Eyes Wide Shut

It took ten years and an accidental dose of the wrong sort of eye drop, but I think I finally get it, Stanley Kubrick!

I'm on day three +3 hours of extreme eye dilation.  The iris is wide open, but my visual accuity is WAY off.  

This sort of condition does little to assuage my paranoia.  The eye doctor and my brother doctor both assure me this will not cause permanent damage.  Two days ago, I believed them.  Now, I'm not so confident in their knowledge.  That's why I've been googling it again.  

Google agrees with them, so I should stop worrying.  Worry won't restore my vision.  

The eye doctor says I'm lucky to be so naturally myopic.  If I wasn't, he tells me, I could be completely incapacitated by my careless use of unfamiliar eye drops.  That's reassurring.  

He also tells me this is good practice for what's to come in 5 years or so, when my eye muscles get too old to accommodate on their own.  I don't appreciate knowing in advance how it feels to turn 40.  I wonder, will it happen suddenly, like it did with the Atropine Sulphate Solution?  Will I wake up one morning five years from now with my eyes wide shut, too dilated to read the fine print?

Creepy, Quirky, Crawly

Last night I had dinner with a friend who confided to conversing with spiders.  Something happened to her during childhood that made her realize spiders have needs too.  Spiders are more than household menaces lurking in corners.  The way she sees it, Spiders have personalities and a certain sense of intelligence.  They can, after all, determine that we humans are something quite different from pieces of furniture.  

She sites one incident in particular:  she and her husband rented an apartment on a property with a lush, dense tropical garden.  The apartment and gardens were absolutely lovely, but once they moved in, they found the downside to living in the tropics:  spiders. The property was covered with spiders.  Most of them were harmless as most spiders are wont to be, but some of them were vicious.  Soon enough, she and her husband started finding themselves covered in big red itchy splotches.  Spider bites.

Still, she was not deterred.  Spiders have a right to life as much as any other creature.  She had especially grown attached to a spider who lived in the corner of thier bathroom and would silently admire her as she went about the business of primping up for the day.  He didn't try to frighten her with bold and sudden moves, and she didn't try to scare him with the old hairspray and match trick.  They respected one another's space and admired one another from afar.

Then, one morning, she nearly walked right into the spider's  newly made home in her bathroom. She didn't see it because it was perfectly placed in her line of sight.  Spider webs are not something you see or sense head on.  Not wanting to needlessly take the life of this clever one, she asked her husband to scoop it up and usher it outside.  (She would have done this herself, but she couldn't risk having the spider crawl off the scooping devise and creep up her arm.)  The next day,  same thing:  new web, same spider (she's quite certain of this), same spot in the bathroom.  So, the spider was politely ushered outside a second time.  The third morning, kid you not,  same spider, new web, same place in the bathroom.  

What's a girl to do?  My friend said all she could do at this show of intelligence was to reason with the spider.  She leaned in close to the web and said, "Spider, listen.  You can stay.  But if you so much as even THINK about biting my husband or me, you are down the toilet."

This morning, a therapist acqaintance of mine informed me that she'd been to this blog. She read that post...or rather, she tried to read that post.  She had to stop reading.  It was too much for her.  Do I really watch my neighbors at night?  It all was a bit odd, she tells me.  And she hears it all, so she should know.   

My apologies if my sudden drop from the web in the dark corner has frightened any of you.  I'll try to keep my quirks in check from here on out.

An Easy 8 or 9

I'm off to do the first 8 or 9 miles of the season.  The training plan says "easy".  The first 8 or 9 are never easy, but I'll try.

My Future's So...

Paul Valery:  "The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up."

Tonight at writing class:  "To a certain degree we can alter our futures."  

So, is fate back in fashion?  Vogue didn't call that one.  And here I've been thinking that my future was my own...not set in stone, mostly.

I've been wrong before.  This won't be the first time.  Of course, I'm going to fight this notion tooth and nail.  Try to disprove Ken.  It will be easy, too because Ken doesn't even know that I'm out here trying to counter his comment.  For all I know, he doesn't even realize the implication of what he threw out there tonight.  This one-sided debate will be much like my other one-sided competitions (the 4th of July 5k run against the cousins, the facebook bookshelf race against my brother-in-law (he's winning by a long shot, so I've sort of lost steam on that one), the sibling birthday call-off (first one to call on the day, wins)).  Don't worry, Ken.  I'll quickly lose interest in this new competition too.  

In fact, I'm almost over it now.  My food is getting cold.  It's been a long day.  At this point, not having to determine and shape my own future would actually be a bit of a relief.  I'm glad it's back in style.  Maybe it will be one of those things that doesn't come and go in a single season and I'll be able to try it on and get comfortable wearing it over the next few years.  Maybe it will even start to look as natural as those oversize shoulder pads looked in the 80's.  Maybe.

