The Other Side

What’s behind
preferring longing
picking unavailable
Is the state of crushing
too good
to let go
Letting go is falling
maybe failing
Falling up
never happens
The cats and I are
at the window looking out
wanting out
but it’s raining
It seems that something better’s
on the other side
better than in here
We’re never happy
Once commitment’s made
the mystery fades
magic goes the way
of dancing on the moon
not as likely
as just staring at it
The outside cat
likes anything he’s given
Does freedom
makes everything
taste good.

 

 

Here And There

The kids were playing in the schoolyard, but not quite as many as usual. Some must have stayed in to avoid the gloomy fall weather with its anticipation and spits of rain. It’s hard to start off a morning happy when weather is so heavy but as soon as a bird chirps, all the gloom can be forgotten and it can seem like the sun is shining.

A beautiful red cardinal appears and doesn’t stay long because they’re skittish and as beautiful as they are, they don’t seem to like to be seen. The female comes to follow him at a water bowl. She too, leaves as quickly as a slurp’s time. Then some doves appear and the great-tailed grackles. They’ve shown up again after seeming to have gone missing all summer. Everyone seems to be looking for food and wanting water. Are they making themselves ready for winter?

A lot of people don’t like the grackles because they poke their long beaks deep into the ground and circle them around making holes, on the hunt for grubs. They could be glad because grubs are a nemesis of perfect lawns. Holes or dead patches neither make much status — so they just kill them both — the grubs and the grackles.  That way too, they don’t have bird poo on their cars.

Grubs are great for composting and for helping to improve or even make soil so for a permaculture patch of ground, all things are left to do what they do, as they please, despite the mess and irregularities that others hate to see. Fences make good neighbors.

Then the birds all scatter because the king of the jungle turns the corner on the hunt for his own nibbles or a drink of water. He tumbles around on a log on the ground, playing after scratching his claws.

It’s just a steady stream of living things so there is no sorrow in gloomy weather if you’ve finally had your coffee and perked up enough to see it all. Except that that circle of thought dredged up another circle-of-life thought and it comes to mind that it won’t be long before the kids have outgrown even the new building that just went up, blocking mountain views, and the person in the permaculture patch might be booted out to make more room for teaching more kids how to kill grackles and grubs.

It’s a little bit of a trick, getting past the initial gloom of barren trees and winter’s-coming breezes and shorter, not so sunny days — but there is work to do that requires these conditions. It’s time to get the pretty fabrics out and make a quilt to make the house brighter and more cozy while spring and other liminal spaces are being navigated — here and there, between the leaves and feathers.

