Frozen memories Oct 05, 2008 - 20:48 PM
 I
I sleep in, which for me is 7:30 am, dog shaking and body-checking the bed for me to wake up. I pet him for awhile, he has soft ears and he especially likes that as I like stroking them. I wonder if he's lonely, here alone in the yard all day. I think occasionally of getting him a pal, but something prevents me. The taking care of another being is enough, not to mention two. Fear is something that creeps on me as well as depression, but I do the things that get me out of it, like doing things anyway, despite the way I feel, which is my definition of courage. I have friends who say I'm always doing things, whereas for me I feel like I'm doing nothing at all. Like Buenos Aires and learning Spanish or performing poetry or doing a new shoot for a concept that lights up my brain. I honor my job because it provides the grift to keep body and soul together and you have to give unto Caesar what Caesar wants. And I have a dawg to care for. And these projects to do need funding and so I honor my job. It will be taking me to Boston for a client presentation, and funding my travels (or better, paying back the debt I incur). Yeah, I was debt free for the longest time, and then I got it into my head to go where my ass has never gone before. I don't want to die before seeing certain places, like Macchu Pichu, like the Great Wall, like Tokyo lit up at midnight, like sipping un cafe on the balcony at dawn in Buenos Aires. I miss certain people in my life, moments like these where I am home alone with the rain coming down. I wish we could bottle up the happy times, to decant and drink when we want. But I guess that's what memories are for, but for me they are always tinged with a bit of unhappiness since that moment is no longer there for me to live in fully, and that person in the present may not be there for me any longer like they were back then. There are people I will love for a long time, even after they have left me, or worse: I left them. I had to leave them for all sorts of incomplete reasons, mainly due to faith. No faith in them, or, more likely, lack of faith in myself. I took their precious gift and let it drop, fall away into the distance till only memories are left. I think I feel sorry for every woman I have ever been with, that for whatever reason it never worked out. I'm good at some things and horrible with others, what can I say. But it doesn't mean I don't think about you, or that I don't care. But we move forward. I try to live an honorable life, do the right thing, try to think of the greater good, not so navel gazing. Navel gazing seems to be a modern illness, but I guess I'm doing it now. Why do I write this, and why should you care? Well, I do believe in the power of therapy, the power of an experienced shared, the knowing that we are not alone in whatever human experience and I guess that's why I love to read what other people write about their lives and why I write mine. There's this little blog of this girl who lived a completely different life than the one I lead, who wrote so eloquently about her fears, her anorexia, her compulsive exercising and club-going and her boyfriend and her funny nicknames for the people in her life so they would not be able to figure out that what she wrote about was herself and her dreams/hopes/fears. But someone must have found out, or maybe she just suspected it, because her blog ended. After 3 years of nearly daily blogs it just stopped. And I speculate that someone close to her found out about her secret blog where she was so honest about her life and she felt that her secret inner life was revealed and she felt a bit sick of the whole thing and abandoned it to the ether where it will live forever in its incompleteness. I wonder about her sometimes. All the above is speculation. I really don't know. I wish she would write again. Start a new blog and let her fans in on the secret. But she is lost to me as well, and even though I never knew her personally, I miss her. Her adventures. So, I do my Espanol homework and listen to my language tapes on the drive to and back to the cafe, and then go home and watch a movie and now I sit here and blog. Because that's what I do, I guess. If all else fails I can always blog. And some people read it, I can tell by my stats. The regulars and the not so and I wonder what they think of this whole thing? Are they bored? Do they think I'm a whiner? What? I'd really like to know. And I am subscribed to a few - but they never write, or hardly ever. And when they do it's as if they come alive for me - whatever joys, fears or frustrations, and they light up the room and become relevant to me again. I love that. It's like the opening of presents (or shall I say 'presence'). Anyways, just some rainy day thoughts. Why don't you write some for me?
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