yobech505

Losing Sleep

What is the protocol for dealing with what once was, but isn’t, with someone who your feelings haven’t change for, who’s connection to you has changed, at a time when you are still trying to deal with what the hell happened in the first place?

It’s like creating an agenda for a goldfish race.  What time do the fish want to start?  Where is the starting line?  What are the qualifications that would allow the little orange rascals to enter the competition in the first place?  Do you include time trials?  Is there a pole position?  Is the winner the one who FINnishes first (Ewwwww, bad pun!)  It would take a long time and to what concluding purpose do we strive to end the whole tham ding?

It keeps me awake. 

The hard part, of course, is all the other fecal matter that fits into the little spaces of thought and makes it even harder to answer the question you were asking in the first place. 

What is it about trying to sleep that keeps a person from going to sleep in the anyway?  We’re tired.  Sometimes exhausted.  We’ve been awake for awhile, so it’s only a natural course to take that says, “Guess what? Time to go to sleep.”  We all know it and we all just lie there, blatant in awakeness, unable to shut off the organ between our ears.

This is supposed to be about relationships, or the absence of one, or the crumbling of one.  Oh. It is also supposed to be how this interaction, or the missing part of it, keeps us awake. 

We all figure that, by the time we decide not to look at our cursed alarm clock any more (usually around  4 a.m.), we will nod off and actually sleep. Of course, that is directionally proportional to the time we have to get up.  If we don’t rise until after nine, sleep will show up about 1:30 a.m. or so.  But if it’s 5:30 start time, you can bet 4:30 will be sleep time.

All because of the relationship thing. 

So, those of you in are in active relationships can ignore most of what is on this page.  Your only concern is a snoring partner, a bed hog or some other spatial infraction that is apt to make you uncomfortable but not necessarily brain lit.  Restless sleep versus no sleep at all.

What I am going to do is sit back and think about that original protocol, if it takes all night!

Up on Two Wheels

My least favorite sentences:  I hate motorcycles.  They’re so dangerous.

What?  It’s a machine, controlled by a human being, and is only as dangerous as the skill of the rider.  It’s the car that is dangerous, not the motorcycle, especially if the two collide.

The pure acceleration kicks the heartbeat up numerous notches.  It’s a thrill to get to the speed limit faster than a $50 K automobile.  Much faster.  At cruising speed, there is an open wind that massages the body, making the rider feel one with the machine as it cuts its way through the atmosphere.  Everything, the scenery, the road itself, the sky, all seem like part of you.  You’re right there with it, open, euphoric and in a mode of freedom that nothing else provides.

Two up?  Safer than riding alone sometimes.  You don’t take the chances you might when riding solo.  And it has another big advantage, especially if the other rider is your significant other.  She’ll hold on tight, as close as she can get, and squeezes you through the turns.  It is as warm a feeling as two fully dressed people can have towards each other. 

I miss that part of it.  My last few rides have been one up.  Not my ideal but a necessary format for now.  Saddest part of the whole thing was that my last co-pilot was just starting to get the feel of the back seat.  Scooting along as one, especially when two, is a fun way to ride.  Experience makes a passenger good at it. She was so close.  It was one shoe print away from perfection.

Solo again. 

And back to a little bit on the nutty side.  Pushing a little harder in the turns, Accelerating out of them with the bike leaned over to what some would critique as too far.  Punching away from the stop light so fast that the Corvette driver beside you is staring in a ‘what the hell was that’ coma.

Two up.  The freedom of the American Highway!  Wheels, wind and wishes that the ride could go on forever.

Keep us out there, keep us riding, be safe, be smart,  Put a muffler on it.  An idiot in a Chevy does not condemn every Chevrolet driver.  An idiot on a motorcycle condemns every motorcyclist.  We don’t have the political numbers to sway the vote.  A sad state of affairs but the truth none the less.  Motorcyclists have to be the good guys.  Think about it.

What Were You Thinking?

My own vocabulary:  Cortexed : verb  Kor-tekst  To plant into the memory of the brain 

I believe I know what goes on in that rather attractive head of yours.  I can tell what you are thinking just by the way you act, your actions, body language and the tone and fluctuation in your lecture.

I have experience.  I’ve been around the block more than a few circumnavigations.  I know.

Okay.  So I don’t really know.  I observe, listen, deduce, then I guess.  Hey, whatever gets the rind off the lemon. The sour part of the message is in there somewhere.  I need to find it.  So I go looking.  I put all the information I gather in my inquiry in a giant colander, shake the miscellaneous doo doo out, then I use a top scientific application and I guess.

I like to think I’m right.  It makes it easier to accept whatever happened.  It allows me to blame, accuse,  implicate and feel like it was somebody else and not me.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m not right some of the time.  Even a blind worm can find the right mud  if it has enough time before it dries out in the sun.  Of course, worms don’t have eyes, so I guess they’re all blind.  Still, that doesn’t change the fact that I can be right about it.

