ONLY HALFWAY THROUGH THE BOOK
I'm taking a break from Gilligan and the gang tonight because I've been OUT! Twice in a week? I know! It's like a slow week back in Seattle and it's quite refreshing. Anyways, I went out to dinner with my friend Tanya tonight and got back later so the reality show is on hiatus until tomorrow night. However, my mind is racing on the scenic pleasant route and I have to get it out before I lay my head on my pillow.
When I was a little girl I wanted to be a mermaid when I grew up. I remember watching Patrick Duffy in The Man from Atlantis, and while not a mermaid he had the mermaid swim down. I would study him, then go to the public pool and practice swimming like a mermaid or survivor from the sunken city. Should the universe ever go crazy and let me be a mermaid, I had the swim down.
At home my sister and I would play "jungle" on the landscaped island at the end of the cul-de-sac we lived on, or drive-thru with the transformer boxes that sat next to the street light. Sometimes when I wanted to be alone I would ride my hot pink, banana-seated bicycle to the mailbox, open it, and talk to my invisible friend Rachel. Neighbors would drive by and shake their head.
At night I would write in my diary or write short stories on notebook paper. Some were fantasies of a different world, a different life...my mermaid life. Others were daydreams of future loves, which I totally blame on my obsession with the movie Summer Magic. Then there were the dark stories. Some were of the hate I had for myself at that time, while others were tales of the scary things I'd sworn I'd seen as a kid...the witch woman in the window, or the scuba diver with the knife who gave me the fear that lasted for 20 years of sleeping with the bedroom door open.
Basically I was an imaginative kid who was always daydreaming of greater possibilities, different existences, or sometimes just some flat out warped shit. I loved fairy tales as much as I loved The Twilight Zone. Throughout my day random things would set off the stories in my mind, and it gave me ease through life. I was convinced that there was going to be something that someday made me say, "Okay, yes. This is it. I'm living in my story...one of the good ones." Now here I am a couple of days from 35 and I'm still that kid.
Why do I bring all this up? Tonight after dinner, Tanya and I walked around for a bit and then sat on a bench, continuing our conversation. We discussed my present discontent with living in High Point, and the recent speedbump I've hit. I spoke about wanting to move again and my plan to go back to Seattle. Something you need to know about my friend Tanya and my friend Eylin, whom I met her through, are that they are PhD students in Psychology. They never treat me like a patient, but let me tell you, it's nice to get some advice from someone specializing in that subject. I often leave from my time with them feeling like I got free therapy in a good way.
Back to the point. Tanya brought up something we'd discussed before, how I keep leaving Seattle and then always go back. Is this me just going back to my comfort? If so, why do I keep leaving Seattle in the first place? She has a very valid point. I was telling her how I've often planned to move back and then something else comes up and I go there instead. And the thing is...Seattle friends, do not shoot me for saying this...I feel this unsettling, yet slightly pleasant feeling that I'm not coming back....at least not yet. Stay here? Uh no. But I feel like I'm supposed to sit still for a bit because the answer will present itself loud and clear. This has happened before, and each time it happens it's like an internal Magic 8 Ball. Jump up and down, shake my ass, ask the question and then read what the floating triangle in my head says. Right now, there's no yes or no. It's "Reply Hazy. Ask again later."
I got home from dinner and my mind was racing. I went outside and sat on my balcony, closed my eyes and listened to the crickets. That's when it clicked. Holy shit! This picture of the perfect place to live isn't about the place. It's that little girl wanting a new story, a new adventure. I'm not trying to find a happy ending, I'm just trying to get to a new chapter! I can't believe that this story's locale remains constant, at least not now. My story travels through new places, new people, new adventures, and all the while not forgetting about how the story started and how it got there. No wonder I feel inclined to go back home sometimes. I had some good chapters there, but I had some really good ones in other places too. It's not the greatest one here, but it's had its moments.
I realize I may never have that HUGE moment of "Ta-dahhhh!" like many of my daydreams have, but maybe I will? Until then I will continue to have quieter "Ta-dahhhh's" and the adventures are in every day events and the seemingly simple things that take us to a different road. A "quick" stop at a random bar; a conversation with a stranger at a stop light; the wrong turn that leads you on a dirt road blocked by a cow; or the strange man on the corner with the homemade puppet son. It's the bizarre encounters with people, the touching friendships, and the stories they all share with you and bring you into, that make the story. And in realizing this, all of a sudden I feel really happy. The locale will change whether it's somewhere new or the old familiar, and the adventures will continue in big and small ways. Life all of a sudden seems a bit more rich to me, and a lot clearer. The daydreams will continue, but it's not so bad right now. I'm just on a slow chapter.
