clomp clomp clomp...dreams and such...

She sees him up ahead waiting to cross the street and starts running so she can catch him before the light changes. He is wearing his rubber rain boots with his pants tucked into them, and his beard seems to catch fire in the last bit of setting sun. Her heart starts beating faster—from running or from seeing him, she can’t quite figure out. She reaches him just as the sign changes to walk and she grabs his shirt so he can’t start across. When he turns around she throws her arms around him. She is so happy. They spin around and she is able to see back towards the direction she just ran from. And she sees him standing there as well, but clean shaven, and with a look of such betrayal—like she had just broken his heart and punched him in the stomach and kicked his puppy all at the same time. She breaks her hold and runs to this version, not questioning how he can be in two places at once. She throws her arms around him, her heart beating even faster than before.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” she repeats, as if it is the only thing she has the words to say.

His look of betrayal begins to mix with disgust. He peels her arms from around his neck and pushes her away.

“Do you even know what love is?” he asks.

And then I woke up.

The she is me, of course. And the him is—well a handful of you can figure that one out. It’s a telling dream I think, about appearance versus reality. About what draws us to certain people in the beginning and what we have the potential to learn about them over time. If we’re willing to learn that is. And if we’re willing to pay attention.

It is also a dream about myself.

I’m a pretty even tempered person most of the time. I do have moments, though, when my emotions roll over me like a tsunami and there is absolutely no controlling what I do. I can’t stop the things that come out of my mouth. And god forbid I have the dexterity to type a text message or an email while these emotions are wrecking havoc on my life. I ride a wave of euphoria for awhile and when the tide pulls back I’m left standing on an empty beach staring at the aftermath of what I’ve done.

Do I know what love is?

No. Not really. I thought I did. But I don’t. Not that kind of love. I know obsession. I know lust and mistrust. I know about control and how to lose myself in what someone else wants me to be. But real love? I don’t have a clue.

But I hope it’s not too late to learn.

Freddy Kreuger v/s My Uterus

Yesterday at work I had the pleasure of trying to maintain my composure while enduring the epic battle between Freddy Kreuger and my body. Trying to sell shoes while convinced that a miniature version of a horror movie villain is trying to claw his way out of my uterus with his creepy knife hands was no small feat. And I didn’t succeed very well. It was also a slow day with no customers and nothing to do. Everything was cleaned. Everything was priced. Everything was flagged so customers could see what we offer. There was nothing to distract me. Nothing to do. Except stand there and try to not be sick.

As I get older these monthly battles have gotten worse. Not as bad as 9^th grade when boys in my classes would ask the teacher if they could take me to the nurse because I clearly looked like I was about to die. I still had my waterbed then and I would turn up the heat to about 110 degrees and wedge myself down between the mattress and the side of the bed. It was glorious. A full body hot water bottle. And when I got too hot I would go lay down on the bathroom tile, which wasn’t really tile, but linoleum gets almost as cold.

I try to remind myself every month to view all of this as the blessing that it really is. I try to remind myself that this is all evidence of my almost magical ability to bring forth life. And it does still seem like magic to me. I understand quite well the biology of it all. But science doesn’t negate the wonder and awe I feel when I think of all the things our fragile human bodies are capable of.

Not too long ago someone asked me if I wanted children. I think my answer was something like “If I’m supposed to have kids I’ll have them, and if not I won’t. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m okay either way. ” A mature response I think. And completely full of shit. I think I was just trying to convince myself. Wanting children goes against everything else I thought I wanted out of this life. But at 33 I can finally admit that I do want children. I do want a family of my own. I do want all the joys and complications that come with those. And admitting this has brought on an entirely new struggle for me.

If this is what I want, what the hell do I do now?

Go Go Go

Momentum equals distraction which negates analysis, the destroyer of happiness. So to stay happy I must stay busy. To stay busy I must force myself to focus on the tasks before me. To stay focused I must have a prize. Gold star sticker motivation has helped a little, but I still find myself wandering, playing that awful game of connect the dots that is never helpful and often leaves me feeling stupid. I can never quite grasp the things I’m trying to connect before the next barrage of thoughts comes at me from a catapult located somewhere just below my lungs.