Putting It Off

Every night, to help inspire sleep, I put on a movie that comforts me. It can be the same thing over and over and over again.
I’m like that with eating too. Once I find something I like, I will eat that meal plan to death before changing. Right now, I can’t seem to move myself from peanut butter sandwiches. There’s a stew I make that I love, love, love but with a lot of changes going on and activities around perfecting my home for lifestyle needs and minimizing items that are now being termed to be “object entanglement”, the kitchen has not been advanced enough to work freely toward making a stew. It needs to be soon, as I definitely need more veggies, (real ones, not ones powdered into a chocolate-flavored supplemental drink).
Anyway, the movie of choice is currently Mixed Nuts with Steve Martin, Juliette Lewis, Liev Schreiber, the late, wonderful Madeline Kahn and many other of my favorites.
It’s an older movie, 1994. I never seem to tire of it. Before I found this recent copy in DVD format, I had taped it, DVD style, from TV, (a very long time ago when I had TV), and poorly edited commercials as well as missed the beginning altogether — not to mention, the airing omitted lots of scenes to fit in those commercials. I can’t tell you how delighted I was to find a copy at our local Dollar General store. Now it’s commercial-free and complete and in much better definition.
That find was like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow for me. Can you imagine something so little, meaning so much?
Before finding Mixed Nuts, I was on a binge of Grumpy Old Men, the first one, not so much the second — although it is good too.
I’m pretty sure that I’ve identified why these two movies, in particular, comfort me. It is the tolerance the people have for each other, their efforts toward making their entanglements so cooperative and just the general sense of an extended family that each seems to create within its story line.
I will have to confess too, a great deal of what holds my interest in any movie, is the sets. Having come from a design background and loving interior spaces the way that I do, I scour movies for all the detail toward the ambiance that has been created. I also get a great deal of joy out of trying to find missteps. I think that process of observation helps my mind stay alert and create new synapses. Who knows.
Anyway, there is one early scene where Juliette’s character goes back to her store/apartment and I revel, albeit internally and without much noise, in the color and the eclectic mix of things that seem unrelated yet cohesive and a million little details like, how odd pieces of wallpaper were assembled to create a complete background in the little area where she and her boyfriend Felix have a couch as well as their kitchen.
I also, have had a store and so it is another of my dreams to create something similar — a store that one lives in — so that aspect of the movie always charms my senses.
And — the movie is filmed in Venice Beach, CA — so right up my artistic, eclectic love interests.
Draperies were a specialty of mine as I loved sewing and fabrics. It was a natural fit to extend my passion of all the things I loved, sewing, fabric and art,  to combine in a way that could earn a living. So, I sold window coverings primarily but also worked with clients on their whole-home projects — floors, walls, windows, furniture and accessories. Juliette’s character, Gracie, has installed swags and draperies in one of the passageways from one room to the next, (I do that too in my own home), and I couldn’t help noticing that she had different fabrics on the top treatments on either side but they were made to mirror each other with their proportions. Tonight, I will try to remember to pick out if there is one set of drapery panels or two. The patterns seem different, but it may just be that it is the wrong side showing through from one side that makes it look different. Those are the things that keep me going back to it for comfort.
For quite awhile, I had kept putting it off — the thing I started out this long blurb with — ordering my life for the better. Finally, I got the right wind. It might have been as simple as my nieces stating that they wanted to come for a visit. I couldn’t imagine them seeing my abode in the state of neglect that the putting off had created. Did that effectively take the blame off of me — putting off did it, not me?
So maybe this story I love to watch each night to put me to sleep is so that I can dream of my own abode finally being put into an order that equals what I love to look at in that movie — and — I wake up singing Christmas songs. Bonus.
It’s getting there — my own home.
The thing about putting off is that it just gets worse as time goes by. Doing something every day amazingly, almost like magic, puts it all back into shape again.
Everyday something.
It’s looking at it as a whole and feeling like it is insurmountable that is the killer of incentive. When I finally just grabbed something off the counter and found its rightful home and then did it with the next and the next and the next — there it went — back into shape again.
It does seem to help to have family around to keep one inspired — even if it is a movie family or the threat of nieces visiting.
Maybe some day I’ll have a Pinterest-ready home. Can you imagine living such that you are always Pinterest ready? Bah humbug. I’m not a fan of Pinterest anyway — it’s too hard to get to all the sources. So, maybe I’ll have it ready enough to feature in a magazine — like Where Women Create — with all the sources listed. Maybe I’ll create my own magazine. Life is for living, not for putting it off.

 

From A Spigot

Luxuries
Spigots
Spigots with hot water coming out
when they’re turned on
Functioning shower stems and heads with hot water coming out
Hot water
Hot water
Hot water
It’s so therapeutic
Great for migraines except that they hardly ever rear their ugly heads
anymore
they’ve been duly thwarted by
Luxury eating
Real food
Whole food
Sprouted bread — Food For Life – style
Avocados
Greens
Peanut butter
Oatmeal
Sweet potatoes
Onions
Mushrooms
Nuts and seeds
Potatoes
Kombucha — one a night for desert
Coffee
Brussels sprouts
Rice and beans
The food is a luxury because it cost because it won’t grow
here
yet
I’m working on it
Kombucha too
I almost forgot dark chocolate and bananas and apples
How could I
and sometimes pears and cantaloupe
when in season
Treats all day
This is what it’s like to be rich
and I’m not completely rich yet because
I’m still waiting on the hot water coming from a
spigot or a shower head
instead of boiled on a hotplate
There is a luxury plumber coming soon.

Little Baby Cows

“Wood Wide Web.” It was in an article that reads like a novel of sorts, almost bookish in length going into detail about the network lying under our feet below the few inches that equal soil — someone’s and some other’s experiences investigating it all — the Anthropocene and the microscopic cities being conquered without much alerted knowing or any concern. In it, this passage:

Only one of these recent coinages resonates with me: “species loneliness,” for the intense solitude that we are fashioning for ourselves as we strip the Earth of the other life with which we share it.

Heart breaking in its entirety — the thought of what humans do. Might it be enough to tread so lightly that one could forget about thinking of such things that others do? Once enough is known about how little one can get by with, to just do it and be done with coercing others. Could it be enough to atone the already done-wrong by giving up the pursuit of riches and profits from henceforth and forever? How can any solitary person influence millions to do a thing when they can’t even impact one or two? Is anybody listening? Are they just not ready? Are they off visiting the Nile or on Greta’s bandwagon going who knows where?

