Birds of a feather

Sarah worked thoughts. She molded them, coated them with colors, packed them into square boxes or wheels. It had taken fastidious attention at first. In the beginning she had had to learn each word intimately, turning it over and around in her hands, listen to it whisper its desires and fears. Sarah discovered what kind of skin certain phrases had and what they liked to feel against their bodies. She noted which thoughts were friends and which were enemies; which ideas like to be alone and which ideas craved company; which conversations craved praise under a spotlight and which preferred the humble shadows.

Sarah also watched people accept these ideas. She discovered some people preferred a certain phrase packed in a red circle while others seemed to take the phrase better when it had a green stripped cushion around it. Some words seemed to slip straight through a person without them having been aware that it had touched them. She studied the thoughts were mutilated once they’d made it into a person. She watched as a purple wheel of an idea slid into someone and was then crushed and twisted ruthlessly until it became a yellow box. The yellow box then came flying back at Sarah and she stared at it like she’d never seen it before.

For a time, her time was filled figuring out how to package certain ideas so they would be accepted quickly into the people she talked with. Sometimes the creations would bounce of someone; sometimes they’d sink in slowly, working through some resistance initially but finally making it in as they changed shapes and colors in the other person’s mind; sometimes they made it inside but fell heavily under the gravity of disregard.

Try as she might, Sarah was never able to create a combination that didn’t have to undergo some change as the other person accepted the words she gave them. She could get close to the right shape and color sometimes, but there always seemed to be the need for a subtle change on the other person’s end of things. And she found the same thing happened with her.

She watched the phrases produced by other people and she felt they had a tendency to come out in ways she’d never seen before. Words that she thought would normally be shiny and metallic triangles were given to her as flat, octagon disks. She worked to dismantle these disguises and rework the words so she could understand them. None of the thoughts ever came home to roost without the same tweaking she witnessed in other people.

This process had become so familiar that it happened in the background. She was only aware of the routine when it was extremely important that the ideas and thoughts be accepted by her conversation partner with as little manipulation as possible. Most of the time autopilot took over the molding and shaping and conversations were fairly smooth. The effort of translating became second nature, a reflex that she took very little notice of.

One day, she was shocked back into awareness. She was talking with someone and watched the thought float towards the person and slid inside easily. This person didn’t need to make small changes to the colors or textures. There was no grinding of gears, no manipulation of thoughts. She watched wide eyed as the ideas settled in like they were as at home there as they would be if this person had created them. A little shocked, Sarah tried to brush this off as an anomaly that wouldn’t be repeated.

Then came with another surprise. This person produced a new series of words and ideas. As they came towards her, Sarah froze in disbelief. She’d never seen anyone produce words identical to the way she would have done them. She felt them ease into her and she could detect no tweaking that needed to be done. As they settled into her, she felt as if she herself had produced the thoughts. They didn’t feel alien - didn’t need to be quarantined until they had been fixed. She had never realized such a thing was possible.

Over time, Sarah discovered that this was not an odd occurrence during conversations with this person. In fact, the opposite seemed to be true. Words were traded between the two with such ease, thoughts took on the proper color naturally; there was no quarrel in either of them about the ideas and how they should be formed. Sarah began to crave this newness. During these conversations she found there was no need for autopilot; there was no need for any struggle at all. Muscles that had moved automatically in the background for many, many years found that they could rest, a sensation they had never been able to experience. She felt softer and more at ease – less watchful of the ideas flowing towards her. There was no longer a need to brace for the struggle to change things into something that she could understand.

And life continued. The same caution of shaping thoughts, the same frustrations of watching them fighting to find a home in other people followed her. Her automatic pilot still did a lot of the driving. But Sarah found that she looked forward to the times of rest, when conversation could be had and there was no need to shift colors or shapes for the ideas slid in cleanly and with acceptance.

