Under a Martian Brain
So, I�m back from the massage. It was nice. I don�t know. Really, what I need is a brain massage because what happens in circumstances like these is that I hype it up in my mind as being THE BEST MOST WONDERFUL THING EVER and I remember that I�m ticklish. Very ticklish. And I forget to mention this to the masseuse person (this time a guy whose name I�ve already forgotten who replied to everything I said with �Right on.� At least he didn�t say it with an exclamation point at the end, just a period.) so when I tense up, I begin to apologize and explain no, it�s me not him, really, sincerely, and then I fret about it and tense up again and my mind won�t stop won�t stop won�t stop with a myriad of thought strands all intermingling around like ribbons around a maypole the day after the celebration.
And so I lay there and try to hard to ENJOY THIS but I worry about work and I get mad at my husband for leaving me BOTH a voicemail and an e-mail at work this morning telling me he�s almost out of diapers which I cannot do anything about until later and if the situation�s dire then just fucking put Red in the car and go buy some. Duh. It�s what I do every single day � keep long lists in my head of everything we�re nearly out of and all the places I have to go to procure them so that I have no time to do anything else. Like go get a massage where I can stew about it in peace.
Then I started musing over selfishness. How, if I had millions of dollars, I�d do this massage thing once a week. I�d have somebody on retainer or something. And then I thought, god what a waste of money, surely there�s something better I can do with that kind of money than waste it on myself, on a totally selfish end, with no practical, tangible outcome. And I�m really not a selfish person, certainly not since I had kids, and really I�m too poor and practical (to a fault, really; I am the ultimate in �penny wise, pound foolish�) to ever be really, really selfish. I could just never bring myself to own so many clothes or shoes, for example, that I needed an entire ROOM for them. You know those rich people with rooms larger than some people�s kitchens? That have three-way mirrors and all kinds of specialized hanging space and drawers for things like scarves? Ick, no.
And, all the time I�m noticing he�s doing that like flick! thing with his hands when he comes to the end of a limb � just flicks! away the bad energy or something into the air and I imagine little puffs of black smoke lingering, hovering in the air there in that tiny room. There�s something similar to that in yoga � breathing in good air, breathing out bad. Which I also can�t do well because of a very deviated septum (naturally occurring, if you must know) that means I do 90% of my breathing through one nostril so that �in one nostril and out the other stuff� cannot be done by me. I always end of cheating and breathing out of my mouth. Because, yes, I admit: I�m a mouth breather.
But now, I have to go pick up Dusty. Maybe I�ll be back tomorrow. If I have anything worth saying to say. And I�ll try to keep it all in the same tense.
Completely random and off-topic (as if there was one):
Dusty informed me the other day that babies and toddlers learn stuff in their sleep. That when they are asleep, their brains leave their bodies and go off to Mars, get smart, and come back. That�s how they learn, how they suddenly know stuff. I learn something new every day. And not from Mars, either. Unless Dusty�s really a Martian and I somehow hadn�t noticed.
Dusty also came up to me over the weekend after she�d been perusing the book shelves and said, �When I�m a teenager? Know what I�m going to read? Under The Black Flag!� My kinda girl.