Hey, What's That Sound?

Paranoia strikes deep...into your life it will creep.  Who are my neighbors.   Why are all those cars outside my house at 3 in the morning?  It probably doesn't help that my favorite tv shows include Dexter, Breaking Bad, Weeds.

What was that show from the early 90s where the guy was obsessed with tv.  All his memories of childhood were merged with scenes from the favorite tv shows.  That's how I'm beginning to feel. I'm pretty sure my backyard neighbors don't really work in artistic concrete solutions for the home.  They most likely use their grey-primered milk truck for the purpose of transporting their meth lab.  Why else are their lights on at 3:16 in the morning.  Then there are those all night rave parties they throw.  My other neighbor sites the out of state cars lining our street as proof that they advertise these drug parties on Craig's list or MySpace inviting people far and wide to come out and disturb the relative peace of our neighborhood. 

Of course, even before these neighbors, there were the rats.  Before the rats there was the empty cat house--which in my mind was also a meth house.  I still worry about the health of those triplets living there now.  I shouldn't--there's another symptom of our drug crazed world: triplets.  Fertility drugs.  Next to them is the house tucked into the corner.  The only people on the street who smoke.  And they do it in their front yard!  Maybe the cars lining the streets had something to do with that house.  Maybe.  There isn't a yard full of cars parked there this morning as there usually is.  I just figured the people there are big on family and friends.  They like having a full house.  But maybe they are running a pot ring and they were all arrested last night at 3:16 a.m. in front of my house...

...Funny thing about them is that they never seem to use their upper floor (except to come out the front door to smoke on the porch).  I still don't understand why they wouldn't prefer to smoke in the privacy of their back yard which they can access from the sliding door of their walk-out basement.  

How do I know these things?  Probably because I'm not only paranoid, I'm curious.  Sure, some people might call it nosy.  No.  It's simple curiosity.  Before the current owners purchased the house, I walked through it during an open house.  I like to be familiar with the floor plans of my neighbor's dwellings.  That way, when I'm passing by in the mornings or evenings while walking my dogs, I can accurately imagine what the people inside are doing. 

Accurate imagination.  Is this the seed of paranoia?  Like prejudice and racism, paranoia is an irrational state of mind, but it holds because it's based in some level of reality.  Reality skewed by imagination.  Oh the places my mind can take me.  Now let's see where my legs can go.

The Creative Life

Thursday night I went to my first session of CNF II.  The instructor made mention several times of "The Creative Life" the illusive thing she seeks to attain through writing.  It makes sense, a creative life.  That is exactly what I need.  But I'm wondering if there is room for a creative life within this larger life that includes a running life, working life, cooking life, gardening life, SLEEPING life....

I'm going to try cramming it in.  It's only eight weeks.  Of course, these are the same eight weeks I will be training for the Ogden Marathon.  I'll either be exhilerated by all this rush of blood to the head, or I'll be entirely exhausted.  Stay tuned.

Lured Back by a Lotus Blossom

Four months ago I prophetically posted something about the gravity of words--I should have known the birth of that thought was an indication of the months to come.  Like I said, there is no such thing as just saying; our words have consequences.  In my case, the consequence was that I subconsciously heeded my own suggestion:  if I don't have anything important (whatever that means) to say, I won't say anything at all.  

In reality,  I've had too many important things to say.  The problem has been how to say them. It started on my birthday three days after that flippant post.  Turning 35 didn't strike me as anything monumental, but under the surface I suppose it was.  I remember being 15 looking forward to this age; there was so much certainty that by 35 I would have it all together (whatever that means); by 35 I would be three-quarters--or at least half--of the way to achieving Nirvana.  Of course, when I was 15 I had no idea that this state of self actualization was named Nirvana.  I was a debator who knew only of Maslow.  Nevertheless, I envisioned a point in my life--a point that would surely come by the advanced age of 35--where I would achieve a true sense of self, permanence, contentment and purity. 

Instead, we came home from my birthday dinner to discover our sweet, patient, beautiful greyhound swollen up like a balloon.  After a week of ultra-sounds and blood tests, she was diagnosed with an incurable cancer.  This is not nirvana. 

 

I don't know where to go from here. This is not supposed to be the case for an educated, employed, happily married 35 year old woman.  I'm supposed know where it is I'm going.  I'm supposed to have learned from where I've been.  Life is not the way it's supposed to be.  I'm on a permanent wave, bobbing in the sea like a boat, driven forward only by the force of the wind. What I need is a sail and a rudder--a way to take control.  Purpose.   

Funny that my life needs exactly the same cure as this blog.  Four months ago I stopped writing due to lack of purpose.  As it turns out, silence wasn't the solution.  It took a lotus blossom to help me understand this.  So, I'm back at it.  I don't know if jamming away at these keys will produce any more clarity, but at least it's self-propelled momentum.