New Paints

Trish feels heavy against the pillow. Her limbs are weights too heavy for her bones to move at this moment. Through the haze of exhaustion, her skin registers the breeze from the ceiling fan pushing her deeper into the mattress. She's trapped. Her brain is betraying her, making her a hostage who is conscious but unable to move to freedom. And, like the hostage, she watches her capture through bleary eyes. Her brain is going about it's work, indifferent to her needs and focused intently on sorting the materials in it's hands. Abandoned in this world of flickering images that she can neither slow down or sort out, Trish lays helplessly and waits for mercy.

From her spot, Trish watches the strange process before her. Thoughts become a physical form, ghostlike images that cloud the air around her mind. Images, smells, thoughts, and experiences are rushing to report to duty, answering an inaudible call that had gone out earlier that day. She can hear flickers, clicks, murmurs fill the area; her brain plucking each of them from the air to sort them into piles. It plucks an image, turns it, tries to fit it against another, discards it for another. This process is repeated until the fit is seamless. Unrelated words are answering the call now, creating a chaos of noise that is colliding with the whirs and pops already coming from the complicated process before her. Trish witnesses her mind pluck them quietly from the air and sort them into the appropriate piles. Detached and distant she considers the process; she can't seem to figure out the ordering system in use here.

Her brain pauses briefly, Trish pushes the advantage and rolls onto her other side. Her eyes are trained to search out the red numbers on her alarm clock. By the time the numbers register her mind is back in control and is focused intently again. It's moving through the images and sounds now, traveling around bodies, tunneling between relationships. It grabs moments from years past and swirls them with minutes from the yesterday. Trish watches the moments spin so fast they finally merge and become a new color. Sounds are ground with words creating a glittering substance. Her brain plucks more and more from air around it, tediously clipping, matching, merging them into miraculous new substances Trish has never really seen before. It seems to be putting together a new pallet - a new stock of paints to work with. Textures are being recombined, resorted, reassembled - her brain painting a new map from the ragtag army of new and old images and thoughts.

Hours pass. Her brain frantically continues it's work and Trish begs it to just let the day end. Can't her mind understand that she needs to function in the morning? Does it think this is productive? She grows frustrated with the endless shuffling it seems so intent on. She wants control of her body back. She needs to be allowed to sleep or at the very least be able to get up and distract herself. Instead, she's being forced to lie here and watch this insane alchemy. She whimpers quietly and her brain coldly rebukes her, like a scolding parent who is trying to think and will not tolerate any distraction. She's been confined to her room and has been commanded to stay there until it is appropriate for her to come out. She cowers back and surrenders.

The flickers continue to arrive. They pour in and are tossed up, then crushed into one paste or another in her brain's mortar and pestle. Her mind's fingers reach out, snatch a bit of this and a pinch of that. Dazed, Trish lays and just watches, long since giving up figuring out the reasoning behind the process. Her brain seems to appreciate the ceded control and whirls double in it's efforts. Finally, a tornado of tugs, pinches, aches, pains, wounds and victories all twist together violently. They shudder for a minute, the mixture is alive and trying to determine if this is a stable match. Finally it heaves itself into stillness and becomes a calm pool. The breaks and tears that have occurred in years past are settling down. They fit against each other, one void accepting the excess of another. Her brain steps back, seemingly satisfied thus far, and begins to paint a salve over the new images and thoughts, soothing them back into stasis. The new colors seem to be a perfect match though Trish can't quite make them out; the vibrations coming from the new mixtures heat her skin, lulling her further into complacency. She is being seeped in things she doesn't yet have a feel for. There is an unfamiliar coating of recombined understandings - strengths and weakness are mixed together to create a new salve for her new wounds.

Trish's brain stops, panting and weary from the intense focus. The silence is mind-numbing after the chaos that preceded it. Trish wearily regards her mind with a measured look when she feels it letting her go free. The hostage situation ends with the sharp bursts from the alarm by her head. She rolls, hauls herself up out of bed and forces her way into the shower. She recognizes this familiar feeling of trust. Her job is to go about her day and trust that this new skin will become comfortable. As time passes, the newly combined elements into a new fine wine. Her brain will step back and the two of them can relax in her patio chair,sipping on wine and enjoying a new view of her life.

