An Experiment in Stream-of-Consciousness Rambling

my brain flipped a switch and suddenly i'm writing again.

i missed being able to get it out on paper. to close my eyes, unhindered by the downward spiral, and let the words pour out my fingertips tapping away at lightning speeds across the keys, processor barely able to keep up with the thoughts spinning out of my mind.
i didn't sleep more than three hours last night. had to get the ideas out while i could, so afraid that i'd wake up and lose the ability again, crippled by my own intelligence over-analyzing every situation.

as usual.

i blame my brains for the mess i'm in. ignorance may truly be bliss, but i can't fake being stupid. and, although i know i'm barely above average, i'm still too smart for my own good, still dream what i know is an impossible dream that i am powerless to make true. yet. for now.

maybe one day that hippie artist writer actor colony will happen. where everyone can do what they want according to their talents and desires. where egos don't have to be constantly pacified because you have a doctorate degree in education from a state with some of the worst educational practices in the world. where those that like to garden can grow, those that like to cook can feed us. those that like to teach, to talk, to laugh, to sing can keep everyone entertained. where we can all keep learning, never stagnant in our own little skill set, and sing kumba-fucking-ya around a campfire while toasting s'mores.

unless you can't have graham crackers (sorry amanda).

i think what brings me down the most, most often, is the realization that people are not inherently good. people are assholes. stupid, mindless, mob-mentality zombies blindly following the latest trend from corporate masters, wearing Che Guevara tshirts and preaching rebellion while sipping starbucks pumpkin spice frappucinos.

i am jack's bitter beer face.

people are not good. but a person can be great. kind, warm, beautiful, amazing. a person can understand without judging. i think i need to get back to dealing with persons, not people. individuals, not egos or narcissism. and maybe i'll find myself again. i get lost in the anger and hate that constantly surrounds me in my circa 1974 mauve cubicle jungle. and i'm tired of absorbing other people's moods. i'm a sponge, picking up the negative energy until i burst, tears streaming down screaming face, and people think it all comes from within me.

i need to let it out. release the evil. popeye's chicken is the shiznit... cover Winkler with bees.

(even in stream of consciousness i can't stop making random quotes)

maybe the point of all this is i just need better coping mechanisms. learn to not let the man (or woman, hey, equal opportunity colloquialism) bring me down. learn to smile and laugh it off without becoming as uncaring and unfeeling as everyone i never wanted to be. of course the other alternative is to encase my heart in ice, my own fortress of self-imposed solitude, so the world doesn't bring me down to its dirty, gritty level of taxi-cab confessions and street corner hustlers.

i'm trying. i may fail, it might take me a while to get back up, but i won't stay down forever.

... i'm trying.

like finding little ways to harmonize myself with my surroundings:
walk that extra mile to the next bus stop when i'm able, blue raspberry sunshades to avoid early morning squinting as i take in autumn colors, leaves falling in windswept piles of red, orange, ochre, and occasionally green with envy for those suburban housewives jogging in matching spandex gym clothes, Nike clad pedicured feet pounding pavement beside perfectly groomed pets.

inhale, deep, and let the cold damp air cleanse the negativity away.
take time to breathe and enjoy quiet moments of simple beauty; like watching the sunrise pinks and blues, staring through the plexi-window on the hour long bus commute to work, finishing a novel every 2 days instead of every 2 months, writing down my dreams for once, in vivid detail, not relying on half-remembered sparks of imagination 2 years down the line when some idea or word triggers a flash of recognition in my tongue and hands.

today's show is brought to you by the number 2...

and maybe one day i'll look back at the path behind me and not recognize where i was.
maybe it isn't about the destination, but the journey. and all the endless bits of useless trivia and arcane knowledge i've collected will serve a different purpose than over the last 27 years.

maybe, eventually, being a walking encyclopedia will actually help me feel complete and whole, warm and safe in my own skin, and not alone.

Close a door, open a window ... or "Untitled of yet"

She picked a dandelion from the uncropped grass, twirling the stalk between her fingertips.

“You don’t, you couldn’t begin to understand what or who I am,” she said. Her eyes flickered up to meet his gaze, held the look with veiled pain behind the gray blues. She raised the flower to her lips and gently blew, scattering the spores on the soft wind.

