Cat Lover

Fur - like spiderwebs ungrounded - flutters
In wisps as thick as my palm yet insubstantial;
Floats upon the near stillness of the air
Away, through my grasping fingertips.

My intent in capturing these ephemeral and
irritating leavings is to gather them into a tightly knit ball in
The palm of my hand.
I want to make them have meaning.
I want to crush them into useful solidity.
Most of the time, I just want them to go away.

Individual fibers like
fur,
hair,
dander, and
skin cells are
Significant.
When not properly collected and disposed of, they infiltrate
Every aspect of your environment - both internal and external.
In rare occasions, they wreak havoc beyond their customary
Annoying presence.

Yet, if we collect them, drive them to a new purpose
They can be useful
To warm us when we are cool
To soften our senses

Movies and Meaning

I have been watching classic 80's flicks this week: The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller's Day Off, specifically. Less than a month ago, I re-watched one of my favorite films The Hours. A common theme I'm seeing is making connections with other people and with the world in great or small ways that ultimately impact your life in a meaningful way. In some cases, these seemingly small encounters lead to vast changes in your life.

Part of the tragedy of suffering from Bipolar Disorder II, or depression in general, is the difficulty connecting with others, with life, with God (in whatever form you choose to believe). Difficulty is too feeble a word. I long to connect (that's a fancy word for really, really want - thanks Fancy Nancy). Too often, I find myself too lethargic, timid, angry, to reach out. Then, when I do, I say inappropriate, superficial things that further distance me from others. Alternatively, I assume others cannot or do not want to connect with me. Or that, even if they do, they will not be able to because who could understand someone like me?

I barely understand myself. Yet, I am the authoritative source of facts regarding my existence.

Next up on my watch list: Mallrats, Clerks, Sliding Doors, Ghost World, Silver Linings Playbook. Perhaps in re-watching these films, I'll find the answers I'm looking for.

What do you think is the core message professed in these movies, if there is one at all?

How do you effectively communicate and connect with others?

Recurring Dream

The dream again. My childhood home. Early 80's construction. Single family home. Marble foyer. Furniture reminiscent of the 70s: Tan with a brown and orange floral pattern. Wood paneled walls opposite a wall of windows.

I am at the front door peering out the open door at the quiet street beyond; sensing something foreboding. 

I race through the living room, the kitchen, the utility, to the back door. 

Lock the screen door. 

Bolt the inner door. 

Peer cautiously out the window at the back yard. 

The garage. 

The garage door is open. 

I undo my work, race across the narrow path, bolt and lock the door after verifying the garage door is shut. 

I peek over the gate down the drive to see if someone is coming. No one. Just cars. 

Too many cars. 

I bolt inside and repair the damage done to the back door. In my haste, I tore the screen. 

I fumble with the lock. As I hear it click, I realize I do not remember locking the front door. I race back through the house. The door is open wide. I step out onto the porch. No one is there. 

I bolt back inside and lock and dead bolt the door. I back away while squinting to see through the decorative glass. 

I turn and stare at the living room. All is right but not right somehow. I step off the marble entryway onto aged brown carpet. I tiptoe to my room. My windows are locked. I draw back the heavy window panels so no light shines through. Satisfied, I leave the room, drawing closed the heavy wooden French doors. 

I tiptoe past the fireplace and built in book case where my parents display knick knacks and inherited antiques. 

To my parents' room. 

To check the glass sliding doors to be sure they are locked. 

To be sure the curtain is drawn, the bar drawn tightly across so they cannot be slid open at all. 

The room is dark now. Faint light shines in from the living room. 

I step into their bathroom. There is only one window. The same I broke through once when I forgot my key. It looks out at the backyard, across to the fence where I think I see movement. I know if I must escape an attack from the front, I could go through this window, over the fence, and into another neighborhood. From there: I do not know. To the gas station at the end of the neighborhood on the main road? Who would help me?

