wednesday

[dragonlady7]

So I actually shut down my computer last night-- which I probably hadn't done in several months-- and just slept, without its sleeping blinky light illuminating the wall of my bedroom. (Macs have a pulsating white light that reminds one of breathing while they're asleep, and it's surprisingly bright even though I've a Post-it stuck over the one on my iMac.) Without the (very soft) noise of its fan, I could hear-- the noise of the fan on the server in Dave's room. Eh well. (Also, the refrigerator. Our fridge is ridiculously loud. It sounds like demented crickets. It sings me songs. Dave thinks I'm crazy when I sing him the songs.)

I am refreshed this morning, and so have delved into the Newton to have a look at my writings of Wednesday.
Wednesday I wasn't feeling very well. I became convinced during the morning that I was an incompetent human being, and when I went to catch the bus I was, for no reason, nearly in tears and repeating half-nonsensical phrases to myself. It was weird, and intense. So when I got on the bus I wrote it down. But it wasn't nearly so intense by then; the thought of writing it down had come to me about midway through, and I almost immediately began to calm down as I started to think about what parts of my rather disjointed and strange thoughts would be best-suited to being written-down, and it all started to be interesting for its own sake rather than anything I was actually experiencing. So I sat on the bus and, rather tamely, wrote

Standing against the telephone pole under the sign for the 30, waiting in spring breeze with the sun on the back of my neck and as i idly wonder whether i could get a tan on the back of my neck if i stand long enough with my chin tucked down, with my hands clenched against the cold breeze, I was imagining this little mental breakdown I'm having as a webpage.
Every thought has with it a whole barrage of side tangents, and every moment has a barrage of thoughts, and they reminded me of popups. Of course people would have to disable their popup blockers. Oddly it comforted me to imagine it, and i idly wondered whether I could somehow include the mp3 I'm listening to, Regina Spektor's Carbon Monoxide.
I'm not really having a breakdown. I know many more neurotic and psychotic and depressive and worse people, who have far worse proiblems than my occasional inability to cope with reality. I suppose I should be pleased at the popups metaphor, because I had been leaning against the pole and repeating to myself "I can't do it" alternating with "just hang on, hang on a little while longer" because some part of me has this inane and desperate certainty that in some indeterminate but brief period of time things are going to get easier. (Possibly that when Dave graduates things will change-- although I see no evidence of that.) And while I was wondering why tears burn so much and staring at the cracked and broken lip of the entryway to the parking lot behind me, I was also thinking about whether I was really experencing anything legitimately psychological. If I were really depressed or having a psychotic episode I would probably be suidical, and as it is I am not convinced strongly enough that I exist to entertain any such notion. If I were suicidal I'd be looking at the speeding traffic in front of me and I'd probably think about throwing myself into it-- probably just there, in front of that Explorer, or perhaps there in front of that Ryder truck-- but no, he was slowing down to make a left, so it wouldn't work. Probably that black sedan; she was going easily 50. That would've worked.
But no, I'm not really suicidal. I always wonder what would happen if I threw myself or other significant objects (iPod, house keys, glasses, Newton, boyfriend, sister) in front of things or off of things but it's not because I would relish the effect; it's simple curiosity. Not about the physics of the thing, but more the psychics of it-- they're always significant objects, see?
Perhaps that's mildly psychotic, but as I've always been that way, I can't see changing it.

.

And then I felt better. And all was ok. Except that I was dizzy, at times quite dizzy, and that persisted for several hours, which was a bit dangerous at work, as I was trying to carry trays of heavy drinks, and if I bent my head forward the room would spin. It eventually stopped though, and hasn't come back, so it's OK, and I didn't drop anything on anyone, so all is well.

Also on that bus ride, I wrote this little bit of ... I suppose flash-fiction. I don't know what it is. But it's very odd, and not very me. But I kind of like it.

April 2066

I woke up tomorrow and I was in a nursing home and I couldn't remember what happened today. They told me I was eighty-seven. I asked them, astonished, what year it was. They smiled indulgently and said it was 2066. They said it would be Mother's Day soon and my daughter would come to see me with her kids, because she always did for Mother's Day.
This surprised me as well. They assured me that all was well, I had two kids and three grandchildren and had led a long and productive life. I was quite surprised; last I remembered, I hadn't even been sure I wanted kids.
In the end I suppose I was relieved. I mean, I'd done everything I'd always intended to, or at least the important parts. I wish I remembered some of it, but in the end it's better to have it out of the way. I died before Mother's Day so I didn't see my daughter or her kids, but really, at least I knew about them.

Comments

[p54ch0p9th.livejournal.com]

My refrigerator also serenades me -- although I can't appreciate it most of the time because of its unfortunate position in the kitchen. Sometimes it sings me Private Aria from Rigoletto. It's usually the quavering bass.

Ah, the magic!

[dragonlady7.livejournal.com]

My house is so small that it's easy to listen to the refrigerator from the bedroom. Or, for that matter, the living room. And the songs are perfectly audible from the dinette, of course-- the fridge is right there.

Mine doesn't sing anything so recognizable, but it's a kind of wavery medium-high-pitched drawn-out chirping, up and down and up and down in weird complex little repeating patterns. I sing along but Dave swears he doesn't hear anything from the fridge.

I don't mind the singing, but sometimes I wish I could get far away enough not to hear it. This house is a little claustrophobic.