Ain’t No Gimmick: Day 16

Stitching in time, trying to save way more than nine.

It’s frustrating how the dreams one has at either end of the day never seem to make it through to the other half.  I wake up and am plotting how much power and juice I have tonight to whirlwind some house organization.  Not exactly KonMari it, but do something with the free time and I know I will get there all bleary and ravenous and distracted by the chemistry of my body and collapse into sleep far too late – just before thinking that somehow I will wake up early and be level-headed enough to pack my lunch and do my makeup and be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and hit work early and make something of myself.   Then I always wake up, holding on with my fists, digging nails into the last little segment of sleep as it tears itself free of my grasp…I stumble into work, late, distracted, with more caffeine in my system than I can properly absorb and the cycle begins anew.

I have things to do that help with this.  My plans for life help with this.  I am not, at this moment, following these plans. I need to fill out my daily paperwork.  I need to read the blogs.  I’d allotted for this grace, but dang, it feels wasteful to flagrantly spin about in it.    Let us have a moment of recognition that my suffering is entirely self-induced and can be resolved only through my own instigation.  No one else can stop this train, save me, and the cliff in front of me.

Lame. I thought it was all going to be that piece of proverbial cake.  Just goes to show the power of a little sugar on a plan of austerity.  You let someone remember their hedonism even for a moment and you loose the reins.

I wrote a whole post yesterday about my new, marvelous dentist.  Marvelous mostly for the fact that he didn’t leave me feeling elated just to have gotten out of there alive and having spent less than $200.00.  Boy o boy. High art.  I feel like that’s where the stories are right now for me.  In the extremely specific happenstances of my small and generally uneventful life.  It is in the looking that I will begin to see something and when I blot out my vision and clap shut my dictionary in favor of the blurry images inside my mind, a blindness reigns my spirit.  I forget all.  I find myself at those melted candle ends of day with nothing to show.   This year, I spose, we gotta pour the sugar there.  The energy, the thought, the images, the will.

Today, though, we are able to report that the one or two very specific things I was requested to do in her absence are done.  We traumatized the cat and gave her the medicine she requires.  We scooped her shit.  We’re shortly to wash our hair and selves and somehow find our way out of the Royal We.  We and I also drove the way I wanted to drive, no turning about for the longest long way.   Small, concrete, factual tasks.  Slow and steady.



Genocide Blonde


This is strange, and surely connected, but last night the Faithful Light visited.  I had made a space for her by turning off the computer and reading for a while – I bought a couple books and aim to buy a couple more.  I saw her.  Which is to say I saw myself if I could see myself with a perfect kindness, a gentleness, a warmth I have reserved only for people I have never met before.  She was blonde.  I have seen her before, I think, in sunbeams, in places where she was deployed to bring joy to brokenness, though she never really had a name.  There was no role carved out in the pantheon save simply that: a creature of joy.

And she had my face.  Only, she was blonde.  And we spoke.  And she told me what I wanted and I knew it was right.  Three simple things.  A love, a book, a child.  Everything else could go and if I had those three things I would consider my life well-lived.  She said yes.  I said yes.  She said, you need to get up early, you need to go to bed early, you need to work harder than you’ve ever worked before if you want these things to come to pass.  I said yes, so let me sleep.  She said okay, all the while knowing what I meant was, I feel weak in the face of things which are not equivocal.  But we heard each other for the first time in a while because there was room for her between my grinding teeth.

Is this crazy talk?  It surely must be, but I hardly mind.

But I was so sure that I was going to be a brunette at the time of this writing.  That it was simple to just douse the weirdly tri-shaded copper and ashy and blonde ombre-fail with brown and call it good.  It was not what my mother wanted and nobody dyes their hair to please their mother after sixteen.  It was studious, which I need to be. It was good for my complexion, I thought.  But the conversation with the stylist was quick and I found myself saying, blonde.  And then from the blonde, it is an easy step to pink again.  Okay, I said, as she told me that what she put on my head might itch and might burn.  Oh, bleach.   Bleach blonde.  Like, blonde, like…my head as a girl, like it used to be, like framed the face of the Faithful Light, the part of myself that did not waver.  That did not blink.

I drove home and she was fully there in the car with me. She said some sort of amazing things.  I said them.  We said them, to each other, to the one self that carries us both around, the worry and the will.  About trust and love and the things I want and where she’ll be for all of it.  She says change begins now.  Do you feel it? And I do.