“Every possibility, every road we didn’t take is a seed. A gentle breeze - it could be an earthquake at 3 a.m., a common cold, a motorcycle ride on a rainy night; they’re all a single representation of infinite possibilities. Every breath removes a few more spores until all that is left is the root idea of what could have been – dead and lifeless in some child’s hands.”

She tossed the empty stalk away and kicked at it with the tip of her paint-stained chucks. He stared at the awkward movement of her feet, her toes pinching inwards, digging the stem harshly into the ground. He looked up at the sharp intake of her breath.

“On one of those spores,” she whispered, “we didn’t always hate each other; we were friends for ten years. On another, you went to MIT straight from high school and ended up being my TA. One I went to Northwestern instead and we only met by chance at some greasy spoon in New York waiting for a conference. There are only about twenty percent where we haven’t met yet. But we will, I don't know whether by chance or design.”

A sly smile suddenly flashed across her pale face and she looked up at him with her crooked grin.

“Do you want to hear about the world where you and Steve …”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he stammered, shifting his weight uncomfortably in her silence.

“Ok, well on one world you have moobs, one world I have a cock. One world I died of Polio at five. One world you … you were in a motorcycle crash on the way to our rehearsal dinner about three years ago. Simple, small events yet everything is so different. Everything is floating on the wind, waiting to settle in a thousand different locations. Everything produces the same result - more weeds, more spores, more chances, and more regrets.”

She glanced at her watch, fidgeting with the band the way she always used to do in the lab waiting for the program to run. She always had a problem with waiting.

“In about 90 seconds an ambulance and 3 fire trucks are going to go by, there was a fire a few blocks over and –“ she was interrupted by the sound of wailing sirens.

“Guess you were a little off on the timing,” he muttered, “so what does that mean? You can tell the future? Travel through time? If you're theory is right, IF there are thousands of other worlds, how can one spore see where another is floating?”

“I told you that you couldn’t understand. I’m not from a spore. I’m from the stalk, the root, the original. And every time I find you again, but it is never the same. You … we’re never the same. And so far every version of us I’ve gone to ends … badly.”

“You’re telling me we always end up meeting , we always affect each other in some way. But you’re the only you I’ve met. Are you trying to tell me you have a clone somewhere out there, that we’ll meet and bad things will happen? Do you really expect me to believe that every relationship with you ends that way”

“ yes.”

“why?”

“it isn’t that simple-“

“You’re a scientist, give me proof.”

“… statistical analysis predicting future events based on past findings. And current.”

“current?”

“that fire. I … the me from this spore … she just died. The experiment created a feedback loop that just happened to travel into my, well HER, kitchen. The house burned down. I – she – was electrocuted. You caused it. Your experiment was enough to count as contact with her on this world. And it ended … very badly. Enough proof?”

Swing Away Girl, Swing Away

Sara sat in the rubber paddle seat, the plastic wrapped chains digging harsh frowns into her palms. She squeezed hard, hoping that maybe the sharp stab would wake her up, force her sleep-filled eyes to open. She’d realize this was all some horrid nightmare destined to be forgotten in the early morning sunlight streaming through her second story windows with the bubble-gum pink curtains. She hated pink, but her mom always insisted she’d grow to love it. Every inch contained some piece of pink - mauve carpets, pastel walls, or rose metal daybed frame. She couldn’t escape the Pepto Bismol feeling whenever she set foot inside her own bedroom. The chalky aftertaste sense memory rising as her feet stepped over the threshold, from neutral to frilly in 0.6 seconds.

The biting chains didn’t help; she didn’t open her eyes to a surround-sound diarrhea commercial. It wasn’t a nightmare. This was real.

Crap.

She pumped her legs a little to give herself some air - barely moving, but just enough so she didn’t look like she was moping. She didn’t want them to know how badly she hurt right now. They didn’t need to know she was fighting the urge to cry, choking back the tears and biting her tongue to keep the sobs from pouring out of her. They didn’t need to know.

Pretending to tuck an errant hair back into her messy pigtails, she brushed away the lonely teardrop that had passed the gauntlet of self defense mechanisms. Sara looked down and noticed her knee was bleeding. She must’ve fallen harder than she thought, gravel cut like knives into her soft skin. Too soft, she was too soft.

