Wednesday, April 26, 2017

What's Your Interior Monologue Like?

I'm always fascinated by the different ways in which we experience the world.  And here's another one.  What is your interior monologue like?  How do you process your conscious thoughts?

Some examples I've come across:

Two people I've spoken to tend to have conversations in their heads, between themselves and various other people, wherein they play out both sides of the conversation.

One friend described his thoughts as analyzing his own emotions, as well as trying to analyze how he thinks others feel about him.

Another friend thinks primarily in lists.  List of things to do, or what he would want to convey in a conversation or just ranking his favorite albums.

One woman focuses mostly on how she wants her life to be structured.

Another guy views his life like he's in the Truman show.  It's 'as if' there are hidden cameras all around, and he frequently finds himself narrating what he's doing.

Another friend told me about how she used to have lots of negative messages running through her head, telling her that people probably wouldn't like her.  But she has replaced that with positive messages that she tells herself about how God views her.

Her husband says his inner thoughts are mostly dialogues with God.

Another friend reports that he mostly asks himself questions.

One young guy said he doesn't really have much of an interior monologue.  He goes on instinct.

And me?  Most of my thoughts resemble a courtroom prosecutor.  Whether it's reviewing some interaction from earlier in the day or trying to piece together the plot for a new story, I find myself making logical arguments, laying out a case.  Sometimes that's directed towards an imaginary person.  But often it's one side of my brain making the case to the other side.  I very much sense a dichotomy in my brain, in which there's the active, conscious thoughts, which are usually directed at another part, which tends to nod and agree.

Also, I'm sarcastic with myself.

Monday, April 24, 2017

I Want to Fly



I want to sing.
I want to bring my thing to the light.
I want to rhyme and keep time while I strum a guitar.
I want to bow for the crowd after killing every bar.
I want to cry from my heart.  I want to be a star.
I want to sing.

But I can’t do that.
My refrain falls flat.
So I’ll keep it under my hat.

I want to paint.
I want to taint the world with my dreams.
I want to bloom and burn on everything I see.
I want to tell a tale with light and majesty
I want to crush the canvas with hyperbole.
I want to paint.

But I scarcely draw.
It’s unwritten law.
So I suppose I’ll just withdraw.


I want to dance.
I want to glance right over the moon.
I want to whirl and waltz ‘til I make a scene.
I want to jump and jive and jitter in between.
I want to be the best boogie that there’s ever been.
I want to dance.

But I always trip.
I don’t glide.  I slip.
So I’ll keep a stiff upper lip.

I want to fly.
I want to roar and soar through the sky.
I want to float and flutter in the atmosphere.
I want to sweep and swoop above the crowds that cheer.
I want to sail into space with the celestial spheres.
I want to fly.

And when you take a glance.
I will fly and dance.
‘Cuz with you I’m taking a chance.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Pilgrim



The sun lit her skin on fire.  Her throat was like sandpaper.  Dirty sweat stung her eyes.  And her feet?  Her feet hurt bad.  The ache on the outside contradicted the deadness on the inside.  This was not a good day.  And tomorrow probably wouldn’t be any better.

What had the nun said?  No.  She hadn’t said anything.  Just handed her a little slip of paper.  She pulled it out and looked at it:

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

Emily dropped her pack to the ground.  Weary.  Sore.  It was at least two more miles to the next waystation, and she wasn’t sure her blisters could take it.  She slumped against a tragically scraggly tree, trying to center the leaves between that big, bright ball of death and her throbbing head, and wondered for the four thousandth time why she was doing this.

Was she running from her past?  No job.  An abusive, asshole ex.  Fickle friends who’d left her high and dry (mostly high), just because she’d fucked them over.  She’d brought it on herself with her poor choices.  She picked up her pack and left the relative protection of the anemic alder.

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

A fellow backpacker came loping up behind her.  Abelardo had a late start, and was probably the last of the day from the previous checkpoint.  Grey, but vigorous, he was faster than she, but slowed his pace to flirt for a moment, like only an older man can.  Then he sped ahead, but not before suggesting they share a saboso postre at the next stop.