And hey, I'm only halfway through the book.
When I was a little girl I wanted to be a mermaid when I grew up. I remember watching Patrick Duffy in The Man from Atlantis, and while not a mermaid he had the mermaid swim down. I would study him, then go to the public pool and practice swimming like a mermaid or survivor from the sunken city. Should the universe ever go crazy and let me be a mermaid, I had the swim down.
At home my sister and I would play "jungle" on the landscaped island at the end of the cul-de-sac we lived on, or drive-thru with the transformer boxes that sat next to the street light. Sometimes when I wanted to be alone I would ride my hot pink, banana-seated bicycle to the mailbox, open it, and talk to my invisible friend Rachel. Neighbors would drive by and shake their head.
At night I would write in my diary or write short stories on notebook paper. Some were fantasies of a different world, a different life...my mermaid life. Others were daydreams of future loves, which I totally blame on my obsession with the movie Summer Magic. Then there were the dark stories. Some were of the hate I had for myself at that time, while others were tales of the scary things I'd sworn I'd seen as a kid...the witch woman in the window, or the scuba diver with the knife who gave me the fear that lasted for 20 years of sleeping with the bedroom door open.
Basically I was an imaginative kid who was always daydreaming of greater possibilities, different existences, or sometimes just some flat out warped shit. I loved fairy tales as much as I loved The Twilight Zone. Throughout my day random things would set off the stories in my mind, and it gave me ease through life. I was convinced that there was going to be something that someday made me say, "Okay, yes. This is it. I'm living in my story...one of the good ones." Now here I am a couple of days from 35 and I'm still that kid.
Why do I bring all this up? Tonight after dinner, Tanya and I walked around for a bit and then sat on a bench, continuing our conversation. We discussed my present discontent with living in High Point, and the recent speedbump I've hit. I spoke about wanting to move again and my plan to go back to Seattle. Something you need to know about my friend Tanya and my friend Eylin, whom I met her through, are that they are PhD students in Psychology. They never treat me like a patient, but let me tell you, it's nice to get some advice from someone specializing in that subject. I often leave from my time with them feeling like I got free therapy in a good way.
Back to the point. Tanya brought up something we'd discussed before, how I keep leaving Seattle and then always go back. Is this me just going back to my comfort? If so, why do I keep leaving Seattle in the first place? She has a very valid point. I was telling her how I've often planned to move back and then something else comes up and I go there instead. And the thing is...Seattle friends, do not shoot me for saying this...I feel this unsettling, yet slightly pleasant feeling that I'm not coming back....at least not yet. Stay here? Uh no. But I feel like I'm supposed to sit still for a bit because the answer will present itself loud and clear. This has happened before, and each time it happens it's like an internal Magic 8 Ball. Jump up and down, shake my ass, ask the question and then read what the floating triangle in my head says. Right now, there's no yes or no. It's "Reply Hazy. Ask again later."
I got home from dinner and my mind was racing. I went outside and sat on my balcony, closed my eyes and listened to the crickets. That's when it clicked. Holy shit! This picture of the perfect place to live isn't about the place. It's that little girl wanting a new story, a new adventure. I'm not trying to find a happy ending, I'm just trying to get to a new chapter! I can't believe that this story's locale remains constant, at least not now. My story travels through new places, new people, new adventures, and all the while not forgetting about how the story started and how it got there. No wonder I feel inclined to go back home sometimes. I had some good chapters there, but I had some really good ones in other places too. It's not the greatest one here, but it's had its moments.
I realize I may never have that HUGE moment of "Ta-dahhhh!" like many of my daydreams have, but maybe I will? Until then I will continue to have quieter "Ta-dahhhh's" and the adventures are in every day events and the seemingly simple things that take us to a different road. A "quick" stop at a random bar; a conversation with a stranger at a stop light; the wrong turn that leads you on a dirt road blocked by a cow; or the strange man on the corner with the homemade puppet son. It's the bizarre encounters with people, the touching friendships, and the stories they all share with you and bring you into, that make the story. And in realizing this, all of a sudden I feel really happy. The locale will change whether it's somewhere new or the old familiar, and the adventures will continue in big and small ways. Life all of a sudden seems a bit more rich to me, and a lot clearer. The daydreams will continue, but it's not so bad right now. I'm just on a slow chapter.
And hey, I'm only halfway through the book.