There are people who use leaves for toilet paper — not because they have to but because they choose to. That would be a hard one. There are some luxuries that even Russians stood in line for hours to avail themselves a single roll like it was so much gold. Maybe composting ones own waste is an adequate compromise or Who Gives A Crap  a good exchange for the 1000-sheets-per-roll Scott brand that uses new trees instead of recycled paper or bamboo. Maybe a bidet since so much water is wasted making TP anyway — exchange water for trees?

Oh the woes of the world keep tumbling down the conscious stream of mind for those who want to wake up and be not much able to ever sleep again — at least not in very much peace for those who tend to worry.

Christmas bells are ringing and it’s a happy coming diversion. Good will and peace praises will soon be filling the vacuumed spaces of actual doing. It may be okay to escape for moments but not on never-ending repeat. But who’s to say. To each his own. Let’s not get in each other’s way — they say.

Species loneliness — let’s call out names so as not to forget and gather together to have a wake before considering letting the love of all other things and each other go.

It seems impossible to find a place to go where there isn’t always selling or buying — a place where there is just being. All spaces are places that can’t be passed up as an opportunity to find capitalization — marijuana now goes public and the public goes where it goes as long as it’s proceeded by a stock share and judges who know it’s in there better interest to grease the wheels of progress as much if not more than prison filling — depending on the judge’s district and or jurisdiction.

Sometimes isolation isn’t isolation but is preservation of the soul for contemplation. For want of sacred counsel, it seems in one’s best interest now to limit seeking to within a sphere of their own soil and that soil’s microbes — because, certainly the evidence is in now that nobody previously thought to know really does or ever did — at least, not it all. But then, can anybody ever know it all?

A good start would be to start, but there is pizza to be eaten before mourning any of the little baby cows.

 