Maybe none of this is real. Maybe I’m still a baby in my crib and this is all a dream. Maybe I’ll live my whole life only to wake up one day still a child, with just the taste of this dream on the tip of my tongue.

Or maybe I’m not even from this world and the freckles on my skin represent stars from whatever galaxy I came from and form a map that will someday allow me to find my way back home.

Or maybe the constellations are there to show me how to fold the sky like origami and the only thing keeping me from doing it is my belief that it isn’t possible.

My gold star prize was going to be yoga classes, but that changed when I kept hearing “you should have been a dancer.” I agreed and moped about lost chances and then finally realized that I still can. Be a dancer. So when I’ve logged the predetermined fifty hours on my suitcase art extravaganza and have the appropriate number of gold star stickers on my chart, I am going to sign up for ballet classes.

And maybe (just maybe) this will help me feel like my skin finally fits. And maybe (just maybe) I won't feel like I've folded myself into something I'm not. And maybe (just maybe) I'll finally learn to let go.

Or at the very least I'll be able to justify buying a tutu.

May I suggest a game of tic-tac-toe?

Not as entertainment but as a means of escape. I am convinced that this game, when scratched into the wall, contains the perfect magic spell. And that spell will make a door. And that door will open into a world that makes more sense than this one. And for once, we will be free.

But when you play, you have to mean it.

You must scratch it out with your fingernails and bleed yourself into it. You must make a set of runes out of the walls themselves. That is the spell you know. The runes you create with your effort and blood.

It is a different spell for everyone.

I stare at the wall and imagine I am a blackbird sitting atop a record player. Round and round I go. But there is no record. No music playing that can lull me into sleep. I try to sing my own song but I am too dizzy from spinning and the words in my head have all mixed together until none of it makes sense anymore. I try to diagram my sentences but I never really learned how in the first place. They look pretty, but what do they mean?

X marks the spot where oh my god is found but I lost my map a long time ago. I’m trying to retrace the geography of myself. Connect the dots is the closest I can come, but even that is just a fragment of the (w)hole. From incubator to pneumonia to—what came after that? I’m trying to remember what home looked like.

And here’s the kicker: you can’t play tic-tac-toe alone.

I'm trying, but it just isn't working.

"Aack!" (to quote Bill the Cat)

I've abandoned any and all logical attempts at making sensible conversation while trying to ignore the strange news ticker scrolling across the inner surface of my skull:

...god work was long my legs hurt i’m hungry what should i eat oh look free samples i can’t believe mom and dad will be here next week maybe a tomato and an avacado fancy running into him here why did the free sample have to be bleu cheese now my breath stinks i can’t forget to deposit my paycheck in the morning i need dog food maybe i’ll go to the thrift store tomorrow i need coffee ice cream sounds good i forgot to put a gold star sticker on my progress chart at home oh look mushrooms i need to finish that letter i wonder what my art piece will look like when it’s done what else was i going to do tomorrow before work huh sautéed garlic honey and miso that sounds delicious i certainly have plenty of rice to put it on why is talking so hard for me god i must sound like a moron sometimes i really don't want to walk up this hill...

It never ends.

So I've decided to just hide in my room with my glue stick, scissors, and a stack of old angsty poems and accept the fact that when I DO go out in public I'm going to be distracted and awkward.

And hopefully people will find it endearing.

Progression of an addiction: 4 Danskos and a Sanita

My very first pair of Danskos.

My 2nd pair of Danskos, the pair I bought when I first started working at the shoe store.

My 3rd pair of Danskos, a free pair that I got during the shoe store's 117th anniversary sale.

My 4th pair of Danskos, purchased for the sole purpose of wearing to the coffee shop I worked at for a few months. They are currently my favorite pair of shoes.

These will be my first pair of Sanitas. They are on backorder until October. I really want them to be here now.