I trace my steps back through the house checking locks, window coverings. My vulnerabilities: Do I have the keys? Can anyone get through the back windows? They are locked, but not covered. Am I alone here? 

I make my way down the furthest hall to my brother's and sister's rooms. His is very well defended. Dark, closed off, facing the neighbor's house. I could escape theough here if need be. 

My sister's room faces the front of the house, offers me visibility. Not safe to stay. Only to prepare myself. But I could hide in her closet. It is deep, dark, and cluttered. Good for disappearing. If I need to. 

This is the basis of one of the recurring dreams I had in my teens and twenties. They ended in various, bizarre ways. 

Once, there came a flood and there was no escape, hiding place, or gas station attendant who could possibly save me. I prayed my house would become a lifeboat. It did not. 

Sometimes, they came for me through the front door and I escaped but got lost in the next neighborhood, could not climb the fence, was ignored by the gas station attendant, or it was abandoned or closed. 

Sometimes, my dog was in the back yard staring at me through the windows with fiery red, glowing eyes. I felt terror.

Sometimes, I escaped through the back but could not find car keys, or I could, but there were so many cars. I could not find the right order. I could not get one out past the others. If I did successfully pull a car out of the drive, I got lost in the labyrinthine neighborhood. The streets and houses all seemed foreign to me.   

The last dream of this series: 
I voluntarily opened the front door and hesitantly made my way down the walk to the mailbox where my mother was waiting in her nightgown. She glared at me disapprovingly, and I screamed, cried, begged, and hated her with the fury and passion only a child can feel. 

I woke up screaming. It was the first and last time that has happened in my life to date. 

I was 29 years old. I have not had that particular recurring dream since.  

Creativity and Responsibility

Aging is a process of gaining and losing.

Creativity has become

Second-in-command.

She defers to Reason and Responsibility.

Sometimes I let her come out to play. I see her

Peeking around corners

Eyes twinkling

Fingers pointing

Head beckoning me to follow.

My little artist and her creative partner in crime. 

These moments that once came so frequently and

At all hours of the day and night

Now visit me in the dead of night

In dreams

Or the moment my head touches my pillow.

Reason and responsibility insist that I count myself

Logically to sleep.

"Do not deter from your mission."

They insist.

"Be at peace. You need your sleep.

We do not know what time baby girl will wake up or

What crises may occur for which you will be

The foundation they

All cling to."

My doctor told me today that I am the heart of my home.

Not in a proverbial way but in

Truth; in practice; in "real life."

My mood, my actions set the tone

My family will follow.

I pray that I will be a good influence on my family.

That I will guide them well and

Teach them to be true.

Which truth do I teach? 

Creativity, or

Responsibility. 

I could aspire to teach them balance, but I have

So little. 

I am silent when I should speak. 

I speak when I should remain silent. 

Perhaps I'll teach them to be human. 

To leave a unique mark upon the world

No matter how great or small. 

We are infinitely insignificant as a species;

Insignificantly infinite as individuals. 

Kindreds

I used to wrap my wrists in ribbons -

Cream-colored lace with brocade patterns of

Cerulean blue fleur-de-lis and 

English ivy. 

My eyes, I outlined with bleu kohl and

Grass green shadow

My dress was vintage white meaning

Well-loved. 

My black lace-up boots were hidden by

My hem. 

I was not fashionable. 

It's hard to be unique and different.

This is cliche and seemingly pompous 

It doesn't make it any less true. 

I painted my nails black and 

Wore my father's flannel. 

I hid my face behind 

Cascades of auburn hair. 

On my 16th birthday, I received 

Two precious gifts:

A neon pleated maxi dress made of heavy linen 

Circa 1965

And a pair of braided hemp platform shoes

I'd been coveting. 

My girlfriend gave these things to me. 

We kissed only once, but it was enough. 

She knew me better than I knew myself. 

She dressed me like her doll -

I was a poor reflection in my eyes alone. 

And when she came to me crying on my couch

I knew that we were kindreds. 

What I didn't know then that I know now is that

A kindred does not last

Forever.