There was Him and There was Her

He did ask.
In all fairness, he asked before too.
"What's the matter?" or "What's wrong?"

Her answer always seemed vague and obtuse and for this, he'd get irritated.  It seemed as if she wasn't sharing, or that she didn't know.  And really, that was it - she didn't know.  No one word could embody the helplessness and judment she experienced.  Not only did it seep from her pores, the trepidation would drip from her fingertips or tear from the corners of her eyes with the slightest of cause.

He'd think that he'd neglected something, forgotten or entangled some problem - but it wasn't him.  She loved him so much that it hurt.  And there were days that came and spoke to her: the feeling of freedom in one person, of finally finding what had for so long been sought - her Love.  Mentally though, the words to explain to him... they were caught. They were jumbled.  And for all the worry; he knew this.  He wanted with his every effort to make it all better for her.

But he couldn't.

Sitting in her garden she could tell that he tried.  She watched him come to her in sweetness and just smile.  He'd given up asking what was wrong since the last time her explanation came out sideways. Shame.  For she certainly loved to hear the care in his voice when he'd speak to her.  Shame that experience conditions the heart.

She pulled the weeds that choked out the brightest greenery in her garden and thought that one day soon, she would be able to hand him an invitation with all the right words. It would be perfect with gold lettering and flowing design.  It would have space and comfortability - it would be welcoming, promising and undoubtedly ideal. 

She would invite him to be her husband, to take her heart and protect it well. 
She would promise the same for him.

For as much as she didn't know, the one thing that she could count on as sure as rain was that for her, he was perfection.

Invested Energy of Focus

The way that I see it with my “mind’s eye” is that my brain is compartmentalized into many, colorful, and oddly-shaped boxes.  Some have trinkets of memorabilia; some have Swarovski crystals, while others are ink drawings, covered in dried flowers and decoupaged to the hilt.  They’re all representative of some mode of thought-process and are often called upon when the subject matter fits.  There is no “round peg; round hole” synapse here…it’s strictly dependent on will, emotion, energy and incredibly accurate.  The placement of each thought or engagement of activity has a reference point of subject matter in those colorful little boxes; similar to that of a cognitive card catalog.   And the point of all of this is that when something occurs and needs to be referenced, responded to, reacted on or have mental reflection, I go to what I know.  The problem exists therein.  If you’re made aware that what you know is dysfunctional - if you’re reference table is devoid of purpose any longer and if you’re effectively responded, reacted or reflected on something that has served no good purpose, how does one eliminate that strain from the brain?

             At first glance, I would assume that you would simply stop referencing that same old way of behaving and reacting.  But it’s proven that our little computerized brains create synapses of connectivity for thought by the history that we’ve engaged it to; a self-conditioning, if you will. So, then the question becomes “how does one un-condition?”  Maybe it’s like a computer disk and formatting it to erase all the old data and would-be information.  I’ve got to figure that one out – how to format my brain waves.  Not return to the same course of thought, action or process that I’ve done in the past – the ones that simply do not work.  

               I suppose that as I contemplate a new way of approaching the old and of creating new, I am engaging the new as we speak.  Don't wonder so much how to do it since you're already doing it.

The Web

I don’t recall it having started this way. You know, me: being pummeled through the universe with a milkshake in one hand, pen and paper in the other and all the while, attempting to maintain my sanity. I believe the purpose was to experience growth as it would be similar to the flowery expressions you find on bus stop posters or bill boards lining the highway of life. This though; this is for the birds.


In one aspect, I feel a pressure on the seams of my garments – pressure from elatedness, being happy and having faith that everything’s working out as it should. On the other side of those same garments, I feel the prickly sense of: anger, hurt, futility and an arm-load of that wrinkly face you get when you’re biting your tongue and cursing under your breath. That part usually comes out in a sarcastic sense of wit and charm.

The time span of this chaotic sensibility began years ago and somewhere in there I recall having the thought that the huff and puff of getting things done always seemed to land squarely in my lap. I didn’t mind so much at an earlier age because I could handle it, I welcomed it. I wanted to have the opportunity to prove I could do most anything. Now though, now I feel as though I’ve documented the pleadings of a sycophant and have to somehow remain on course while making efforts to get off the bus! I went to the doctor at one point – finally accepting that I was upset and depressed... that I’d cornered the market on not being able to sustain my innate sense of happy-go-lucky and somewhere deep inside, I was dying a slow, horrible, stinking, rotting death. I remember that day too: the day I walked in to the doctor’s office and hung my head to save the receptionist from seeing the dark circles under my eyes, or that she might assume (correctly) that I’d been crying for a good, long month’s worth of time. Either way, the doctor appeared – listened to my story, (P.S.: I initiated my consult with a “I think I’m depressed”) she made some medical hieroglyphs on my chart and then suggested that “I think you’re depressed…have you tried a calming bath? Do you get enough sleep? Maybe you’re not eating properly, etc.”. It was more debilitating if anything. At one point in time, the doctor did recommend that I get on some heavy medication, but I could just imagine that one coming to surface in the realms of the court. Lovely.

I did contemplate eating the “calming bath salts” at one point just to overdo it on sodium, but I believe I ran out of energy there again. Then there was the idea that sprung to life – I had decided that just to get someone to listen, I would pack my trail-blazing back pack and camp out on the steps of the county legislature building until someone had me removed, or pulled up a cot. Either way, I figured, they’d have to listen. They didn’t.

I conjured that I would begin painting billboards to place in my own yard – things that would read “Abusive Man Gets Away with Not Paying Child Support for Years”, and “How to Escape Accountability: Live Here!”, a “Can’t Keep Your Hands Off Your Kid? Get on the ‘Fathers’ Rights Train!”, or “Do-it-Yourself Widowing Company. Inquire Within”…but decided against my better judgment on that one too. Really, the whole point was (and is) to get someone to listen….someone, anyone, somewhere please just listen!

‘Round about that time, I landed on one of my best analogies for the tumultuous state of affairs that is being married to a madman and the subsequent child-rearing and divorce that follows: The Web. The Web, is the idea that I'm walking through this fiasco and like would be when you’ve stepped into a spider-web hanging almost iridescently in the trees…where it spans across your face and you feel the snagging tentacles of it between your eyelashes and around your mouth…that you pull at it. You make grand gestures of swinging hands and fingers to try and remove it from your head, but you miss. You keep waving arms and hands, wanting that eerie feeling to be removed from your life, from your person. You can feel it, you’re living it, and it’s there right in front of you…but to everyone else - everyone that sits on the side lines or can view you from afar…or can hear you, see you, know you – all they see is you waving like a lunatic. And because the mass populous really doesn’t enjoy spending much time investing in prosperous cognitive energy (i.e. to think) … you are nuts.

With that in mind, I'm investing in that awesome spray that they use in the movies. The stuff that hangs on the invisible rays of an infrared sensor so you can see where the lines are as you’re pulling off a jewel heist. That’s what I need…spray it on my face and *BAMMO*!

Proof.

That what I’ve been saying, doing and relaying all along: THE TRUTH!