Salt Water and Opiates

There is a holistic exercise where you imagine yourself first as a diatom, a bit of plankton floating in the ocean. You graduate to being a mollusk, and are instructed to curl and stretch like a shelled creature scouring the ocean bottom. The list of emulations continues through fish, amphibian emerging onto land, to lizard, mammal with four legs, to upright biped. This exercise, by Jean Houston, then encourages you to imagine what happens next, to project the future of evolution through inner sense and movement.

She bases this exercise on getting back to the sensations we had as life originating in the ocean, as one celled creatures becoming crinoids, ammonites, trilobites. I don't get out much, but I can say that I don't know anyone who isn't comforted by nearness to the ocean. Maybe it's time for me to go, it's been years since. It will be a graduation present to myself, perhaps to Florida. Oh my, I can hear the dried blades of palm leaves shushing against each other in the wind, the salt, the salt air.

I lived in St. Petersburg, Florida for a short time in the 1970's in desperation. Yet, in spite of personal difficulties, I enjoyed the unknown beauty of the Gulf of Mexico, of the glowing neon blue tiny garfish that came to see what I was, sitting in water that was literally hot. The jobs ran dry, so we strapped everything including two cats into the Fiat Spyder 128 and headed for Chicago. My problem is, I am rarely in the moment, always worrying about yesterday and tomorrow which causes me to miss opportunities for observation and growth. That was Chicago. Once we decided to start a family, we headed back to Buffalo, New York and here is where this story becomes relevant.

Tomorrow is my son's birthday, my gosh, he will be thirty-two. I wish I could make time stand still for his physical being, yet let it run on for his intellectual and emotional growth. He is a good person, and deserves as much happiness as this world can give. I baked a cake to send down, maybe that will be a bit of happy for him. I, as a mother does, will relive the events surrounding his birth, from this end to that.

Only yesterday did I find out that opioids are in the epidural analgesic, the shot given into the spine to numb everything from the waist down during difficult birth. They gave me one and I went goofy. Laughing, when there was a big chance that Brian wasn't having an easy time, when I could hear the drain in the floor gulping fluid and blood. I never realized. It makes me feel better about myself, I had no idea that it was the opioid making me giddy. I thought I was just stupidly exhausted, thrilled that the pain ended, plus being an idiot for laughing while grown men and women were running about the gurney. It was the drug, not me being a jerk. Thank you, universe.

I hope I am able to sleep tonight. Tonight is to be very cold, the temperature is going down to near 5 degrees above zero. In 1979, we were going through an unusual freeze also, and I was grateful to be in the warm hospital. I hope Brian is able to sleep also, as the little blue garfish still wriggle and flash in warm waters off the coast of Fort DeSoto National Park, just south of St. Pete. Maybe they will come to his dreams or yours; sweet, nosey things. Bless us all, the turmoils of the world disturb the sleep of the innocents, the children, women, and men who only want a cup of tea after a day's work. Let them be safe. Let us be safe. Good night.

Vapor Trails

Early morning at work, I stood behind my desk and shuffled papers before colleagues arrived. A movement in front of me brought my head up, and for the briefest of illuminations, I thought I saw the image of someone I knew walking up the middle aisle, carrying papers, books, something black plastic like a binder held in her two hands, head bent down as if studying the materials. Cream colored sweater, dark-rimmed glasses; makeup, jewelry, hair in a short blonde bob. Taupe pants. It happened in a flash.

This could have purely been my brain performing a camera flash blip, lord knows the stress at work is ramping up. Was it a flick of light from the outside window that was built into a jigsaw image by inner circuits? I am forever seeing long-gone cats out of the corner of my eye at home, and this is what I say most likely occurred. This area had been her classroom, I had seen Barbara walk towards the back of the room many times, perhaps morning coffee jaggled the vision from my overtired hippocampus.

Oh, I really don't want to go on with this, I don't mean to be presumptuous. Only that maybe we leave trails of energy, memory if you want to call it that, as we pass through daily routine. did I see a piece of Barbara's memory? I really, really don't think she was there; she never was one to stay in one place or avoid a challenge, and I believe she is secure in her new position in the afterlife. The what ifs just clatter around like china dishes loose in a box.

Sleep well, all of us. I wish I did.

Mars Needs Women

Hey, cats and kittens, the day began with a rush up the rear fender by some guy in a hurry who boxed his way into the passing lane and then boxed back to the right. You know what I mean, he drove his SUV like he was making the bed with four-square corners, no gradual lane change. The fellow was in a big 7:30 hurry to get to someplace where probably nobody wanted to see him anyways. I waved hello as he went by, but this is the cool part: I was wearing big mittens, so he couldn't see that I was flipping him the bird inside the mitt while waving. Go me. I am too smart/chicken to do it without the mittens, but this was a free hit.

After work, I had to pick up information from the drugstore, and as I was cashing out with my ten-cents a box deal on candy canes ( bought ten boxes, kids), one of the workers commented on the newspaper's front page picture of the Chinese president meeting with our guy. "They want our women," he said. What? "Yeah, that's what this is all about. You know what they do to the girl babies over there, so now they're out of women. They're coming over here to get ours." Holy crap. Is this true? Logistically, it's possible, because there really are fewer girls than boys due to birth policy in China. I love my neighborhood drugstore.