Not for the first time in her short life, Sara wished she could be stronger. Not muscular or scary, just … strong. Strong enough to let it roll away without obsessing over what happened and why. Strong enough to just let it be and not care what anyone thought of her. Strong enough to just be happy in her own gravel-bruised, porcelain skin.

Sara wasn’t strong. And they all knew it. They looked at her swinging back, pigtails flying as she tried to build up height and maintain the illusion. Adam kicked the gravel and spat in the grass. Jamie laughed. She sounded like a hyena, but no one ever seemed to notice, or were too afraid to say anything if they did. Sara pumped her legs harder, hoping the built up speed hid her flinch at that evil sound. No human should laugh that way.

She focused on her shoes moving up and down to stop the shaking when they started in again.

“Soooo weeee! Sara Swinegirl! Sooo weee! Here Sara swine! Soooooo weeeeeee”

The pink plastic toes were scuffed from falling off the monkey bars. The buckles needed stitching, they were starting to fall off their bands.

“Saaaaraaa! How many rolls does it take to fill out Sara’s dress? I don’t know, too many to count!”

The white socks with frilly tops floated like bloated jellyfish with each pump of her legs. The shoes were losing their shine, she’d have to ask her mother to polish them soon. Patent leather is so hard to keep looking new.

“Cankles, Tankles, how do you walk on those Sara Swinegirl?”

The socks bunched unevenly at the ankle straps. It looked like marshmallows escaping a pastel s’more., oozing all over and scalding if you touched them.

“Jiggly Wiggly Sara on the swingset. Jiggly Wiggly Sara pumping high. Jiggly Wiggly Sara’s gonna break that swing and die!”

She pumped her legs harder. She was flying high now, her plaid jumper dangerously far up her legs, threatening to show everything with one false move or slip.

“I hear that squeaking - Sue, do you? I think Sara hears it too. A few more swings, a few more tries. A few more pumps and Sara dies!”

Sara couldn’t stand it any longer. She alley-ooped, somersaulted as she reached the top, and soared into the trees. Her arms bent, retracted, curved and flattened. Her legs shrunk in - cankles, tankles gone forever - and tucked up and under her plaid jumper dancing in the wind.

They all stared: Bobby and Adam, Jamie and Sue. Sara was shrinking into herself, escaping her oversize clothes that never fit quite right even on her most normal day. Her red pigtails turned to crimson feathers, wings flapping happily out of her clothes. The plaid monstrosity fell helplessly to the prison yard below, shriveled and empty like a snakeskin left behind. Sara was free.

She chirped happily, sang her little song as she flew off into the trees. They’d never see her again, she’d stay this way as far as her little arms could fly. She’d start over somewhere new, where she wasn’t Sara Swinegirl; somewhere Sue didn’t call her piglet and Adam didn’t pull her pigtails. Bobby wouldn’t throw gum at her new dress, Jamie wouldn’t steal her diary and read it to the entire playground at recess.
She glanced back at their staring faces, at jaws wide open in wonder at her amazing feat. They’d know how great she was now that she was gone. They’d miss her when she wasn’t there. Wouldn’t they?

Below her and far behind her wandering, the school bell clanged the end of recess. Sara stopped pumping, her little legs forcing her to a halt. Delicate human hands in pockets, she shuffled over the gravel to line up in the grass with everyone else, studying her shoes like she always did waiting in line. Adam placed himself alphabetically behind her, gave the left pigtail a sharp tug and chuckled as Sara jumped in pain. He yanked the other one, then sighed with disappointment when Sara didn’t flinch.

Clenched fingernails digging half moons into her palms, Sara walked single file back into the prison, back to her plastic desk in the baby blue classroom. Someone, probably Sue, had drawn a pig with curly pigtails on the chalkboard. Everybody laughed. Sara sighed. Bobby had stuck gum in her seat.

Doodling in cursive lettering, she chirruped once under her breath and snuck a glance out the window at the V flying over the electric lines. Sensing Adam’s eyes on her, she coughed away her grin. They wouldn’t stop until they thought she was completely broken. Best to let them go on thinking that…