A Mind, Lively and at Ease

     Can we consider the options for a moment? Small, slight seconds of your time perhaps? Notice the deep breaths welling and easing out underneath fur. Listen to the pads of kitten feet scampering across the linoleum as she plays. There, she reaches claws to the mattress and with little effort climbs. Do you intentionally forget the happiness of an instant of existence?

     She’s crawled under the blanket, pressing against your legs to melt between cotton and skin, all while gently purring. Does she sleep? Does she dream? Imagine her thoughts of green stalks of grass twice her size and the company of mice and sparrows, hearing wind chimes above. Imagine her nightmares, like when she jumped and yowled from the resounding rumble of thunder. 

     Yet, with a satisfying stretch of limbs and vertebra, she’s ready to pounce, leaping forward to grab the hidden adventure of the day. In envy, you watch those eyes stare at opponents unflinchingly and with deliberation instead of hesitation.

     Remember the strength of a kitten—despite size and situation. Take into regard her two-pound body.

     She sleeps next to giants, unafraid. Why can’t you do the same?

     Click Clack, typewriter keys in this old building I hardly knew. Burnt old brick walls surrounded our pains and arthritic knuckles.

     They converted an old warehouse, some sort of sewing mill that was decades out of date. Posters stuck to the grooves and mortar, like the circuits of a motherboard yet to be invented. Their edges flitted from the large overhead fans that turned like propellers towards the sky.

     In the heat of the summer of ‘65, we worked like sweat was circulating in its own biosphere. A color television was at the forefront, like a general viewing his troops training, bodies moving in lines down aisles and stopping to look back at attention from his call. We crowded around old sewing tables, where women previously sewed zippers on heavy cotton trousers, to look at our newest anti-propaganda poster. We started with opposites, replacing Uncle Sam and lounging ladies in red, white and blue with the stark images of skeletons.

     Click, clacking typewriter keys echoed past the whirling fans to the useless vents and stovepipes above. I can hear it in my sleep, a ghost sound following me like bullet shots do a veteran.

     I like to remember our faces before that raid. Caleb’s red eyes grinned after a successful job at the local recruitment office. He wore one of those green Army helmets, behind him Mona was using white fingernail paint to adorn it with swirling, twirling doves. He smoked a celebratory joint, inhaling, passing, laughing in the broad triumph that rivaled mine after sticking my little brother’s hand in warm water during the night. It was just too easy.

     I’d like to take joy from it, truly I do. Some may think my nostalgia to be whimsical, but they didn’t see our quick, frightened eyes when the squeak of a door was heard. Yeah, we stuck it to the man. Don’t forget, the man always carries a bigger stick.

     Of all, I can’t picture Mona’s face. Repressed memories, I suppose. She was the unfortunate, standing near the only exit that day. Red, red, red is all I find, searching for her features—her beautiful blond dreads dyed deep red.

     In the beginning, Caleb seemed like a Gabriel reincarnate. Herald, he was, pulling us with words like a drag from his joint. Maybe it was the ‘shrooms, but I swear that boy was golden.

     With the clang of a typewriter bell, one of many, I handed over the threat. I treated it like a screenplay—something for the characters to follow unequivocally. Never did I feel the sheer weight of one piece of paper more. I felt the power but didn’t understand the consequences.

     Did I really cause it all? Oh god, please tell me.

     No no no…

So confused, and I think Woolf was too.

     Constantly fighting jealousy, tearing down grudges, and disarming pent up anger, we struggled for balance on the waves of tension. I spent most of a week with my abusive sister. Yes, you may think that this could be an exaggeration of insulting proportions, but how can I explain the switch from happiness to complete depression?

     It began small. For the first hour, she immediately took the limelight, and we heard of all her problems. We picked her up from her house on the way to the airport. I clenched my teeth in preparation, but surprise is her primary tactic. She started with innocent greetings, then trailed into adoring older sister. At this point, I was happy to see her. She had softened my walls and caused my heart to swell with adoration a fan reserves for their hero. Maybe this is where I go wrong, perhaps I place her so high on a pedestal that nature intends her to fall further than before. I found each moment more disappointing.

     She has thick brunette hair that naturally falls into large and tangled waves. She hates it, and of course I love it. Sisters discover their relationship is defined by jealousy, and their power to overcome it. We are opposites always trying to reach the other pole. She’s openly emotional. I never cry in public—would die if I cried in public. She cries almost every outing, easy in emotion and affection. She is a spring of bubbling new passion, while I am a well filled with all the passions of my lifetime. I miss her.

     We are irritated by our differences. I was embarrassed as she snapped at our grandmother, not accepting that the situation was wholly confusion and misapprehension. She was embarrassed by my obvious need to appease. I have neither the strength of character nor the necessity of confrontation that she seems to enjoy.

