midnight ramble

the girl sat on her porch early in the morning, seeing the streetlights and the palm tress...hearing the little wind that snakes its way through the neighborhood, blown by the traffic on the loop...believing that there really is something more to this than meets the eye.



she's tall. sort of. sometimes, she adds an inch, because it seems to make her feel above average. she's funny. she's mostly pretty smart. she works too much. she sometimes doesn't sleep well. and when she does sleep, she has strange and vivid dreams. sometimes, she thinks she puts off sleep, because lately the strange and vivid dreams have taken a familiar not-especially happy turn. she remembers. yes, she remembers. she remembers things that she would rather not. she sees new things that blend into the old. she fights to keep the center, because this is not hers. not any of it is, really, when she takes the long view. and when she remembers that, she takes a deep breath, and walks away, feeling a little empty and a little tired, and if she's honest, maybe a little lonlier than she would like to admit.



oh, she'll admit that some of the lonliness is her fault. probably the great majority. she has real trouble telling people what she's thinking. she feels like her venting is sometimes too much, or that people listen out of obligation instead of "want to". she's not always good at saying whether she's simply giving you information, or asking for help. she says she's working on that...but it's hard. she's also apparently trying new things like actually telling people how she feels, of trying not to be suzy sunshine with the good news hose plugged in the pooper. she's supposedly learning that it's ok for her to have a bad day, send out the s.o.s., and learning not to over-inflate what the response should reasonably be. she's also working on those nasty little inarticulated expectations...they sometimes make her cry, and she's kind of over crying these days. she's finally figuring out that putting your cards on the table isn't such a bad thing...people seem to treat folks who are honest with a much gentler hand. even though it's hard for her to be honest about what she likes, or wants, or even freaking needs, she's trying to get better. she's trying to kill cinderella, but still finds herself watching silly romantic comedies that have nothing to do with real life, and everything to do with cinderella. she is frustrated by that. and while she's reasonably sure she's not one of the ugly step-sisters, she sometimes wonders if she's not the second-cousin who gave up to become a nun in a children's home up to her eyeballs in babies. she tries to remember that age is nothing but a number, and that wisdom has nothing to do with age.



she is trying. she is praying more, again. she knows she's going to make it. she's learning that frustration isn't always such a bad feeling. she's remembering that hope is a sweet and wild thing, and one which almost never makes any sense. she's trying.



the cars keep zooming by the little faux tudor style condo on the side street, just up from the hospital. it's sunday morning, already...she needs to sleep, to be ready for work. she's trying to remember that sometimes work is worship. she's noting the need to be fully present, most especially present. she's pacing, but has no real idea of the duration of this epoch. she is trying to get ready...for whatever she needs to be ready for...prepared. her therapist tells her this is called "situational anxiety". she at least likes that the phrase is poetic. her therapist also told her to lay low...that she could be kate winslett, clinging to the floating door. funny bit of synchronicity...one of her thursday ladies is the child of a man who almost sailed on the titanic. she thinks how she would have missed hearing that thursday lady tell her stories and show her photos and tell her to stay off the streets every time she left her house. but then she wonders how she could ever have missed something she never would have known about. she thinks about parallell universes. she thinks she may have the beginning of a tension headache when she thinks those thoughts, so she rations them out, just like how her therapist told her to ration out her anger. only 15 minutes a day...she thinks this is ample, until she starts to write things down, or talk on the phone. she is thinking she should start setting a timer for that, but it feels to much like the "2 minutes hate" from "1984".



she wants to be an idealist, but pragmatism just suits her better. and she's learning to realize that's ok, too. she knows it's time for bed, for what dreams may come, and that if she listens hard enough, maybe she'll figure it out, this time.



the girl on the porch looks sleepy, in her green and white baseball jersey that she never wears in public and the boxer shorts she stole from her grandfather's clean laundry (wierd, yes...endearing, absolutely), with her wet hair pulled back, even though she's painfully afraid of split ends. she is going to bed.

she says to tell you that she loves you. expect a phone call...

mil besos--rmg