The Showoff Business

Jamie Lee Curtis used those words, the showoff business, in an interview she gave speaking about being in recovery for substance abuse.
Kevin Bacon said in another interview that he had a make-up pro create a disguise for him and apply it so that he could go out into some public space where celebrities frequent but where other people also horde to try to catch a glimpse of one. He wanted to see what it was like to remain incognito. It worked. No one knew who he was. He hated it. It really bothered him that no one knew who he was.
I had to start wondering why any of us want to be seen.
Or heard.
Or read.
I garden.
I sew.
I research health-related issues.
I write.
I keep pages on Facebook for the first three and post links to things from here as they are completed each day on my own timeline — much to my own chagrin because I’m not really sure I want family and close friends to know me this well. Strangers are much easier — though, I must say, I have deep challenges to overcome due to responses, or lack thereof, that I have to navigate and I have to keep reminding myself that I post things strictly for accountability.
Originally, the pages on Facebook were just a means of trying to keep track of what I found as I investigated things — but, as time went on and followers accrued, emotional challenges started to accrue in relation to follower’s engagement or, again, lack thereof.
Lately, I’ve been reading a book called You Are The Placebo. It’s more of the research on health-related issues. As I’m reading it, I’m wondering if it is just pseudo science and if it will be effective the way the author claims. That said, it is being useful to uncover some things about thinking patterns and how delicate thinking really is. Thinking has a huge impact on outcomes with regard to how our lives manifest to large degrees respective to satisfaction or I can’t get no satisfaction outcomes.
Something I am WELL aware of, and he brings up, is the part nature plays in how satisfied or not we are with life and I think of how much, each day that I am out in it working with my own yards and witness ants and birds and lizards and stray cats and leaves falling, etc., etc. of just how utterly sustaining it all is and then I want to run in and tell someone/anyone/everyone about it.
My own mother spent five years enduring a clinical depression that almost exhausted all the life in her. Somehow, she managed to escape it — in large part due to two people, who are also not alive anymore, that wrapped their arms around her and, almost literally, lifted her out of it. There didn’t seem to be anything her own family could do — it was strangers. Strangers that saw her pain and loved her out of it. Our love, she expected — strangers she did not. It was a gift and once that started, her life began again.
I remember of how absolutely excited she became and animated when I would show up and she would present the list of things she had done that day. She made lists. She kept every novel she read in a rack, hanging on her bedroom door — a tally of accomplishments is the best way I can imagine why she did it. Once she came back to life, she needed some way of accounting, some way for herself to see what she was becoming again. For most of the years prior, before the depression, she was her children. We were her. It was the empty nest that started her dissent into that literal hell that is depression. She had everything she was tied up into us. She had to relearn a new way to be once she got past that living hell.
So, where I am in the placebo book, he is speaking to just how we become what we are — how reinforcing behaviors by constantly recalling them — like PTSD — there is some biological process, (I have to read slowly and process things so this is the best I can relate it back at this point), that makes it rather permanent. I will give fragrance as an example. I can smell the fragrance my sister wore or an old boyfriend and bam, the memories flood my mind — and not always good ones. I intentionally gave away many of my CDs because I DO NOT want to provoke feelings associated with the past that are dredged up when listening to them. I don’t want to hash and rehash certain memories. I listened lately to Police’s King of Pain and went directly to a broken heart episode in my life. I had to quickly find something else to replace the negative, unwelcome feelings. That might be the moment that Jamie Lee Curtis would go for the Vicodin. Me, I go outside and watch ants march, collecting things to make their fungus — cutter ants.
Writing is different, at least for me. It is cathartic. It is a way to get the memories out of my head, on to paper and then the words can be stared at like my mother might have gloried at the rack of books she had read or the list of accomplishments on a given day. My past serves as fodder for stories and once they are out, they become friendly again — almost like they are someone else’s life.
So, for interest and to make this so-called story asymmetrical, (since I favor odd numbers and think they are more interesting), Diane Keaton brought up how she loves kissing and having love relations but she meant while acting. She says, relationships are perfect that way, they don’t have to go on and become anything more, or less. They are what they are and can be left right where the movie ends.
Why is it that so many actors abuse substances? Maybe they don’t any more than the proportion they represent within their own sphere that the rest of those of us that abuse do in our own spheres.
Why did Jaime call it the showoff business — and when she did, mind, she did it with a little bit of a snarl such to imply that she meant for us to hear the words with a negative connotation.
Someone might say that my mother was showing off when she couldn’t wait to present her list of daily-things-crossed-off to me the minute I arrived — like she had been waiting all day for someone to see her. I love those memories of my mother. I love to remember how animated and happy she was the last few years of her life. She was a wonderful person and deserved to be a celebrity. She was to her children.
At this point in the placebo book, I’m almost wanting to quit wanting anyone to see, hear, respond/not respond, read me. I am wanting to just watch the ants and for that to be enough — the focus for living a life of meditation — contemplating meaning as seen through nature.
Trouble is, I made a commitment. I said, to myself, and YOU, I will write something every day and post it. I think I committed to one year. If not, I will now. That seems fair.
People have been leaving my gardening page. I don’t know why. I can guess all kinds of reasons.
People have been commenting on my comments on other sites where I have felt compelled to have an opinion. One called me bitter because I called out a professional artist/writer for dissing his own son because he thought his son was stealing his artwork. He chastised his son in public as if his son was just one of his followers. I thought he was wrong to do it and simply said, “I feel like I shouldn’t be hearing this.” To which one person said, “Thank you for saying that. I felt the same way.” The writer went into a long recital of why he did it and tried to make it sound like he was admonishing anybody for stealing artwork. But, sorry, he said, “my son.” So when I said, “That’s family business”, and some other, I thought, well-chosen words back in response to his excuses, the second lady called me bitter. So be it, but it did instruct me that I would rather spend my valuable time watching ants from now on.
I will, however, honor the 365 day commitment to write something every day and continue to post here and link it on my timeline — for whatever it’s worth.
I may drop off the pages on Facebook, (except for my own timeline for the remainder of the 365 day commitment). Ants are so much more interesting, they don’t care how I look, I can’t get them to leave me, (not that I would want them to), and I highly doubt if they think I’m bitter or a showoff — they’re way too busy to bother with that bother. From now on, I want to be more like ants — busy in my own world doing something of value.

 

Mom, hovering over me

Mom, hovering over me.