I have convinced the inner parts of my mind that all of this was part of some conspiracy in another’s brain.  It was deep cortexed, brought on by a series of, by themselves, barely significant actions on my part, added up to make me undesirable, a ‘friend’ rather that a lover, a threat rather than partner,  a burden rather that supportive. 

The hardest part of all of this is admitting that the information I managed to scrape together and pile up outside a mucked stall may not be accurate.  In fact, the inner workings of that mass jumble of cells and neuro transmitters is down right hostile to changing its point of view, firmly in the “My mind is made up and all evidence but mine is all baloney” mode.

Am I right?  Huh? Lets see if that can be disproved?  C’mon.  I’m waiting.

There was a time when I thought I knew everything.  I was convinced I knew the “why” in how things fell off the table.  I was this telepath, sneaking into someone’s head, predicting, anticipating, intercepting their purpose and telling them what it was. 

For this moment, I can reassure all, I don’t know everything.  But I am still not convinced that the things I’ve been saying aren’t the true reasons behind it all.   Maybe.

Solitude

From my own dictionary…soliduous  adj.  sol  id¢ ū us: defining a person who likes solitude, Someone who chooses being alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my solitude.  Sometimes.  Well, maybe I like it often.  But I also like company.  Sitting side by side with a cup of coffee, nice.   Had the best of both for a while.

It’s no mystery, then, why I designed my surrounds to that effect.  I have a comfortable place to sit and listen to the warm.  But there is room there for someone else, always.

Of course, there was someone to actually take up that space when I first designed and built it.  That was before she decided that her life had too much going on and there wasn’t room for me. The dreaded words “we can still be friends’ came out of her mouth.  The relationship killer phrase.

It was a mixture of mule manure of course.  There were other reasons, some which she didn’t and never will divulge.  It accelerates the anxiety and makes me question where things really were in the first place.  Who did I remind her of?  Which of my actions sent the note to her brain saying ‘this is not the man for you’?  Didn’t just spill the milk, kicked over the whole bucket and got the cow wet.  Still won’t cry over it though.  

Mark it “Get used to solitude” and kick the thing in the butt.  Lesson inserted where applicable.

So, I return to the solitude. 

I’ve been through it before.  I was actually quite content after the recent divorce to be soliduous. (my own word)  I got that way after the first divorce too.  (Egad.  Who am I, Charlie Sheen?)  Did okay.  And I am fading into that structure again.  Have to become comfortable with these things you know.  I know I am close.  But what if someone does come along? 

That’s a que sera.  I have done the soliduous thing pretty well and I don’t particularly dislike or dismiss it as undesirable.   So there is no need to look.   This whole thing is well beyond my ability to structure as an individual.  It needs to be part of the Karma thing.  I’m on a tack, a course that is, though not determined, balanced, or finding a way to get into balance, as close to the wind as I can get.

I need to make room for both.

An Ode to Emotions

Would I welcome the ability to hate?  It is an emotion, one opposite of love.  And I love.  But hate?  I cannot find it in my heart to hate.  It just isn’t there.

Sometimes I want to.  Hate that is.  It would make the end of love so much easier.  I guess I would have to find room for it which is not likely.

Is passion an emotion?  Perhaps.  It has to come with certain other characteristics.  Is it always love that accompanies the intensity would be a better question.  For me, yes, but it shows with a dark side.  This macabre flank takes it and skewers it with spurts of anger, despair, and even desperation.  Not much of an upside to an enhancing image.

Love is an emotion.  I feel it, felt it, lived it, enjoyed it and, at times, tried my damnedest to hate it.  Now, there’s a potential oxymoron if ever there was one.  The analogy, the implication, that you can hate love, oh what philosophers could do with that one.

Somewhere in this heart of mine, a memory of passion will linger.  The mere glow of the tip of a candle will stay in place.  The secret desire, the hidden longing, the distant and fading dream will seek, and hope, in futility, to find what once was.  But the scent of the wax, melted by the flame, will remain forever elusive, solid, keeping its shape, its aroma to itself. 

The passion of the moment, brought on by the memory, will continue to cry out, sometimes in rage, sometimes in confusion and then in a series of words, syllables, that can only lead to regret and they will say what is felt but misunderstood, heard but muffled by a listener who’s eardrums pick up only the message they want to.

Emotions.  They mess with the psyche, with the brain, and the heart.  They make untruths out to be true even when they are not.  They scramble to let go, releasing hurt, and desire only to love again.  Unhindered, because they cannot be controlled.  Hidden, yes.  Maybe suppressed. Controlled, no. 

I will not hate.  For that I am grateful.  Better put, I cannot hate.  It is an emotion my brain does not comprehend, or believe in.  It makes me tend to believe that I am an older soul than I was told I was.

For Page 6:  I don’t know as much about what a person is feeling as I profess to sometimes.  It makes for some interesting perspectives.