But first a shower. It's gonna take a while to get used to this.

Treasures

Shelly smoothed her hand down the length of the dress. The sleekness of the garment translated to a cool silky feel beneath her hand. Grinning and eager, she reached up for the hanger; she was ready for tonight.

This dress transformed her into someone sexy and confident. Rationally she knew she was still the same person she was each day; the shape of her legs and the texture of her skin were the same as they had been yesterday. Sure, her hair had been dried and styled after her shower today rather than left to dry but her core was no different; her desires, secrets, and goals remained unchanged. She pulled on the dress and when her head appeared at the top of the dress the shoulders the dress settled on were the same shoulders she'd seen in the mirror yesterday. As the hem rushed to its proper place, Shelly relished the snapping of the material as the length fell into place. The zipper was ushered quickly up her back to the top of its track and a hand smoothed down the front, laying the dress against her. Shelly stepped back to take in the final product. She was giddy with the difference she felt.

She twirled and twisted, encouraging the skirt to dance with her and the waist to skim lightly just above her hips. The dress teased her mouth into a smile and she felt the blood in her veins with an awareness that had been missing lately. This was the dress she chose for the nights where living and playing seemed lighter and easier – the nights when the mundane tasks could be forgotten – the nights when indulgences of pleasures and laughter were encouraged. The clean lines, heavy silkiness and seductive movement of the dress coaxed a bounce into her step. Shelly treasured this dress, immersed herself in joys and treasures in this dress, escaped in this dress.

She stepped into her heels. Then allowing the spin in her head to spin her body, Shelly threw one last glance at the mirror. She quickly closed the closet door and snatched up her purse. When tonight was over, she'd carefully clean the dress and store it once again. There, it would hang, silently, patiently, until she could indulge herself again. But that was later and this was now.

She grinned, locked the door and tripped towards the waiting car.

*

Shelly pushed her wet hair back from her face, smoothing it with a practiced gesture. Her mind wrestled with the order of the day while she blindly reached for her jeans. Thoughts of necessary chores rolled through her head as she performed her unconscious dance. First the right foot went in. She straightened halfway up with the first pull then bent again. The left leg raised; the left foot went in. That was followed by a rise onto her toes as the waistband was pulled up and a quick small twist to settle everything into its proper place. An efficient twist of the fingers and a slight flick of the wrist would secure the waist band and complete the process. Shelly completed all of these steps as she stepped out of the closet and glanced around.

Shelly felt the comfort of the pants hanging from her waist. The jeans hugged her thighs with just the right encouragement, reminding her that there was protection from the variety scrapes that one can accumulate while pulling weeds or mowing the lawn. As she headed to the kitchen to finalize her plans, she picked at the signs of wear the jeans showed - a string here, a small tear there. Today was yet another day of small tasks and mundane chores.

She stood quietly next to the kitchen counter and finished her coffee. Staring blankly at the wall in front of her, Shelly's mind worked quickly through her plans for the day. She blinked it all into order, set the cup down and turned for the door. This was her life. Small tasks of grocery shopping, vacuuming and folding laundry hardly seemed glamorous. Taking the recycling out and washing the car didn't require more from her wardrobe than comfort. This was the pair of jeans that proved that. This was the pair of jeans she lived her life in.

Test of Time

We will stand like the trees. Bend when we must, break when it's too much, grow tall and strong, patient enough to wait out the droughts. We will lift our faces to the sky and drink in the rain with joy and enjoy the lightening with quick fear. We will dig our feet into the ground and hold on with all of our might.

We will remain silent when we should. Tall, proud and humble, beautiful.

We will take your breath away.

*This is a re-post of sorts - from an old blog hidden in the memories of the internets. This is a beautiful friend that taught me many things over a series of trips to the west coast. He never failed to be exactly what he needed to be. This is my only way of introducing him to a new friend.