Was she hoping to find something new?  Hoping to find herself?  Hoping that by leaving everything and everyone behind, she would be able to strip down and strip away all of the baggage and garbage and grime?

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

She pulled out her water.  Just a few gulps to go.  She took a sip, then left the rest.  She couldn’t be sure how much further she had to trek.  It was easy to misjudge the distances.  And sometimes a traveler could reach the next checkpoint, only to find there was no water there.  Better to save a little, just in case.

She should have listened to her father.  He’d warned her.  And that last phone call…  She could still go back.  He’d welcome her with open arms.  But could she let herself?  Her pride was the only thing she had left.  Seemed silly to tie her happiness to her self- respect, especially at this point, but she felt like it was the pin holding everything in place.  Without it, did she even know who she was?

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

She should have reached the waystation by now.  Had she taken a wrong turn?  Or was it just a little further?  Thirsty.  She pulled out the canteen and opened it, then thought better of it.  She slowed her stride a bit, trying to think things through.  Had she missed a turn?  Should she retrace her steps?  The wrong decision could be disaster.

Wrong decisions.  Her life was filled with wrong decisions.  But on the Camino, a bad call could literally cost your life.  Nobody behind her.  Nobody looking for her.  Nobody but her, all alone, on the trail.

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

A memory resonated in her fat head.  Double leg.  Somebody had said something about this being a double leg.  The term hadn’t registered with her at the time, but it was glaring at her now.  Double leg.  Okay.  She was sure she’d hiked further than a single leg, but how much further?  Didn’t matter.  She had to keep going until she got there.

She was crying.  Why was she crying?  Thinking about her mom.  Thinking about her sister.  Thinking about her sister’s tiny hugs.  Thinking about sleeping in her old bed.

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

Something on the trail.  No.  Someone on the trail.  Abelardo, the flirt.  He was just lying there, glassy-eyed.  He tried to talk, but only mumbled and murmured.  What should she do?  She could try to go ahead and send back help, but the sun was baking his brain.  He might not last.  She pulled out her water and pressed it to his lips.

Her water.  The last of it.  Good thing she’d saved it.  

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

The last half mile was the hardest.  Abelardo limped along, using her for support, for a while.  But by the end, she was practically dragging him.  When she got close, some other hikers saw them.  She heard a couple of shouts, but couldn’t even put her head up to look.  Then, hands, helping the man.  Hands, taking her pack.  Hands, helping her forward.

She was awake now.  Listening.  Most were asleep, although she could hear a couple of folks at the fire.  She thought.  She felt.  Today was a good day.  Maybe tomorrow could be a good day, too.

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Hiding in a Dream



I’m running down a tunnel and everything is black.
Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.
Slipping on the scales of a railroad track.
Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.
Trying to find my way, but the fog is thick.
Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.
Cannot get my footing, ‘cuz the ground is slick.
Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Where I am going, you cannot follow.
Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.
Where I am going, you cannot follow.
Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.

I hear a breathy noise, like a wheezing yak.
Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.
Can’t see him in the fog, but he’s about to attack.
Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.
Feeling on the ground, I find a half-eaten stick.
Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.
Spinning round and round until it makes me sick.
Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Where I am going, you cannot follow.
Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.
Where I am going, you cannot follow.
Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.

Noises up ahead, so I try to backtrack.
Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.
Fiendish in the fog, so I give it a whack!
Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.
A swing and a miss, but then something grabs me quick.
Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.
My arm is in a vice, so I give it a kick.
Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Where I am going, you cannot follow.
Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.
Where I am going, you cannot follow.
Hiding in a dream.  Not back until tomorrow.

Now he’s tied me up and stuck me in a sack.
Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.
I can hear the train.  I’m gonna have a heart attack.
Clickety-clack.  Clickety-clack.
If you die in your dreams, do you die in real life?
Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.
I see the light through the burlap and …
Clackety-click.  Clackety-click.

