I've been thinking about cracking open a book that I once started a long time ago. It was a mind bending experience, one that I had high hopes for. It was going to educate me about science, the big bang and a bunch of other stuff (heady technical speak huh?) that I haven't a clue about. I even got the illustrated version, I believed if there were pictures, I would catch on quicker. I am a visual person. I have to see, read and touch to have it really sink in. I should tell you the name of the book, its Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. I tried, I tried really hard. I read then reread, examined the pictures. I waited patiently for my 'ah ha' moment. It didn't come, by the 87th page my brain hurt, I felt stupid. So I stopped. I see that book every day and night. It yells at me every time I walk by "hey! Give me another chance!” It's sits on my headboard and gathers dust. It rests on top of my illustrated version of The Di Vinci Code which is on top of my treasured 1000th issue of Rolling Stone (it has a really cool cover). I am seriously thinking of blowing the dust off and attempting to stretch my brain once again. A friend of mine read it, he had the printed version and also listened to the talking version while he read. I think that was brilliant, granted, my friend is a genius, I should know by now to follow his lead.
I've read a few of Bill Bryson books. The first was A Walk in the Woods. I remember laughing out loud. Bill definitely has a way with words. I loved his Katz character friend. Their trials, tribulations (Twinkies or was it cupcakes?), their overall adventure. It almost made me want to try a little of the trail. Not enough to really do it, but I liked the thought. I also plowed through Lost Continent, it was funny but he had some pretty biting words for the south. I bought, opened but never finished I'm A Stranger Here Myself and last but not least The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid. I can't get out of my mind the picture of the jars stored under the sink. The jars they used to pee in, in the car, so they didn't have to waste time in the bathroom before they left for someplace. How those jars would sometimes find their way into the refrigerator filled with left over's (or was it pickles?), yikes!
I went through a big book stage a few years ago. I would hang out at Barnes and Noble, drink Starbucks, perusing the erotic aisle. Reading about stretching your throat to give great blow jobs, positions for every possible point of entry, some I didn't know about and self pleasure, all great stuff and more! I would eye the men who were brave enough to peruse along side of me, daring them to strike up a conversation. I think I might have scared them. I can't believe how brave I was then. I would stand in that aisle and read book after book on sex. Flip though the pictures, I even bought some. One was The Book of the Penis. I wanted to know everything I could about penises, I wanted to have one damn it! Another was on The Art of Erotic Writing. At that point in my life I loved to tease and tantalize with my fingertips, on a keyboard that is. I loved the idea that my imagination and words excited others. The chat rooms were perfect places to hone my craft. Men were so easy, some were actually fairly intelligent and funny. Most were God awful creeps but they were easy to weed out. Funny thing, I used to think I was the huntress, that I lured them into my trap, to have my way with. OMG how stupid am I?! I completely fell into theirs! I was the easy chick that thought she was so hot. Makes me laugh and cringe now. How could I have thought it was fun and challenging? It is a sick world out there.
I would also read free magazines (didn't have to buy, just read and put them back on the rack). I loved Vanity Fair and the Proust Questionnaire on the back page. When I didn't have a subscription I would stand in line at the grocery store turn to the back page, laugh out loud or cry inside or agree with the answers to, 'what quality to you most value in a man/ woman'? What is your idea of earthly happiness? What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? My favorite was always, 'how would you like to die'? I also discovered a magazine called Mean, it had great paper, thick and heavy, the colors were muted, and it had a smoky, sultry feel. It was for smart, creative, full of themselves people (hello? me?), I loved it. Then good old Rolling Stone and Consumer Reports. I could read all of them for free, it was fabulous.
Back to the books. After I wore out the erotic aisle, I cruised through the self help, which depressed me. Wow, it's just a bunch of crap for people who actually think they can help themselves. Seriously, all we are doing is making rich people richer, they all have their heads are up their ass and take full advantage of plastic surgery, maybe it's just botox (there go my green eyes glaring, even tho they're blue). I love the ones that give relationship advice and have been married 6 times, some of them to each other. After the self help I moved on to crafts (yeah I know, I even scared myself). I bought books on knitting and went into a knit/purl scarf making frenzy. I loved knitting, totally mindless stuff and you have a product after a few hours of not thinking. How productive is that? Then into the garden and landscape books, those were just to dream with. I want a pond and a hammock. I would be so happy.
I don't know where I lost touch with myself. I was a fairly confident person, I was ok alone, thinking I would be alone the rest of my life. I was really ok with that. Now I just feel scared. Scared that I'm not going to survive. At times just wanting everything to go away, especially myself. I can't seem to find pleasure in anything. It's all work, no play, no sleep, no release. I guess I do get little glimpses of goodness. The ones that share words with me, they are the lightning bugs in my life, they brighten my darkness just enough for me to gasp with glee for a second. Thank you…
I do love my kiddos too. They are the ones that are hanging onto me for dear life. I am hanging over a cliff and they sense that, they will not let go of me. If I let go of them they would be more pissed at me than they already are. I would carry those bad feelings to my grave, death would be far more uneasy than this life. I don't want my kids to be any sadder than they are. So I am stuck here, unless a tragic accident were to take place ( I will stay away from the stairs and make sure there is dog food downstairs). No one can ever predictthe future.
Shitake mushrooms happen.
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