There's always a lot to do. Letters to Mr. Manny, a continuous need to eat, emails, supporting the endeavors of everyone I care about and inventing other things to do. I have the sad misfortune, and the exquisite gift, of ideas that increase with branches and twigs. I also tend to follow through on things.
That's one of the classic characteristics I have of children who did not grow up in a dysfunctional home, but because I was left to my own devices most of the time, I did learn to set goals and carry on as if everything I did would work.
I told T the other day that I am always protected and I always win. That's where my head lives. It's a pretty nice place. It doesn't matter that some folks call it magical thinking in a disparaging way because all thinking is magical. Even theirs. Why choose unfun magic? That seems to be such a waste of physics.
I'm not a very pessimistic person. I get angry sometimes and disappointed. I also have more than the average bear's dose of fear and anxiety, I'd say, but I'm wired that way. I rinsed out under the hood quite a bit, but got really tired of that. I decided to let my engine alone and work with what I've got.
I do believe in magic. That's why I write to Mr. Manny. He's given his life to stage magic. That really says something.
I'll tell you though, it's particularly hard to write an interesting letter to a magician. It requires heartfelt realities in each and every line. You have to hold back nothing and dig deeply for the edge of vulnerability and then bust through. When you're finished you have to be completely disassembled and rather teary about it.
Otherwise, there's no point and you can't mail it if it's less than. Those are the rules I've created for that correspondence. It is my contribution to his magic.
My husband brought home the strangest creature for me: a sculpture with a rabbit head that has a beak and a chicken body, legs and feet. There is a cotton tail. Finally, this object has come into my life to address the confoundedness of Easter and eggs and rabbits. It stands about 12 inches high and watches me as I type. I really love it.
I am so eager to work at the work I want to do. I wanted to be a psychotherapist years ago and continued to want to until recently. I still think I might want to do it, but really I have had the magic of it drain out my rabbit/chicken self because of nothing about therapy or clients, but more about the trappings around them that I have to machete through to find them. I'm not resentful about it. It's ok with me to morph the way I'm morphing. It's been a great ride, really. I've been able to hang out with the most fascinating people and hear the best, most exotic stories. I've been well-entertained for 30 years.
That means a lot to an only child left mostly to her own devices.
I now have a new roster of things to do. This includes learning to space just once after each period. My client in Australia noticed the residual double space of a writer who learned on typewriters. My new skill is daunting to learn, but I seem to be doing well with just one day's practice. It slows me quite a bit sometimes. I have to find the way its rhythm sounds in my head and with my cadence of sentence completion. I haven't found it yet.
Photo:
Carrollton Bus Crash Sky, Marie Monroe
No comments:
Post a Comment