 

Fear Of Falling

hollow deals
HoliDeals
showoff business
face lifts
young bliss
what a miss
it’s hard to step in cracks
on someone else’s face
let alone your own
so what’s to moan about
for fear of falling in
falling off
take it off
pull it back
poke a hole
let the Botox in
the extra cells
should be vacuumed out
so what’s the deal
why race to hide age
hollow deals
HoliDeals
showoff business
money talks
freedom walks
old age sanctioned
and boats loaded
to take anyone who gets there
out to sea
and dropped off
at the deepest point
never to be seen
or heard from again
otherwise the gray-hairs
drag the others down
that’s the bait
let’s all wait to show
our greater age
HoliDeals are waiting
selling tickets for escaping
being loaded on the boat
headed out to sea
gray hair
dry skin
droopy eyes
too much skin
doesn’t greater equals more
or something even better
agoraphobia’s a safe place
to escape
the sounds of others looking
and Amazon will air lift
or drone drop
all the hollow deals

Over The Phone

“You want to get married?” It wasn’t a proposal. He wanted to know if that was what she was wanting.
“What!?” The pitch of her voice went up at the end of her exclamation as she tried to imply he was joking around — like, how did he expect her to answer that? It almost sounded like he wanted to know so that he could ask her to marry him — trying to feel her out. It rolled off his tongue like it was sitting there just waiting for a chance to roll off.
“No,” she went on, “Marriage only makes something that isn’t very good less good. It certainly shouldn’t ever be what’s used to try to fix a thing.”
He tried to build a case for how marriage could be good, and how they weren’t bad but finally gave in and said, “I guess you’re right.” He sounded resigned, or defeated. “I keep hoping you’ll come on to me.”
“Sexually?” she wanted to exclaim again but tried to keep her cool.
“In every way,” he said. “We get along. We laugh. We think the same about a lot of things.”
He was always prodding. She was always trying to dig out the truth. They never really got anywhere, but they couldn’t seem to let each other go. They were hashing over their history, twenty five years and counting — most of it over the phone.
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” he said. “I love to hear your voice. Tell me a little story. Tell me about the cats. I just want to hear you talk.”
“I thought you were tired and wanting to go to sleep,” she puzzled.
“I do and I don’t,” he said. “Just keep talking. I just want to hear you talk.”
She could tell he was trying to go to sleep while trying to listen and then he perked back up and started again with sentiments.
“I know I messed things up. If we start a relationship again, it’ll be different.”
She’d heard those words before and said as much.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, “But things will be different. I can promise you that for sure. I just want a good woman. You are a good woman. I’ve always known that. I don’t know why I messed things up so much. Why don’t you move back here?” he asked for the hundredth time.
“Why don’t you move here?” she asked.
Another stalemate.
“Everything we’ve been for most of these years has been over the phone. It’s crazy to think we could ever be, again, something that we’ve never been. It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late until you’re dead,” he said, without skipping a beat and completely matter of fact. One thing was for sure, he didn’t give up easily and his sweet demeanor hadn’t changed one iota. His voice was always laced with sugar and subtle and he always came to conclusions about their affair that were kind and thought out — eventually — like he’d been mining for gold. He never fought — sometimes she wished he would.
They said good night, he called her honey and they let the conversation end again, without much resolve — as if there should be some.
So many different kinds of love there are. They really can’t be labeled. They’re made up as they go. There was love between them. There was no denying.
Sometimes what you want is too close to see. Just the day before she’d been thinking of how a miracle could occur and there he was the next day, pretending to be one — or maybe he actually was one and she was just incapable of seeing that he wasn’t pretending. Maybe he was scared — too scared to tell the whole truth. Had they been holding places in their hearts for such a day as this? Too many similar moments. She was backing up, in her mind, at the thought that she’d been fooled like this before and by him. Then she tried to think if it was really he or maybe it was she. It takes two to tango. “I keep hoping you’ll come on to me,” rang through her head again and she wondered if she had all along been too resistant and unforgiving. Maybe the truth she was digging for, the whole truth and nothing but, was that she was the one the most afraid of giving in, of getting and had been all along. Had she always backed up too quickly and gone running? Maybe she didn’t think that she deserved it.
He had talked about how way back then he’d wanted it as much as she said she did. “I didn’t want you to leave,” he said. “I thought we were falling in love too,” and “I wanted it to work out. I didn’t want you to leave,” he repeated for emphasis it seemed.
He kept talking about all the time they’d spent together and she couldn’t put her mind to when he thought that was. She had to think that maybe he had been with her in his mind and hadn’t let on– all the times he’d seemed so far away — because, certainly, they hadn’t spent as much actual time together as he kept claiming — it was in his mind.
Now she was hashing over the phone call, still digging for the morsels of truth in all the dialog. “I don’t know how I would fit in with all of the stuff you do related to your kids,” she’d said when he asked her to move back. “It would just be you and me,” he said, “I hardly see them any more. It would just be us.”
There was that miracle thing again. Sometimes it seemed like he could read her mind and knew just what to say to please her. It wasn’t that she didn’t like his kids it was just that she always thought she’d have to take a back seat and that didn’t seem very appealing. If she was going to give in to a man, any man, she wanted what she wanted and she wanted magic moments just for them and plenty of them and not to always have to play for seconds. She understood having kids, though she had never had them of her own. But she’d had a single mother and had known full well what her mother had given up for her kids and how men always took a back seat and didn’t like it and didn’t stay.
Do we just play out what we’ve always known?
“It’s exhausting!” she thought , “trying to figure this all out.”
“There’s one thing about you that I don’t like,” he reminded her. They had discussed it many times.
“I know,” she said. “I can only say that it is because I get frustrated when I feel like I can’t communicate with someone. When I think I’m not being heard and respected.”
“Where did you get that,” he asked, “Your mother, your father. Was your father mean?” He was hoping she could change that thing about herself. She assured him that she likely couldn’t as it was a condition of the way they were together and that if he couldn’t change the way he didn’t listen or respect her, she likely wouldn’t change either.
“See, when things get hard, you want to change the subject.” Now she was reminding him.
He tried to listen harder and understand. He was doing his best to make the effort.
Would they ever get better or should they just settle for over the phone? The same question for twenty five year now. When was it ever going to end. According to him, whenever one of them was dead. That was getting closer all the time too. Who could know.
She couldn’t help wondering if they could jump in and do it again, this time with more maturity, maybe their new-found happiness would overcome all their little issues. It was always fun to think — though not very likely even though they almost never get through a conversation without a guttural laugh that goes on and on from each of them laughing at each other laughing. It’s hard to fathom how a thing like that can’t overcome any kind of other little trouble.
The next thought that came rising up was why they keep trying to make it more than it already is. Isn’t it good enough to still be talking after twenty five and counting?
He wanted her to come on and she wanted him to come and get her. There’s some kind of trouble in there somewhere. The problem seems to be the follow-through. Neither one seems able to make a bold move and each of them thinks that they have made one, somewhere along the line. What in heaven’s name, will ever be the fix. Maybe it is like any drug, someone had to hit the bottom first and bounce back up — looking for the one who’s always been there. It’s just a matter of wait and see, which of them will hit the bottom first.

