She's the girl who sits and watches while others live a charmed life. The girl loves to write but doesn't know if she's any good at it. She loves rainbow sprinkled ice cream on a rainy day. She loves to take walks with the wind blowing. Giggling should be made a career. She tells you her secrets in not so many words.
Fingers are the most fascinating things, especially when the air is reeking of tension. They can pretend to dance and be birds on the blue carpeted floor, because you need them just so. I counted them twice over and ended up with 15 in disbelief, only to find the other five scrunched up in a fist in my pocket.
When eyes determinedly refuse to make eye contact, there's always the triangle of the forehead to speak to. Triangles can be fascinating too, if you let them. They become swimming little polka-dotted patterns of brown and pink with a luminosity of 70%. While fingers can transform, patterns have the ability to distract from the pain - which is most evident with just one look in the eye - and both can be counted.
In that one hour, I found myself with 80 fingers and 10 brown and pink dots each. I was glad that there wasn't a way to put an empirical number on this heart, at least not at the present moment where the air was supposed to be light with chatter and excitement. The numbers would possibly be most alarming, warranting immediate expert care.
Try as I may to kid and smile, all I could do was feel the weight. A burden that was, and a regret for its ever present presence. I saw, I heard but I could not move. And it was at that moment that I realised that it wasn't right to keep tearing at the brown paper covering this package. That's probably why the packaged burden, now tied up neatly in brown string, I will let, be chiseled off in whichever way fit.
I will lift up my eyes to you, When my heart starts to fail, Lord, your strength will prevail.
There are loose curls behind this girl; the eventual product of one straight and one curly. Behind those curls are two grumbling adults on a self-assigned construction project. They've stared at the materials together and sat down in turns, all to make happy a new mother who's a little more than a few hundred miles away.
Amidst the grumble, they heard my plea to lessen the loot which will, without a doubt be a more feasible solution to this seemingly impossible problem. They may have listened with an open mind but, only too predictably, let their kind hearts dictate the way to scratch out that idea.
It's been a little more than an hour since they began on this little 'problem question'. From creating a workable mess on the dining table, they've moved to the floor and back in succession. Amidst yelps from the cellophane tape, the almost inaudible pleas for perfection are greeted with grunts threatening to leave the project for nobler pursuits.
If this was a competition, I'll bet that the grumbling would turn into an out of breath screaming and anxious laughter. I can almost see the pushing away at the imaginary sweat of labor. And who can forget the repetitive self-encouraging chant that all will end well.
Nobody really knows what kind of team this unlikely two make. Not then, and quite possibly, not even now. A journey approaching seven and two, and they can be as petty as four year olds arguing over which crayon to use for the sky. They sit and giggle at Mr. Bean, with one yelling but laughing over not so silly antics while the other controls giggles with a twinkle of the eye.
They're neither as cultured nor as proper as most. You'll not find them decked in the best or quipped with the most intelligent responses. Instead they sit at corners or fill up the front row and yell mostly embarrassing lines and sing the loudest (out of tune). One makes the worst possible grammatical errors. The other has an anxiety level that sky-rockets even at the mildest situations. And both let sarcasm go unnoticed, just because.
Yet both have the genuine intention to get to know all they come across (with the most personal questions). They have the loudest laughs and the most embarrassing habits of all of us. They frustrate me and their other one to no end.
We often wonder how the church conformed to silence as the priest pleaded for objections.
And still, we sit in wonder at the journey the two have made and will continue to make as the Parental Unit.
It's been a good five days of listening, strumming, watching and sleeping. I have good showers to practice 'voice projection' without having to worry about not making it back in time to accompany the red study lamp through the 40+ pages of the next chapter.
There's now time for proper breakfasts, neglected lunches and forced dinners. I can laugh with you over the nonsense that never ceases to stop. I'm there through this time of sudden pain so you can grieve and remember. I can spend time with Thoughts and when it gives me leave, I can think of new one-liners!
I must say it feels good to be able to be here =)
Throw in a book or two, some cycling, a lesson or two on proper strumming and this would be a great close to what was the most stressful three months in a very long time. But as with all closes, some that you hope would never close will unavoidably do just that. I'll miss it and all the smiles it brought with the heaviest of hearts.
But I trust You'll pull me through (in excess) with beautiful reminders of Your grace like these:
The ray of sun hiding behind clouds just to the left of my window moved further down leaving the aqua blue clouds pining. And now those clouds are not seen as the darkness of the night enfolds everything. Soon the 7 on the clock will no longer be so permanent as 8 takes its rightful permanence throughout the next 60 minutes.
The difference that the past week brought was an interesting one. One life lost, two trips made and now, one remains. Some call it strength, I call it stuck. Over and again, the journey repeats - with no real way forward and none backward. They speak of Christmas cookies, food for tomorrow and the coming weeks but really, is that what's needed?
This talk of tomorrow bothers greatly as the basis for a now is not yet in place. The days are reduced to hours and minutes ignoring the difference that this very second could make. I do not know what this is or how to undo the missing knots. Perhaps dead knots are not what it seems.
Perhaps my human eyes fail to see. I sincerely hope that's the case.
Some seem so slow sealing in them transitory permanence. There are those that sail by at paced motions planting assurance for a time that will soon come. More concern is showered on ones that leave in between without care for pleading cries of the lost.
Change, it's ever so permanent. Ever so painful yet beautiful. Maybe soon, this too will change.
You're still there even when there are hurrying feet paced according to clicks of watches. You try to speak louder than the sounds of creaking hinges from many closing doors. You're around to say jaundiced fingers don't look too bad if they were acquired upon making dear friends happy.
You're the only one that will sit right here with me and tell me that sad smileys and a heavy heart is what You feel with me.
This is the wonder of the Blinking Cursor game.
minx wrote at3:09 PM
Wednesday, March 18, 2009 11:57 AM
It hasn't got a name - at least an official one. There's a long list of statistical terms down the middle with accompanying check boxes flanking it on both the left and right side. As of now, the right side is aesthetically pleasing while the left is statistically pleasing.
I had until the end of last night to decide which check boxes to follow.
But, that's a decision still pending right now, 12 hours past the deadline.
What's so much of a bother is the fact that all I need is one (1) check box for a decision I know I want to take. I've tried coaxing it with good music and enough dark chocolate to get it to go into sugar shock. I've gone through the ever increasing number of bookmarks, now conveniently parked under 'stats' and to no avail. I've yabbered to it in statistical gibberish as consistently as I know how to come off as a nag but it won't budge.
As fun as this is, I can't help but to wonder why I'm inside or without the Farida. Missing it is an understatement. I want in on the 'shining people out pursuing their bliss' and so the want and need war rages on.
Tomorrow's the Big A or otherwise known as the hour-long trapping session where we transform into "equals" with a Doctor and her tutor.
I gulp every time that crosses my mind. Seeing it written makes me gulp even more - whatever happened to catharsis? Grr.
Ah, good thing for images from analogies - they work with the Imagination to give life to the most interesting characters who then do/say/laugh in the most peculiar ways. Heh. I now have a garden gnome struggling to keep it's hat out of the way while it climbs over the fence to get to the other side of the lawn. Uh oh, the gnome gave me a stare for writing about it without a letter of permission and informed consent so I can't say more.
Except: thank You for the neighboring lawn analogy!
. . . . .
The writing's on the wall - in caps and clear.
It hurt, like I pictured it would but the pangs were good (which was out of expectation And more than I could ask for) =)