Immorality and Gutter Balls

That's a good band name. As my weekly headache rages on in the stage right side of my brain, I sit and ponder my forthcoming day. Twain attacks a bag in the background and Mr. Bungle watches out of pure boredom. This is clearly a day in the life of.  

I feel like making a composition of words, a potpourri of thoughts, if you will. I don't want to mention my lack of focus, or my inability to motivate myself into doing something productive...I just did both if those things in explaining my desire to not mention them. Anywho, here goes.

It fascinates me how I can be so attached to a fleeting moment. How one singular thought stays with me and haunts my present happiness. This was my transition to begin dissecting my recent departure from Gymboree, but as it always does, my Kingsmen summer memory destroys my mind and I'm left with the aftermath of a hurricane. I've never missed a person the way I've missed the warmth of that summer. The knot in my gut unfurls its tight fingers and a wave of nauseating emotions chokes my sanity. I am in love with a time that will never again be the present. How can this be possible? Will this irrational love block my heart from real human penetration? Sadly, I believe this.  

It wasn't just the fun, or the insanely artistic experiences, it was those insignificant little paint splatters that pull my strings and constrict my limbs. I am my own puppet, and I cannot, will not, set me down. Appropriate carnival music flows through the carcass of my selected past, bearded ladies and high wire balancing Siamese twins book end my bizarre desire to return to this circus. I was never good with goodbye.  

I'm starving for concentration.  

My first memory is of my fourth birthday party, my grandparents' backyard in Miami. Red brick patio, neverending citrus trees and the greenest grass I've never again seen. It is a vast jungle, sweet smells and humid air. Often times when I dream, I am back there. And although I have not seen this yard since I was a young child, I can see it as vividly as I was actually still there. In my dream, nothing has changed. My grandmother is there, in her perfectly placed hair, breath of rose candy, and the most beautiful smile shared by three generations. My grandfather's worked hands scoop me up into a hug I never want to let go. He is strong, masculine, and the most loving, sensible man I will ever know. Together, they are everything. He pushes me in a swing, she sings me a song of white doves. I never want to wake up.  

And then I do.  

It's a January morning, we're in our New Mexico home, my mother, John, my grandparents, I'm wearing a quilted, light pink robe that ties in the front with delicate pink ribbon. Next to the dark wood kitchen window shutters, there is a Minnie Mouse cake in front of me on the dining room table. I can still taste it. I've never had that taste again.  

I'd give anything to eat it again.  

When my mother and I stepped into our first Arizona home I knew life had changed for the better. We ate Boar's Head ham straight out of the plastic bag and both feel asleep in the sunlight streaked living room floor. I can still feel the new carpet soft on the cheek and the sun soaking into my restful body. I will never forget that day.  

My mother and father have given me a beautiful life.  

Just beautiful.  

Beautiful.  

I'm going to clean up some of the hurricane's mess, but I'm not going to rebuild. I like feeling this way. Alive. Appreciating the past as making me the person I am continuing to become.