Hiding in a dream, now there’s no tomorrow.
Lost in my brain where no one can follow.
Hiding in a dream, now there’s no tomorrow.
Lost in my brain where no one can follow.

Monday, April 3, 2017

The Old Racist Cat



And now I will tell you about an old, racist cat.
He’s brittle.  He’s boney. But somehow still fat.
His faded orange fur hangs off him like the rug
Of a windy, wet, bald guy I once knew, named Doug.
Patchy and petulant, Hutch is his name.
No one’s quite sure from whence he did came.
But Hutch?  He just don’t like the tone of your skin.
If you’ll spare me a minute, his tale I’ll begin.

It started with the Irish, the gingers next door.
He’ll spend all his years trying to settle that score.
On a bright, pleasant day Hutch had found a sun beam.
On top of a wall, where he could lie and daydream.
Until Sally O’Toole a dim shadow did cast.
She had stopped there to pet him.  But he hadn’t asked.
So now he knew that they could not coexist.
Yes, since that dark day, that pussy’s been pissed

Speaking of pee, that’s his favorite weapon.
He’ll watch and then wizz in a spot that you’ll step in.
Especially when someone’s skin color’s brown.
He’s been marking turf up all over the town.
At Javier’s house, and then on to Juan.
Camila was next, and then Esteban.
Of course this all started with an act so unfair.
Carla had two burritos.  That she wouldn’t share!

One time there came just the cutest young troop
Of girl scouts with cookies here onto my stoop.
Hutch went out to greet them and thought they were splendid.
‘Til one started sneezing and Hutch was offended.
That Indian girl did not see it coming.
As she made her deliveries, the war drums were drumming.
All of her customers found something askew.
Not boxes of cookies, but boxes of poo.

Despite those dull eyes that no longer see faces.
He can spot a Samoan from five hundred paces.
And that nose that turns up at all kinds of chow.
It seems to smell Arabs.  I’m not sure quite how.
He can catch a Scottish brogue from a mile or so away.
Yet doesn’t hear me call him at the end of the day.
He’s got a sixth sense for when gypsies are near.
But they’ve got it too, so they all steer clear.

Now if your name happens to be Rebecca Soo.
Then you can be sure that this old cat hates you.
And really most anyone of the Asian persuasion.
‘Cuz for him it’s a fairly simple equation.
Rebecca once stepped on his tail at a brunch.
Then while eating her eggs she heard a slight crunch.
It seems that the tabby thought her meal was quite dull.
So he added a skeleton and a little mouse skull.

That Dutch girl Anouk once vacuumed too near.
So Cheeseheads were added to the list in that year.
According to Hutch, Anouk looks like a cow.
He declines to say Meee and gives only Owww.
Italians he’ll snub.  No, he’ll not say not a word.
But later on their doorstep they’ll find a dead bird.
He’s seen The Godfather about seventeen times.
And he likes the symbolism of horse-head-y crimes.

Bananas and Frogs, Cabbage eater and Limey.
Hillbillies and Half-Breeds, plus folks who are whiny.
White Trash and Taffies and Gringos, oh my!
These are just some of those he would decry.
He hisses at Haitians and growls at Jews.
Louder and louder and louder he mews!
Scratching and clawing at legs like cat posts.
And then there’s black people.  He hates them the most.

Three things I can tell you about Hutch with his foe.
Sometimes he’ll go fast and sometimes he’ll go slow.
And sometimes he waits and plays the long game.
So’s a lonely Kenyan man won’t know why he came.
He’ll eat that man’s food.  Keep him company, too.
Snuggle up on the couch when he seems to feel blue.
And then disappear for three days at a time.
Which worries the man.  Yes, that is his crime.

So that is the cat.  His tale has been told.
I know he’s a monster, but he’s also quite old.
He’s set in his ways.  He cannot be taught
To change his opinions, to be what he’s not.
Yet I’ve grown rather fond of the biased old coot.
And he seems to tolerate me now, to boot.
Now how can that be, my skin black as anyone’s?
Well …
I suppose that he thinks that I’m one of the good ones.