Enough, not enough, too much

I don’t know how to be funny to save myself. Feel too heavy to be funny. Or even intelligent, for that matter.

Can’t get enough.

Time for miracles.

At this hourly rate, I would do well to move to India – and I can speak English without an accent.

What am I waiting for? I feel like a girl waiting for that guy to call. I am too tired to do much of anything else.

I’m still clearing my throat because my head is aching and my ears are ringing, so why not? At least I have something to say. Even if comes out all wrong. Even backwards.

Oh my, it’s the “cream-soup-to-consume” theory. The opposite of making mayonnaise, the undoing. Perhaps that’s something for me to think about. I think I will unthink. I don’t think, so I am not.

I’m amming not, and holding my head, and I don’t know that person.

She’s a little nutty, but when did that ever stop anybody? That’s a good place to be, actually.

A little nutty. Protein and the good fat.

And vegetarian, so to speak. If I’m speaking, which I amming not.

And if you don’t like it, you can go, there’s the door. I’m tired of being nice, and that might be dangerous. I did that about half my life ago, and lived to regret it. Being nice is a fate worse than death. Martha said so. “I am not nice.”

My not name Nannette, my sister said.

My not, neither.

And as things lighten up, who cares whether the work gets done, as long as it’s light, lively, and invigorating. What else could be right with the world? Or wrong?

Now, for starters, She’s a little nutty. We already established that. She gets up on the wrong side of bed, sets the alarm off first thing, and of course, she can’t remember her password. Thank goodness they give her a second chance. She’s missed her real calling in life.

And then she lets the cat out, and it starts all over again. Maybe she should just go back to sleep?

But the shrill ringing in her ears does not stop, because after all, she’s set off the alarm.

Don’t just sit there, girl. Let the cat out!

Then, once all is calm again, it’s time to shake it up again. Walk around in circles a few times. Start and stop. Puff off. The work will get done eventually.

And the cat looks up with compassion. Or at least attention. Single-minded attention at that, but the cat doesn’t have to multitask to be fed and housed. All it has to do is come when it’s called.

So, she does. Calls the cat. And the cat answers.

What? What? What?

That’s not an answer. That’s a question.

Can we start over?

No, it’s too late for that. You can try that tomorrow, but not today.

So, the music has stopped. On purpose. The end. Get it going again, please. Ok. We’ll try the Alpha Brainwave Series and see if that does it. Who knows? It just might.

Went to dance tonight, but it was called off. Could have been worse I guess. I could have had two glasses of champagne, and danced anyway. Maybe that would be a good thing. Do the dance. Capture it.

To be a dancer. Is it too late? Was it ever on time? Not for me. Not in this lifetime. Or maybe any other. My mother. She didn’t care. I asked her. She said no. What was it about dance? Those beautiful young girls, hair tied up, flowing costumes. Both the men and the women moving beautifully fluidly. No, she said. Dancers have big calves. Like that makes a difference. Like she cares.

So, it was not to be. I wouldn’t be doing it anymore anyway. I love it though. Still. And I’m old.

Have to figure out a way to keep on doing it. Maybe the cat will know. I’ll ask the cat.

One day, I followed a cat out the hidden gate, and into an open field with a rock formation and an oak tree at its center. It was a glorious thing. First, inside the walled garden, blooming and beautiful, then through the vine entangled gate, freed into the open field. I lost sight of the cat of course.

We danced through that gate, the cat and I.

I must do that again someday. Maybe tomorrow.

Many times, though, I feel like that. Something changes in the air. And you know that you are about to enter sacred space, whatever that is.

It’s the place with thin clear air. You know that, the cat says.

Yes. You are right, dear. I do know that.

I look into the fire. I dream. Something feels sad. Broken. Yet, I know that is not so. It’s the fire that’s doing it, and the beauty. But the beauty is so impossibly beautiful that it hurts.

The rhythms are off I think. Someone turned them off. Was it I? I don’t think so, but I was the only one there.

Why did you go? Couldn’t you have stayed? It would have been easier that way, you know. It wouldn’t have hurt so much, and I wouldn’t have gone through the years broken. There’s no healing, you know. They say there is, but they are lying. They know if they tell you the truth, you wouldn’t last the night.

But somehow it doesn’t really matter. I didn’t know that blooming was like waves breaking. It’s the very same thing. Slowly opening, and then closing in upon itself. I never knew that before.

Yes, you did, said the cat. You knew that. You always knew that.

I look at the cat like it has two heads. Not true. I say.

The cat looks away, losing interest, and goes back to screen door. Let me out, it says. Time to go.

Ok. I say. Can I live on cookies, do you think?

The cat shakes its head slowly. You are just wasting time, it says.

I know that, I say. I’ve always known that.

That’s all. Good night.