yobech505

Finding the Groove

I’m brain draining about all the compromises that become life, decisions, things that we do because we really let our still evolving head organs make the choice without loading the necessary data.  And to what finalizing result? We have what we thought we coveted but didn’t know, by any means, as absolute.

Time for the stimulated neurons to send a message to the muscles around the jaw and through the larynx, thus releasing a rather inquisitive “Huh?”
It’s the day after the wedding syndrome.  We wake up at 5:37 am, stare at the clock for a minute, then look at the sweet and contented someone next to us, and mutter in absolute silence of course, “what the hell happened?”

“How will I explain this to the person I love?  Oh, wait. This is the person I love.”  And here we are.

Right now, it’s all on a much lower scale.  Marriage is such a permanent thing, at least it is before the divorce attorneys get a hold of it.  But we do it on a much simpler scale when we search for the person we feel the ‘click” with.

Of course, we also can hear a click when the hammer of a pistol lands on an already fired shell after we squeeze the trigger.   Both make us flinch.

Does this make the relationship such a good idea?  If only we knew.  It’s one of those yes-no, maybe-alright, sort of-okay, I suppose-no way scenario programs.  It feels good.  Then it feels like, well,  sort of like, I dunno, not much?

I question you, Mr. Myself.  What are you willing to risk, what chances are you willing to take?  Do you REALLY know what you want?  Is this person it?  The it you’ve been seeking, but you just don’t know it yet?

There is just too many its.  It’s frustratingly annoyingly rather indecisive on my part.

No it isn’t.  You know when it isn’t there, or at least you think you do.  And the call you make is more than likely the right one if you say, then and at that moment, ‘ain’t feelin it.’

Who knows better for you, than you.  And maybe your mother, who you never listen to anyway so it is all moot.  Unless, as some of us know, she is the mom who lets you make all your own falsely stimulated boo boos then doesn’t gloat like she should.

Am I right or wrong in the decision I am going to make?  Who comprehends that one?  We don’t know.  The choice is a crap shoot.  We want that third ace.  All we can do is lessen the odds and pray that the one we finally decide to let sit behind the rider on the Suzuki is the one who will bring us the most happiness by being there.   But really, if we’re drawing with a pair of aces and a pair of deuces, another lowly deuce will beat that flush as well.

Looking for a way to fill that groove is not a light task.  Not necessarily difficult, but fraught with a necessary caution and a touch of sense that is always the most evasive thing to acquire when emotions get in the way.  Who is this person?  Why is this person here?  Is timing crucial, or irrelevant?

Don’t ask the heart.  It has no clue.  It just makes the determination based on the type of adrenalin the non emotional body creates and pushes into the working nerve and love centers.  It’s an amoeba with no brain of it’s own.  Yet it makes the decision that puts thing in motion.  And to love or not to love is the equation it attempts to solve.

Deceptions, Breakups, and Fibs

Often heard, yes?  “Be honest with me.  Tell me the truth.  I’m being upfront.  There’s no one else.  I need this, I need that, I need time for myself, I don’t want to be in a relationship right now.”

The myths of the breakup.  Blatant lies directed at us for reasons, sometimes with good intention, but more often with the purpose of getting out easy.  Or just getting out.   But, in truth, they are just that.  Lies.

Call it a fib, half truth,  misdirection, deception, it doesn’t really matter.

And I don’t give a rat’s fanny for any of it.   I would much rather just be told, “I don’t want to be with you.  We have nothing in common, I got what I needed out of this thing and you just ain’t part of my future.” It eliminates all the guesswork, the self doubt and the confusion.  No more “what the hell did I do wrong.?” No more worrying about what you have to change in your character,  behavior, or emotions.  Truth is, the other person is done, you’re toast and you will NEVER  be told the truth.  You aren’t even told when the decision came about.  And it isn’t something that happened over time.  It never is.  The die was cast on a rock one day a long before it was presented to you.  But the liar didn’t have the guts to tell you back then.

And don’t you just love the ‘subtle’ hints?  Mood changes, behavior flip flops, excuses.

It would still hurt like a finger in a car door for three months, but wouldn’t it be nice to get it all out of the way, honestly?

Nobody can do that.  They all wimp out, give excuses, then go out and disprove every damn one of them.  Hello!  Duh!   The injured party sits around in disbelief and injuring party goes out as if lying ones butt off is perfectly okay.

They can feign some sympathy, but it might as well be a comatose gesture because there is, except perhaps in some miniscule happenings, nothing above the boards about it. They lied.  End of sentence, end of paragraph, end of chapter, end of book, end of trilogy.

Nobody wants to tell the truth.  Stupid.  Breakups hurt anyway.  It doesn’t matter why it happens.  Tell the damn truth.

But most people are weaklings.  And they lie.  Then they become dumb too, because they don’t realize that it is as obvious as stink on a dead skunk, their actions are a scurrying contradiction of maximum quantity, disproving almost every word, every excuse they told you.

Busted!  Exposed!  They are standing outside the hen house with chicken guano all over their head and shoulders and their credibility goes down with used Charmin.

So take your excuses, your obvious lies, fibs, whatever, and slide them into the lowest vestige of your intestine.  Then go kiss a dead rat and curse yourself because of what you said, then did.  And know that you’re about as slick as concrete cinder blocks on asphalt.

Lie recipients just don’t want to process things right away. It don’t mean we’re stupid.

Okay.  I feel better now.

Shelves

Sometimes I’m lost in a section of my own history that leaves me in a mystic trance.  Not out of control, or oblivious, but wondering.  In the ‘deep end of the woods’ wondering.  What was the needing, why do emotions and hearts concur more with what didn’t happen than with what did?  Where, in all of this, is the reason for the person we have first, primary in the cell space between our ears?