Aluminum Christmas Tree

June wind is different than November wind. June wind is a day at the beach if you are outside sweating pulling weeds as it’s cooling by evaporation. If your mind will behave, you can believe you are tanning on the sands of Laguna — especially if the wind-chimes chime and inspire meditation.
November brings invisible trails of Santa’s coming dust. It’s not so easy to think of beach sand and tans but easy enough to believe you’re on a tailwind, going to the north pole to visit his workshop — while remaining standing in the garden hailing his sleigh.
It starts the craving for the Aluminum Christmas tree and getting it out to set up to stare at — except for the darned cats. But it could have its own room, closed in behind a door that they can’t get through so that’s that — out it shall come at last.
1965, the year Charlie Brown ruined their popularity, was the very same year that an eleven-year old spent a night babysitting, being entertained by one instead of television. Pure magic as the color wheel went round and round, blending colors that reflected off the shiny, silver metal branches — effectively putting her into a trance whereby time went by very, very fast.
It’s uncanny, the impact such a thing can have.
Somewhere in the 90s, one was sitting in a vintage shop high on a shelf, glaring, just waiting for that eleven-year old’s memory to kick in and make her want to buy it. She had to have it — there was no doubt about it — there was something about that memory that she wanted to grab back.
It’s better known now that trying to evoke a memory is living in the past and sometimes that’s not necessarily good. It seems, though, that if a memory’s good it should not be a bad thing to hang onto and try to drag it up with a collection of shiny artifacts.
What’s the gist?
So it seems that it’s part of human nature to be able to recall good memories easier than bad ones and that it might be part of a survival strategy. It helps bad memories fade into the background if there are others that are good enough to dwell on.
What was that eleven-year-old girl trying to forget? What is she now trying to remember that she did forget?
Well, maybe it was as simple as forgetting that someone so good as Charlie was the culpit of the demise of Aluminum Christmas trees and that all those years later it would cost so much to finally have one — except that, she had no clue. She didn’t go looking for one then — she just knew she would eventually want one, if and when she could.
It may just be better that she did forget whatever it is that the tree now supplants and she should now forget about trying to remember what she so long ago forgot. Just get the darned tree out and enjoy it.
Sometimes something can just be too much to think about and it’s better to leave it, where it was left.