But how does this happen, this intermarriage? Is there going to be planeloads of brides exported, or are the men coming here? Either way, I dunno if the Chinese men understand that an American woman is for one thing goddam tired of shit and also can lift the front end of a bus during the monthly hormonal rockathon. Sure, come on over, we'll take a look. Bring us presents. Most of the stuff we buy comes from your country anyway. Smile as you give us a new, small, kitchen appliance; tell us you helped make it. Then the gesture becomes more personal.

Reality is, however, that an average Chinese male is 145 pounds and maybe 5'8". So look, unless you have excellent ninja moves, our women will be able to keep you in a pumpkin shell very well, so to speak. What? What? You need a shirt ironed for work at six in the morning? You left the refrigerator open and the ice cream on the counter? You're helping her (the other woman) learn English? Oh ho ho. C'mere, skinny.

Take a step back, however, and contrast this situation with the horse's ass in a hurry that flew by me this morning. The one who got the hidden bird flipped at him. He wasn't Chinese, and maybe this is the news necessary to enlighten his attitude. (If the hurry had been an emergency, I don't think I would have been given the box-in, box-out display of impatience telling me that I didn't recognize someone had a bug up his self-entitled American arse and I was in the way). Lighten up, fella, our choices are ever expanding throughout the political midway and economic equilibrium. And here we thought it was a trade agreement for manufactured goods being negotiated, when all they really want is our women. Just listen to anything by Alanis Morissette, guys, it covers all the bases. I swear.

Overall it was a good day, and with the winter dark here already, hitting that pillow will be wonderful. A special offer of cat food came in the mail, so everyone is chirpy and happy. My Salvador Dali book also arrived, so there's that to page through in fangirl fascination. And oh, tomorrow is Friday. Yippee dang-doo. Maybe tomorrow morning there will be others who will get a secret message from behind the mitten. It's the little things. Sleep well, everyone. Let the winds that travel from hemisphere to hemisphere bring you messages of men, of women, of all of us mid-lateral people who are moving about 900 miles an hour in the great rotation of this planet. Good night.

Muddle

My voice sounds like large rocks were wrapped in leather then dropped onto damp ground. Dump thump dump, dump dump. Or as if I am speaking up from a sod basement lined with old glass jars containing colorless farm vegetables canned in half-gone, clouded fluid. A living ghost voice. What brought this self-conscious, creeping centrality forward was that I watched myself on video this week. Conclusion was that I sound as if speaking through a tunnel. I could probably call earthworms, or go out for hire if you need your attic haunted.

No wonder animals and babies love me, I moo. Swimming in the ocean will have no fear as my blue whale buddies flap alongside; we can exchange plankton recipes. Oh lord, what can I do? Suck helium? Tighten my vocal cords with a key? Truth be told, it has always been a torture. Kids and some adults made fun of my deep voice from grade school on (are you a boy or a girl?), you'd think I'd been out in the wide world long enough to get over it. Well sure, thought so until viewing the tape.

The lucky thing is that my memory is short, by tonight I imagine it will be forgotten. Right now the more interesting thing is the wham bam snowstorm happening outside, thick enough that the downtown buildings are blotted out from view. I am due to paint butterflies on the outside of a cabinet, which will be a fascinating counterpoint to the weather.

You know, yesterday the radio announcer made comment that it was 5 p.m., and still daylight outside. I looked up from the steering wheel and traffic, and noticed gratefully that yes, it was. How lovely that it goes round again. The plants on the windowsill lean towards the light so hungry, the tiny grey and white juncos that I feed out in the parking lot stay longer at the base of the crabapple tree where seed is tossed. Only January, with much more cold on the way but easier to bear in lighted hours.

I have milk and cat food, so if we get socked in there's plenty. The juncos were filling themselves up with thistle seed, and all flew up into branches except one, who remained in the snow and used wings to flutter a bit of a nook to sit in and uncover more seed. He ate like King Cole, not budging even when I slowly scooched out of the car and tossed another handful his way. The seed rained atop his head and all around; he looked as pleased and deserving as winner of the Irish grand prize.

Where do they go at night? Few pines are down here, there must be safety in the clusters of hedges lining the buildings. Even so, God bless them. I and the cats are inside with rugs and blankets, pillows and steam heat. Tonight we sleep well and warm, releasing cares of the day out into the realm of Nod with reasonable assurance that we are safe and without fear. Lucky, lucky us. Kai is on my knee and partially on the keyboard, eyes half closed. Her paws are feathered by mottled brown fur as she capitalizes letters unannounced by laying on the shift key. Min is yelling about a nest she is building while tearing newspaper to shreds. Tulip is curled on her pillow, Mr. Pickles is above us atop a cupboard, and Princess Snowbelle lays asleep on a braided seatcover. What a day, what a lovely day. And so it goes on.

Sleep well, sleep safe, sleep deep after doing a good deed for someone, even if that someone is yourself. See you soon.