Our purpose is more often analyzed as a subject of experts.  Religions, Materia Medica,  Science,  and the proverbial European or Eastern philosophy soothsayer tells us what it is, why it happens and where it is supposed to go.

Yet, what do they really comprehend?  How deep into the human emotion can someone who has never been inside any brain but his or her own really scoop into the inner thought rails of someone else.  They guess.  Some, I suppose, sell snake oil while others delve into research, asking tens, hundreds, or thousands, what is it that is really rolling around in the memory and purpose cage?

You can tell them whatever you want, by the way.  You never have to avoid fibbing.  Huge whoppers or mini truth benders are at your disposal.  The real inside story is yours alone.  Do with it what you wish.

Or, more than likely, it will do whatever in hell it wants to do.  And it has nothing or everything to do with what comes out of the mouth.

The inner thought is independent.  It doesn’t need anything but the heart.  And it decides what should come out as truth, based on need, desire, or the true strength of the heart to hold on to what only it can decide is necessary to share.

Emotions play a part.  They have to.  And so does maturity, in that same sense.  And that, too, determines what an ‘expert’ really needs to know.  Further, it’s translation is pure made up mumbo jumbo, subject to the point of view of the person who thinks the mind of the individual can be broached.

So I could say I love you, and I always will, and to you it could always be just words.  It could be to me as well.  But you, and your guru,  will never know in absolution.  Only my brain can go that deep.

Actions often make noise for us as we do our best to prove a point.  The partially used human brain can put on quite a show, making all kinds of neat attempts at overloading the target with propaganda filled praise. Self appointed pros could say they are nothing but attempts to influence favorably. And in this regard, we can only depend on trust from the other person that what we say is what is really true, based on what is collective in our neurons and memory storage device.

Do I say it in sincerity?  I’m telling you that I do.

Emotional maturity might keep me from announcing it, but, as this writing itself attests, that is not the case.

It is irrelevant through all that though.  I know how I feel.  I know what is going on.  I know what direction it can go, can’t go and probably will go.  I could tell the college trained expert the same thing.  This ‘psych’ title prefixed person will then analyze it, take it apart, rebuild it like a Lego fort, and tell me what I need to do.    I can be told ‘that it will go away’, ‘I will learn to handle it’, ‘it is part of growing up’, ‘learn from it’, and other endearing remedy quotes of expertise.

Advice offered with sincerity.  But only I will really know.  The true inscription is carved in a place only I can find.  So, if I say ‘I will love you always’, only on a shelf somewhere inside of me, do I keep the evidence that it is true.

The Memory Jar

I always had the inkling thing; memories, or so I pensively implied to myself, eventually went to their place and just kind of hung out there,  undisturbed, at least until you wanted it.  They were dropped into this jar that hides in the cerebrum somewhere, lid on so tight that it could only be removed with so much effort that towels from a drawer had to be used to wrangle it off.  I was safe from their impact, and the effects of what they were didn’t cause stir, or any kind of miscues to memory cells.

Didn’t figure the lid would come lose on it’s own.

Yep.  finagled it clean off, then misplaced it.  Not planned, but despite caution overdone, it occurred just the same.  And the content was laid out all over the area, bouncing off spots I was sure I had scrubbed thoroughly, leaving residue I was sure I had unremembered.

Slim kind of fat chance on that one.  I remembered, with a sort of impeccable vengeance. New things got pushed into muffled corners and old ones scattered about, taking charge with an abandon that makes reckless seem like a clawless and mellow stuffed toy kitten.

It’s not a ‘keep you tossing, going from blanket to sheet and back to blanket, then nothing, all night’, kind of memory.  It won’t be a stress revitalizer, or even a big mood changer,  but it did refresh the cells that playback that kind of stuff.  And it did peak a sense of what once was but isn’t any more.  The ‘sadness’ thing, I suppose.

I could try to back myself off, excuse myself from the feelings.  It would be futility, only a token attempt to allow myself to tell it, “I’m bigger than you,” which would be a fraudulent fib from my ego to my id, which both have tried playing before.

So here she was, on a day like it seemed she had never left.  But I needed her, not for myself, as least in the way that things once sauntered about, but for other reasons unrelated to the ‘used to be’ mode.  And here I was, in ‘behind the stone wall’ defensive mode, cool, aloof, in control of the situation.

Yeah, Right. Surface toast.  The burnt slices are underneath, their charcoal sides invisible to all.

Survival is not an option choice on the list of menued items.  It just is.  And I’m good at it.  After all, I’ve had scads of practice.  So I survive the encounter, and will eventually emerge without even a micro scar.  But I so underpredicted the inner ability of the event to remove the lid.  It popped off.  Easily.  And it allowed so much to break free from the leash, that I was, if not many more things, dumbfounded.

We all want what is best for others, especially those whom we love.  But we all need what is best for ourselves, which is just as hard, if not harder, to reconnoiter and acquire.  The problem that tends to attach itself to that, is that we don’t have a safe enough place to store it when things change.  No container is unopenable, just as no heart is immune to breakage.

I’m not sinking.  The training I’ve put the mind through the last time is keeping the ocean from busting through the waterproof doors.  Memories that kept me awake don’t.  Dreams that sent me off in distracted directions are dormant.  Gradually, the area will be resheveled  and the jar will be refilled and placed back into the nook that was built for it.  Maybe this time it will have some extra tape around the lid.  Won’t keep it shut, though, even if, in the most distant depths of me, I really wanted it to.