Car Cradle

“I’m awake but my body is tired.”  I would whine as my eyes readied themselves to fall into sand mans land while my face plummeted towards the car window.  I could easily find comfort with one face cheek resting against the warm pane, half on the glass, half on the lock button. The marks would go equally well with the seat belt that would engrave itself along my neck and ear.

I would edge myself into the gap between the seat and the door and flop my head forward when we stopped, and jerk back as we went.The drool of a deep sleep would leak its way into the pool of sweat forming in between my neck and my school shirt. The fake sheepskin car seats would itch on my elbows and the irritation of being consciously awake would tease my dreams.

The car was like a cradle. The car is still like a cradle, rocking me to sleep every time it slips into first. That’s all it takes. Sometimes when I lay awake at night I think to myself, I wonder if he would mind driving me around the block a couple times. But of course a wife must let her sleeping husband lie.

We use to drive my sister around the block when she was restless and whiny. My mum and I would hum our nursery rhyme of choice, Kooks by David Bowie. It worked. At the time I enjoyed the fact that my sister was to small to sing along and would therefore drift off to sleep allowing my mother and I to share the song together. After all it was originally my lullaby. Share and share alike my ass. She chose that song for me, she should have chosen a song for my sister. That’s fair.

Yes, I am an only child…was, was an only child!

The Clock Strikes One.

The sound of silence is a ticking clock. You know the necessity for the space around you has been deleted when you hear the silence of the ticking clock. The lights go out, TV off and the room is useless. It must be bedtime.

The silence of the ticking clock does not beat its drum only where a clock is present. If it does, then the clock must hang inside my head for that is where I forever hear the drums play, to no specific melody except that of chaos. It plays a daunting tune of trembling tambourines yelling at the symbols being bashed by the tone-deaf Maestro. The Maestro waves his wand around erratically, emphatically with a smile on his ghastly triangle shaped face. The wand strikes his triangle head creating a bell like noise that makes my eyes open up to the darkness of the room.

I guess I’m not tired?

Broccoli Of My Generation

Are books the broccoli of my generation? Great for the mind but don’t look as good as pizza? E-books being the pizza, I think?

My children will be eating broccoli. They will be able to open the fridge and see the thick bright green stems through the plastic bag in the crisper. They will be able to scrunch their noses at it when they see me preparing it for dinner. They can poke it and feel the tree like bits with their fingers and they will be able to form their own opinions of it when they eat it. But they will eat it.

My children will read books, the paper kind. They will be able to stand at the bookshelf and see the different colours and designs of books spines. They will be able to pull each book and scrunch their noses up at the blurbs that don’t interest them, smile at the ones that do and of course judge the book by it’s cover. They will feel the crisp of the new pages and dust of the old as they browse life’s mysteries with their fingertips.

When it comes to the classics, fairy tales and history of all sorts they will not feel the click of a button or the smooth sensation of their finger sliding over an I-pad.

My children will have the broccoli of my generation.

Clean Lines

One side of me likes the clean lines, the “everything has its place” feel, the calm of cleanliness and space. The other side of me is a hot mess that finds comfort in the disaster of clothes strewn on the floor, half read books piled up on shelves, dishes in the sink for later and then when later passes at least tomorrow will be there, bits of scrap paper with attempts of short stories, epiphanies, poems, questions, so many questions. The hot mess lifestyle is perhaps that of a single person, so the neurosis doesn’t encroach on that of another’s true ability to blend into our abnormal society. I’m married, but the hot mess has its days of making itself very present to others and it’s always present in my mind leaving me feeling cluttered, dazed and confused.

Perhaps my husband is the clean line. He is focused, disciplined, goal orientated and very sure. Only now am I starting to realise how we fit. He is the clean line I require to stop the mess infiltrating all corners of my cranial bedroom. I can imagine it would be easier to think, to breathe as a clean line. To know the way, feel the stability and know the nature of your cause must be extremely empowering and rather thoughtless in the sense that you wouldn’t be racking your brain minute by minute trying to figure out the meaning of life and your purpose therein.

The meaning of life is neither here nor there is it really? There surely is no one meaning. Each life is different; if life does have meaning then each individual life would have its own meaning. So I guess that would mean the question would be “what is the meaning of my life’? This is a much more interesting question and much scarier. Funny enough if the word ‘meaning’ was exchanged with another word with the exact same meaning such as ‘worth’, the question would read ‘what is the worth of my life’. And the anxiety builds.

Let’s try this with an array of words with the same definition as ‘meaning’:

What is the significance of my life?

What is the importance of my life?

What is the consequence of my life?

What is the entailing of my life?

What is the sense in my life?

I am sure a clean line looking in on a hot mess of questions such as those would answer with another question “who cares?”. They don’t bulk down on such things, probably because they are busy working towards goals, achieving goals, living life instead of outside of it. Living outside of life, that’s a strange concept I suppose. Because what is life? If life is what we do every day, than I guess there is no outside of it, right? Too deep, let’s go back a few lines. Ok, is asking the question “What is the meaning of my life” a stereotypical hippie question. Do the clean lines think that’s what “Hippies” do? They just wander through life smoking pot and asking themselves “what is the meaning of my life?”. Or are they actually living their meaning by working, but not making work their main focus, by spending more time outside, by seeing more of the world that lay at our feet and by trying to avoid the unnecessary “necessities” like dryers, hair straighteners or brand names?

Mind Wide Shut

I want to speak. I do speak, a lot, but more so out of turn. Perhaps I over speak. With a wine in one hand I could compete in a speaking marathon. But am I really saying anything. What are these words that spill out of my mouth and what form do these words take on before they enter another person’s attention? Is it even what I said anymore, or are the words now their perception of me? Therefore in turn am I actually judging myself with my thoughtless yammer? I’m starting to wish I thought about all this before I took on the ability to turn thoughts into words. Or maybe its patience I require, the patience to stop and think before I speak rather than grab the audience’s attention with a laughable anecdote?

I yearn to speak before I think. And yes, I thought about that before I said it. I desire the opportunity to sit amongst strangers and have us speak crazily with each other until we have no choice but to reconsider our words. I want their words to ignite a fury of questions within me. I want to share stories over wine and food and get so deep that the only true answers we find are actually more questions. How intriguing.

I want to plant my toes in the ground and grow roots. I imagine my toes lengthening into long green stories embedding themselves in the dirt demanding to intertwine with others. I want my shoulders to burn in the sun, storing the heat and letting it sink into my stomach where it could fuel my radiant growth. I want my head to tilt back, my eye lashes calling the rain to shower me with hope. I want to feel a connection to this place.

I find wine exceptionally inspirational. It opens the parts of my mind that the drugs try to close. It is absolutely wretched having to close off something so real to cope with everyday life. Wine however, seeps into the awareness just enough to feel invigorated and motivated again. Why can’t they give me wine pills instead of crazy pills?

Listen and learn?

Sometimes I wonder if I am incapable of learning. In one ear out the other. Now you see it now you don’t. “Listen and learn” they say. Maybe that is where I’m going wrong. I don’t listen. Well that is probably true. I can’t say I am much of a listener, more a talker. So if I’m not learning because I am doing all the talking, then hopefully someone is learning something from me.