Scissors

These last few months have been a very trying time for myself. I am not sure what happened to trigger the ill feelings off or what position I was in when it did happen but all I know is that it wasn’t a very good position, lying on my bed. Crying. Once again. Personal stuff and relationship stuff, messy, chaotic and then of course the family stuff as the cherry on top. You know the kind of bullshit where the ‘off’ switch is so grimy and caked with dirt that it would probably require a pair of pliers to move. Heavy – yes.

What do you do with those kind of dark thoughts? How to banish them from one’s mind if not forever at least on a temp basis? You can’t actually. You just have to deal with it when it comes as best as you can. How? Everyone is different of course but as for me I like to rely on a lot of praying and begging God, that normally works and I also like to think of the good times. In this instance the last real good time I had was between the months of Dec 2012 – Feb 2013 or in simpler terms, my last trip which was to Hawai’i.

As I lay there on my bed, clutching my pillow for security, flashbacks of a 2008 trip to the catacombs of Paris began to interrupt my thoughts. Why was I thinking about that dismal and gloomy place all of a sudden. I guess I’ll have to write about that experience to explain the way it made me feel but for now I will quicken this entry by only mentioning how utterly sad it made me feel. I mean I saw the bones of babies and little children – it deeply affected me, it was chilling. How can the life of a child or a baby be smite out so quickly, so easily and without even a proper burial, a bunch of flowers and a little prayer perhaps for each life.

I cried again thinking of those lives that hadn’t reached their full potential yet, hadn’t even been given the chance it seems and then I contrasted that with my own life and how much apathy I regarded my time on earth with. Here I was crying in bed for dead babies from almost a century ago yet I didn’t and couldn’t give a rats arse about my own existence. WTF? What was wrong with me? Why was I so obsessed with the sad fate of others lives and yet detested every living moment about mine, my fate was still unforeseen, my destiny unknown and boy, I was still sitting at the poker table maybe not with a full house and perhaps not even with a royal flush but I had gone quite a few rounds with a shitty hand and although I didn’t win I still hadn’t lost. That is something to be grateful for right? Wrong…where the fuck is that Hawai’ian beach when you most need it? Who took those memories away from me? What was my fate if I couldn’t even recognise it, did I even really believe in fate?

I remember reading somewhere about the ‘Moirai’ or the three fates of ancient Greek mythology. Basically you had these three crones controlling the fate and destiny of humankind with merely a spindle and thread. First their is ‘The Spinner’, she spins the thread of each human life, then their is ‘The Measurer’ or drawer, she measures and determines how much thread gets dished out for each life. Lastly, their is ‘The Cutter’ – yep, she’s the scary bitch with the scissors who basically knows the precise moment a life will end because she is the one who gets to decide whose thread will be cut next.

I don’t normally subscribe to such fatalistic bullshit but I swear that these last few months I could actually feel her looming above me, could even hear the swipe of invisible blades slice through the air, even the acrid smell of rust on metal and it gave me the heebie jeevies. It’s not my time I kept saying to myself. Go away, it’s not my time. I could not believe that I truly thought one of  The Fate Sisters was after me. I mean I was that petrified I even changed my security settings on Facebook like an idiot. I just couldn’t shake the feeling of darkness compounding inside my whole being, enveloping my full human experience. Something was out to get me and I was beginning to forget everything – the look on my Brother’s face whenever he was getting ready for a Friday night outing with his boys, the songs we sang with such joy and fluidity as kids, the way my best friend would burst out laughing at something funny, the memories of all my travels – great and small, the last one of the most stunning place on God’s given earth. It was all starting to slip from my memory and I was so terrified, is this what dementia felt like? I asked myself.

I tried to drum up memories of Hawai’i, I remember the bluest of eyes on him – a stranger that knew me, really knew me, deep and way down to the soles of my feet kind of knowing, the way the sand got stuck in between my toes and how annoying it was to wash it out, the smiles that greeted me – those big brown eyelashes that batted at me, the bus driver on-hele who was so laid back you thought he was operating the steering wheel with his feet – blasting reggae music and not having a single care in the whole wide world – this is what I call unreal memories, oh, the majesty, the absolute of lovely. All slipping.

I had a sinking feeling that bitch “the cutter” was stalking me and because she knew I was a creative person her weapon of choice was a pair of great big rusty pinking shears. Well at least she recognised that I belonged within a special category and at the very least needed to be taken out with the respect that someone of my standing deserved. I didn’t  much like the rusty bit but my imagination felt pent up and got carried away. Still, I could not picture myself in a coffin looking like a fabric bookmark or worse a gingham jam cover – Horrors!

I wish the emotional turmoil of the past few months could easily be erased as simply as writing on a chalkboard but alas for me it did not, could not. No, unfortunately for someone of “my standing” ie a creative being – ugly stuff like that just gets retained in my head. It swirls around and around the way a lost boat does during a tempest in the Bermuda triangle, rocking and shaking up all my thoughts and feelings, aggressively searching for residence within the landscape of my mind. My God but these thoughts, get them out please! Can someone please show me where the plug is at, in this gloopy mess of inner dialogue. I am going crazy, I really am – is there anyone out there who can tell me where the toilet is so I can dump this waste, this slurry, this thick, stinking mass of mental shit!

That toothless old hag with sunken cheekbones, concave chest and saggy breasts that drag at gravity, that ballsy bitch, actually tried to snip at my thread. Dumb move. Every artsy person, every crafter, every sewer, embroiderer, quilter, every fashion designer, seamstress, every Martha Stewart wannabe, tailor, candle wicker, every sweet old granny who makes jam, every avid and dutiful fabric bookmark maker knows that you cannot cut straight with pinking shears – especially rusty ones.

So as I waved ta-ta to one of the Fate sisters I realised that I needed to get over a lot of things and one of them was myself lest I’d end up having my thread cut and worse yet by my own hands. I decided from that near-death experience I would try my very utmost best to live. Dammit! Live! I will live. This is my new mantra. I will ride that blasted Tsunami called LIFE like an ancient Hawaiian surfer, fearlessly pounding down on big ass waves with nothing more than a piece of wood and possibly some good reggae music blasting in the background. My goodness if I couldn’t get my fucking act together with this whole depression thing I may as well have left my ass in Paris in 2008 to join the rest of dem’ bones that lay silently beneath the concrete that the living above carelessly trod on as they went about the daily grind of life. I know that their will be another visit from her “The Cutter” but I will not let her take me. I’ll just put up with her shit until the next round.

For now it’s sweet blue skies and grassy knolls, sunshine and sugary, moist fruits – pretty memories of Hawai’i and her achingly beautiful face that lives inside my heart, my soul and my spirit.

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