     We share the same blue eyes, the same love for others, and the same understanding of how small and inconsequential we are compared to the universe. Sitting at a pizzeria, her fingers played with the moisture collected on the outside of her glass filled with a dark amber ale. We had meant to go out on the town, but at the time I was still too young to get past the bouncers. Instead, we lazily perched on rod iron patio chairs outside of a pizza parlor that late night. The servers watched Family Guy from the bar inside. We spoke about existentialism and the horrible fashion of the kids from the local university. We watched Ed Hardy shirts walk by with blue-haired girls wearing Prada.  I enjoyed just sitting and sharing with my sister while eating a slice of cheesecake, never envying the drunken kids walking past.

     She doesn’t believe in anything. She watched Bill Maher’s Religulous, agreeing with most of his bitter remarks. I worry about her now, as I reflect on her outbursts of frustration with religion and society. She stated that religion was for those whom do not have the luxury to be atheist. On the other hand, I accept the “Why?” behind religion. It’s comforting to realize that some questions cannot be answered, and life must be lived because we all die too soon. I realized the extent of her unhappiness behind her outrage. I think she could see the sympathy behind my eyes.

    We hate sympathy. Well, I hate sympathy, whereas I think my sister secretly enjoys the attention. Once again we part ways emotionally, and in a horrible misunderstanding. I prefer empathy—I need my feelings confirmed and reaffirmed by others so that I don’t feel crazy.

    This only testifies the happy times we shared together. I try to remember the times she’s hurt me, for while others only pierce the skin, she drills straight through tendon and bone to the other side. She leaves gaping holes, only to be filled again by her approval and love. Sometimes, they don’t equate and I’m left teetering with my unbalanced frame.

    I think I selectively forget those excruciating moments. It is the only defense I have. I can only remember general thoughts and feelings, like when she showed disinterest in my music taste or even changed it to her own funk-soul mixture. When I messed up and misidentified a band, she glared at me, judging my stupidity in the darkness of a moving car. Retreating from our night out, everything reversed back to the hurt and pain of an adoring younger sister that can see the depth of her older sister’s misery. 

    I used to judge her too, subconsciously. She never wore makeup, a routine application featured everyday of my life. I was a little brat, a little naive kid that never saw past her own feelings and problems. I’m not that little kid anymore—because I had to learn the hard way.

     The whole trip, she made little remarks that left me as a faltering spirit with the strength of Swiss cheese.  I couldn’t take it anymore.

    My parents were fighting, something they did right before they had to leave each other. The stress built, and both of them went berserk in their need for the other. My sister never understood my mother, fails to see my mother, and interjected—as if that ever worked.

     We slammed doors, walking to the other car, and stood outside of it waiting for my mother to finish the tiff and unlock it. My sister felt personally bruised from their fight, something that hadn’t affected me since I was a teenager. She went on a tirade, insulting my mother—something I was NOT having. My mother was the only unwavering support during all my difficult times. I would NOT let my sister say stupid, unfounded shit about my mother.

     And there it went. All my life, and I had never burst out in angry, uncontrolled emotion. I leave that to her, or even my mother. I am a cool wall. I am a cool wall, a stone facade, or a serene pool of water. My bricks fell from the weight, my facade cracked from her hammer, and my dam broke. 

     All the frustration of a lifetime rushed out.

     I asked a simple question, trying to hold on to my last reserves.

    “Why are you letting this affect you?” It was a simple, curious question that I genuinely would’ve like answered.

    “Don’t pull that psychological bullshit on me.” She retorted, narrowing her eyes with disgust while holding her cigarette out and wielding it like a weapon. 

     “What? I really would like to know.” I felt all of my foundation slipping. Every word she uttered brought more down.

     “God, you’re so condescending.”

     “ME? I’m condescending?”

     “Yes, you’re a bitch.” Oh no, here we go.

     “I’M A BITCH? I’M A BITCH?”

     “Yes, shush!!! Shut up, people can hear you.”

      “No! No, I WON’T shut up!” She kept shushing me, and still I persisted. This was one dam that would not be salvaged.

     We were in a parking lot, next to a busy street and an equally busy chain of store fronts and restaurants. We could hear people chattering on the patio of one bistro.

     “SHUT UP!”

     “NO! NO! NO! LISTEN TO ME!”

     “Shut up! I am listening to you!” She said this while shushing me, quite opposite of her words.

     “NO YOU AREN’T!”

     “GODDAMNIT SHUT UP! PEOPLE CAN HEAR YOU!” That was it. In one quick, crazy—I must admit, motion I let it all out.

     “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK!” I yelled, throwing everything in my hands on the ground. My coffee cup, full of precious coffee that I never waste, skidded across the asphalt and opened like Pandora’s box, leaking my lifeblood into the dark and glistening pavement. My hands had been full, and my purse splatted onto the ground with a large thump.

     “NONE OF THESE PEOPLE GIVE A SHIT!” I screamed. She stood there, dumbfounded I think. Finally, she listened to me.

