’t believe the “Dream Meaning” leaflet in the grocery store checkout, which correlates things like “tooth loss” with “anxiety” or “powerlessness,” holds the solutions, but I simply cannot accept the perception that dreams are devoid of all meaning on a grander scale.
While most dreams are forgotten in those first post-waking moments, what about the others?
What of those full-scale, IMAX style, Holy crap, in-your-face epics, which haunt your mind for years into the future?
Could they be your alternate reality crashing against your current one?
Is all that latent content begging for reaction?
I have fluently spoken languages and written full songs, lyrics, and music in my dreams…in spite of minute details like not possessing the utilitarian knowledge to do any of these things.
At least not in this version of my existence, but could I have been borrowing from another “me?”
Maybe dreams are the equivalent to a brainstorming session for all the timelines…
An open forum or symposium where the best of all realities are free to opine and suggest without fear of critical rejoinder.
I’m just suggesting that it’s possible.

As humans, we use approximately 10 percent of our available brainpower.
Ten. Percent.
Pathetic.

But perhaps, we are using some or all of the “leftovers.”
Maybe the rest of our brains are being borrowed by other realities.
And maybe, this is where certain seemingly dissonant thoughts and memories are actually developed. Then, those which are deemed useful in another timeline are sort of fused and muddled in, with the operational knowledge and thoughts in that correlating plane.
The “suggestions” sort of, merge and try to appear natural within the environment.
And each second, we are subconsciously assessing and choosing to indulge or disregard them. And each time we do, we continue to either follow our current path or move towards an alternative…

Or maybe, I just really need to sleep…

Madness is to think of too many things in succession too fast, or of one thing too exclusively” ~ Voltaire

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Marinate On This…

Posted on February 11, 2009

Take the time to let it seep in...

Take the time to let it seep in...

“As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.” ~John Steinbeck

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Well Hello, Past! I Thought We’d Parted Ways…

Posted on February 3, 2009

Something Wicked this Way Comes…

Something Wicked this Way Comes…

If one were to believe the lore, I vanished.
That’s how it was orchestrated and for all intents and purposes, this is a verifiable fact.
Except that it isn’t. I mean, I didn’t. I am very much here.
But as I live and breathe, there are those who swear I do not.

The circumstances are of little consequence at present, but nearly a decade ago, I ceased.
The surname I’d known for the first decades of my life was unceremoniously dropped and a new one taken in its place. Few knew and fewer noticed.
Three lines in the Village Voice “Legal Notices” was all it took and I successfully dissociated myself from all that I’d been.
At least, that was the intention.

In order to properly punctuate my “rebirth,” I relocated to the opposite shore and began anew.

And so it goes…

I come from a long line of escape artists. Though perhaps my people are not as visually remarkable as Houdini and Copperfield, we are masters of undetectable, quiet moves through the night. We are nimble in the physical realm and agile in the mental.

But sometimes, the temptation to gaze into Pandora’s Box is overwhelming.
Within our group, this deepest of transgressions is spoken of only in hushed tones and is positioned as a cautionary tale. We are bred to know better. We are acutely aware that our very survival depends upon unwavering acceptance that once the Past has passed, it’s gone.
But sometimes, that unrelenting tug to peer inside, if only for a moment, and see what has become of those we left behind, is stronger than we are.
Clearly, we’ve forgotten that it only takes that one moment for our Past to slip through the crack into which we stared, and settle squarely in our Present.
It is then that we remember why we never say goodbye… and why we think it best to evaporate straight away, rather than fade and leave a trail.

I have a sinking feeling that my usual evasive tactics will be of no use now.

I suppose that this is the disparity between good Escape artists and great ones. Great “Escapists” are always aware that when resurfacing, there will be questions.

Questions which will demand answers.

In this moment, I am wholly unprepared for the looming scrutiny.
Which matters not at all…

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