strings

How do I explain it?  I had a strange dream this morning about some of the people I knew in high school.  They were in an adjoining room waiting for me to get out of the shower.  I closed my eyes and made them go away.  It was one of those dreams where you're the only one who doesn't have any clothes.  And I didn't really care if they could see me except that they clapped when I turned the water off.  So could they see me?  Weird.  Who knows.  They all still looked like kids, so I knew it wasn't "real."  I was awake.  I opened my eyes.

I viewed the intensity and hypersensitivity as simply the emotion my brain blossoms into when I'm getting some new insight because I don't often connect the dots backwards.  Sewing the future to the past is a strange sideways loping gait --half leaping through the hurricane, the fire, the divorces, the stock market crashing, the bankruptcy, the car wrecks, the murals, the book, the man from india.  I woke up explaining it all to my philosophy teacher from college.  I went through it again and again memorizing it in this new light.  Don't let it slip away.  Don't let it slip away.  It always slips away.

[I think it was the book that started it because one of the coolest questions I asked in it ten years ago got answered yesterday with this:

http://has20birds.gaia.com/blog/2009/11/month-of-conception-linked-to-birth-defects-in-united-states ]

I picked up a Grassroots magazine outside the library intending to mail it.  I was focused on meeting my old philosophy professor, telling him the story, writing my new understanding in stone.  I've only connected with him a handful of times in the last four years.  So it gave me wry smile this morning when he called me at work to ask a question about finding a tidbit of information from 1984 in Omni magazine.  What a coincidence.  If I pull on the thread ... like so ...

I'm going to stop writing now because of the energy I'm making room for.  To illustrate my point, a kid who's constantly the edge of a nervous breakdown is making a scene because he can't get something off his flash drive.  Ten people are standing around in the mess he made, reflecting his vibes while they're standing in line for technical support.  And the monthly testing of the tornado siren is happening simultaneously.  My boss calls me into his office and asks if something's wrong.  He can feeeeeel  the milieu a room away.  He's native american. 

I don't lay claim to it.   

Whew.  Let it go!  Maybe a nice, quiet library is the perfect place for a girl like me, eh Mr. Martin?