     “I don’t give a shit about any of these people, do you think they care? They don’t! I don’t care what they think.” I opened my arm to encompass the surroundings. Tears were running full force down my face like a waterfall.

     “I do, damnit, I do care what you think. You’re my SISTER! Of course I care what you think! Sometimes, though, you hurt me so much!” I was crumbling toward the ground, but found the car for support.

    “You hurt me so much, and I just try to think what it is I do that makes you hurt me. I try to find any reason, any instant where I deserve to be treated this way!” I had never told her any of this before. I had never stood my ground. My mother came around the corner, and she saw us fighting between the cars. She walked up, about to yell at my sister in my defense.

     “No, Mom, it’s okay. I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago.” She backed off.

     “I love you, I love you so much, and all you do is hurt me!” I was yelling at my sister, and she was crying. Boiling point was reached.

     “I know, I know! I don’t know why I do it.” She managed through sobs.

     “I’m crazy, I’m just crazy!” She said. I stood up straight, finding strength in the idea of trying to comfort her.

     “No you aren’t.” I stated.

     “My life’s shit right now, I hate it all,” She said with her eyes moving back and forth looking at the ground.

     “You can get through it! You can get through it, of all people I can tell you that.” I moved toward her, trying to help her see sense.

     “No, I can’t.”

     “You’re the only one that can help yourself! Only you!” I cried.

     She walked to the back door, after my mom unlocked the car, and started to get in.

     “I don’t want to hear it!” She says, as if she was sticking her fingers in her ears and singing to drown it out.

     I walked around to the back seat. Her door was open, and I took her into a hug.

     “You’re not crazy, and I love you.”

     Yes, so I felt better. We were exhausted after that, and went back to the hotel to recover from our outpouring of emotions. It’s amazing what confrontation can do. I hated hurting my sister, like she’d done to me.

     I know I might have to confront her again, but now I know the benefit of standing up for myself even if I’m afraid of hurting her.

     Don’t let anyone, even those you love, treat you like shit. It hurts the most from someone you trust, and it only causes your distrust in everyone else.

     Sometimes, you have to hurt someone you love to save yourself. I think that’s what hurts the most.

      Sissie, I love you.

     I’ve always loved interpreting dreams, but this is something quite different. You intentionally delve into your subconscious for answers, to sort everything out. It can scare you if you’re not ready, so in fact I don’t recommend this for you unless you’re fully prepared for the consequences. No joke, it’s scary.

     The first time I did this, I was in high school, deep in depression. Luckily, it kind of helped me out. I say kind of because really, even if you have the resources and answers, sometimes you still don’t utilize them. If I had paid attention to it more it could’ve helped.

     My last one was about how I was running from my problems. This is quite the opposite.

«»

     A baby squirrel is chewing on an acorn high up in a tree. I look down and a litle kid with messy blond hair is watching in fascination.

     “What are you doing?” I yell down.

     “Who, me?” The kid asks. He’s wearing blue striped shorts and a red shirt.

     “What are you doing?” He asks, cupping his hands around his mouth.

     “I just found myself in this tree.” I replied. He shrugged.

     “You had to get up there somehow.” I looked back at the squirrel, and it had one eye staring at me. He, the squirrel, stopped mid-bite. He chattered, then ran further up the tree—dropping the acorn. I looked up the branches, toward the sky, trying to see it. The little kid caught the acorn below me in cupped hands.

     “I guess I climbed it.” I said. He shrugged again. A woman came out of a house and called his name. She was frail, old and using a walker.

     “Jimmy!”

     “There’s someone in a tree.” He called back.

     “Why am I in this tree?!” I yell, desperately. He shrugged.

The woman cried out, “Young lady! You’ll fall!”

     “Well, I would’ve already done that, it doesn’t take a tree to fall.” I replied. She smiled.

     “Why are you smiling?”

     “Seems to be you’re happy in that tree.” She told me.

I smiled back.

     “I am. I suppose I am.”

«»

     So I need to figure out all the archetypes and such, but some of them are pretty obvious. She’s a wise old woman, or mother nature perhaps, whom is nuturing and comforting. She revealed what I had yet to discover myself.

     The little kid’s a no-brainer, but the fact that it’s a boy confuses me. See, that’s happened to me in the last one. Could he be my animus as well? Anyway, he’s pretty much hope/beginnings, all that jazz. Also my youth in general. So strange it’s a boy!

     But where does that leave the baby squirrel? He just doesn’t fit in. Actually, he’s my animus. He may be a baby because I have yet to develop that side of my personality. The animus corresponds to logic and intellectual power. Still, a squirrel?? hahaha.

     The tree is basically my life, and as I go up a branch it is me taking more risks. This ai was so positive. I’ll probably dissect this some more. It’s quite enlightening. I really like a lot of Jung’s psychological concepts.

crushes:

I’m shy, you’re shy.

This is not good.

Story of my life.