words are foreplay for the soul

Archive for the ‘Time Machine’ Category

May 4th, 2009 by me

Wandering, times three

At 24, on weekends (when I had them off) for a while, I took to walking through the too-large, too-empty colorless high-ceilinged rooms of my new house, walking slowly past the new furniture, wondering where my soul had gone. Time stretched into frightening nothingness and it seemed that by walking — slowly, endlessly walking — I could somehow fill that void.

It’s easy to find ways to fill up the void.  Having a job that you take home nights and weekends, every night and every weekend.  Having children.  Then having more.  Letting life revolve around you, propelling you round and round, always in a different direction, any direction.

There are too many blank spaces again these days.  Life has conspired to leave room for thought, for direction, and the idea of becoming one’s own rudder again, when the rudder itself stretches into gaping darkness, seems like an endless bad dream.  The walking has begun again, only there’s nowhere to walk to.


I read something today that seemed incredible to me, a laundry list of things one might feel when beginning a spiritual awakening process.  Every single item on the list was also a sign we associate with depression.  Deep inner sadness. Check.  Sleep issues.  Check.  Physical disorientation.  Check.  Every one.  And I have felt ALL of them, at one time or another or all at once, since about the age of 9.  Which means that:

  1. The awakening signs list is a load of crap, or
  2. I’ve been depressed since I was 9 (or before), and
  3. Everyone else I know is depressed as well, OR
  4. There’s totally something to this awakening stuff and it completely absolves me of guilt over feeling so crappy for so long, BUT
  5. Since I was 9? Am I not yet awake, then? WTF?
  6. Because dude. That awake stuff is, like, my business.  I help OTHER people.

I don’t know whether to feel heartened by this or to feel like running screaming in the other direction (maybe that’s an overreaction … checking list for “overreacting”).  Does knowing this, if true, mean I can release not only any expectation of this ever to go away but also and sense of responsibility about it?

It’s like a relief and yet not.


Speaking of reincarnation, I’m going through a sort of one.  That’s, of course, in addition to any painful deep inner stuff I may have already mentioned.  A job thing, squeezed now into a smaller space, and soon my belongings, rapidly and unwelcomely having grown out of the everything-fits-in-my-car stage of only a few months ago, to be also squeezed into a smaller physical space: I’m moving in a few weeks.  Again.  But this time I get to take along new things like a bed and a chair and a desk and a coffee table and dishes and a TV (why?) and a Wii (why??) and a motorcycle.

The alternative seems to be along the lines of chucking everything into storage and leaving the country for someplace exotic for many many months, but that was going to take planning, and since the farthest I got on that road was to buy a guidebook and I am still lacking small details like immunizations and visas and plane tickets and, well, PLANS, moving seemed easier.

October 14th, 2008 by me

Blame the blue-haired witch

[warning:  standard “I haven’t blogged for a long time and this is my lame apology slash explanation” is forthcoming.  Scroll down to the good stuff.]

Benign neglect, that’s what we’ll call this, shall we?

Oh, and my x365 project is going to take me three or four years at this rate, isn’t it?  Sort of negates the whole “posting daily” idea.  Oh well.  I’ll still continue them.  Hacking away until they’re exactly 100 words has been rather fun, and certainly the trips into the recesses of my memories have been interesting.

When I was nine I was in the 4th grade.  Do the math a minute; I need to point out that I skipped a grade and I was the youngest in my class until grade 9 when I was appalled to meet up with someone even younger than me.  She was smart, too.  Alice Mayall.  Where are you now, Alice?

So I was nine and I was in the 4th grade.  Actually, I was eight most of that year.  Eight and having a spring birthday, turning nine.  This is really irrelevant, but it tells you that I was pretty much a little kid.

I remember two things from that year.  No, three.

That was the year I taught myself to hold my stomach in.  Been doing it ever since.  Except in pregnancy, when I couldn’t, and in sleep, every other moment since then has been one in which my abdominal muscles are contracted.  I walked past a large window every day in the school hallway, and one day I caught sight of myself there.  Skinny kid.  Except in the stomach.  Holding it in looked better.  So that’s what I did.

That was also the year I had mono.  It started with a lot of throwing up and trips to the hospital, a 40-minute one-way drive in the middle of the night.  Then came antibiotics, horrible-tasting pasty white pills that I had to take along several times a day with aspirin, which weren’t so bad because they were orange-flavored.  I lay on the couch for a month, eating Red Vines and saltines, watching Dick van Dyke and Andy Griffith re-runs, reading all the fairy tale books the library contained.  When I went back to school finally, something had changed and suddenly I could wear pants to school instead of dresses.  I always connected the lifting of the pants ban with my month at home with mono.

Somewhere along there was the dream that haunted me for years.  I know it happened while I was in fourth grade because of the location of my classroom in the dream.  And because there was a witch with blue plastic hair that chased me through the empty nighttime school.  There was nothing in my eight-year old life that was scarier than that.  She had Barbie hair, sort of plasticy but long and flexible, and periwinkle blue.  To this day I can’t stand that color.  And she was the scariest thing ever.

I dreamed about that witch for years.  She probably gave me mono.

October 6th, 2008 by me

Red red rainboots

I took a walk in the rain today.

That in itself is nothing spectacular:  this is Vancouver and it rains here a lot.  To avoid rain, one would have to stay inside from mid-September through April or May, and I’m unwilling to do that.  Luckily, most people here have a similar regard (or is it disregard?) for rain, and people can be seen out in it all the time.

I walked through the neighborhood I live in, enjoying the feel of the drops falling on my hooded head, and the quietness that rain brings.  Sure, people are out in it but from necessity, not joy.

I was walking in the rain for joy.

When I was five I had red rain boots.  They were a deep cherry red and boasted a single button at the top.  They may have been the type that go over the shoes, in which case they were really galoshes, but that seems an unwieldy word for the boots that gave me so much joy.

In those rain boots, I became huge.  Powerful.  I could step through puddles, no longer limited by walking around them.  I could even splash a little if no one was watching who might reprimand me for such frivolity.  I had freedom.  I could walk in that surreal wet world under my hooded raincoat and umbrella and forget the other things happening in my life, and just walk.  Rainy days became a magical world of escape.

In high school I took to walking around in the rain whenever I wanted to get out and think.  Walking through our neighborhood on a rainy Sunday afforded me more inner quiet than any other place I knew; everyone else was indoors and dry, enjoying blazing fireplaces and weekend TV football games while I haunted the wet streets, not caring how wet I became myself.

Just having the opportunity to walk again out in the rain seems rather huge right now.  Transformation is often measured in tiny moments.

I am so getting a pair of rain boots.  Red ones.