This is Your Brain on Friday-at-5pm

I'm sorry, did you? Did you say something?

Testing 123

There's a new guy. There's a new purse. The litmus purse.

Overheard

- What? You love me?
- No.
- What did you say?
- Can. you. get. a real. gun. for. me.
- (dismissive, immediate, impassive) No. Real guns are not allowed.

...said the 10-year-old to the 7 year-old at the martial arts studio, tonight as I waited for my kickboxing class to start.

On "Daily"

If you check daily, you may've noticed that my daily has not been, well, daily. I've considered this since day four of my blog when the funny dried up. All of a sudden, the funny things that were happening daily, they slowed down. They happen every few days, not every last day of the cyber year. Turns out.

I grapple then with the title of this bloggiepoo until I realize that as long as some of you are checking daily, then how about that, the title fits. Like how I just passed that buck? A buck a day adds up, though. You'll be rich in no time. And I'll keep typing.
:-)

I'm Plagiarizing

Because Nico relays it so well.
thehumanproject.wordpress.com
Yeah, what he said. Except, insert "Park Bench Daily."

Morning Dreams

...have been weird on vacation. Only on the first night, sleeping between high thread count sheets and a nest of pillows in a suite of my own, did I wake up leisurely. Since then I remember two in particular:

#1
A room on my parents' house that I'd never seen before--it's my brother's, who has been dead for 20 years, cracker crumbs leading to the closed window that, when opened, leads to a pool. The pool water is a plastic container, like waterbed material. Mom jumps in.

#2
I'm making out with a friend who is recently married.

and Surprise

Omaha is not bad. It's pretty amazing, actually. Surprisingly hip. Not flat. Did you know plains roll? They dip and swell and have trees and sky, it's beautiful. Omaha rocks. Who. Knew.



My brother and Ella, his new little creation.

Plain

I am in Omaha.
Omaha.

Beauty

Beauty, on the other hand.
Gorge me on it.
Please, gorge me with beauty.

New

Number one reason to change the holiday party venue:

It's too small and it's overrun by people so young, they haven't even been removed from their plastic wrappers yet.

Pretty

I don't trust pretty.

Is that bad?

It's just, pretty scares me.

I'm dating a guy so pretty he makes my teeth hurt.

Last time I got this close to pretty, I woke up a year later on the floor of a hotel bathroom, cold tiles and middle of the night compressing my sobs into a boxed-in time warp, back to day-one when the voice in my head said, actually said loud, "she will devastate you."

Pretty is a rocky road. Pretty is a mystery. Pretty is a lobotomy. Mine.

No, I don't trust pretty.

Postal Torpor

You know the experience of standing in line at the post office. Second only to waiting to be called at the DMV, itself just this side of waiting for Godot.

For some reason, I muster more patience at the Post Office. Imagine, standing on your feet all day, meeting face to face with annoyed people who have been glaring at you each of their 30 minutes in line. Then pushing their papers around and taping their boxes. It calls for a sweeter compassion.

Yesterday I zip into the post office on the way to lunch to find I've forgotten to pay for my P.O. box, and now I'm locked out of it. But great clicking heels of fortune, the line is EMPTY! There are only two people working but with no line, this'll be a breeze...tick...tock...tick...you've got to be...kidding...tock...me...tick...

WHAT is happening? It becomes clear. Patron number 1 is poring over sheets of stamps, deciding on one, changing her mind, deciding on others. Patron number 2 is locked in a quiet but intense conversation with the only other postal worker. They are gesturing with their hands and their faces are expressive. Patron number 2's stack of mail in front of her and it becomes clear that they are NOT talking about mail...tick, tock, tick...

People are gathering behind me. Patron number 2 is so easy in this conversation, I wonder who she is. How does she stand there in this conversation, with only one other worker on duty, and take up all this time, with no compunction whatsoever? She's happy as a lark as the line accumulates. If I weren't so curious, I would be furious. This social more is almost unbreakable in this fast-paced country and she's smashing it to bits. I mean, at least you could LOOK guilty, ACT busy, acknowledge the waiting humanity with a shoulder shrug and a lopsided smile.

After separating and straightening each of Patron number 1's several dollar bills with a snap, the only postal worker working places them next to each other on the counter, then gathers them and places them preciously in the tray. I'm up. I step to it and, while he's away investigating my locked box, I decide to listen conspicuously to the pair STILL talking at the other window. Who could she be? Who is she to this postal worker that the six people now in line do not exist?

I can barely make out what she's saying, but under my obvious scrutiny, she begins to move. But in mid-step she returns and says, "How's Hector?" Postal Worker reponds. She's back and chatting. "What about Lula?" "And Vic?"

I finally get it. Who can stand at the post office window and chat as if no line stacked up behind her? Whose wits can match those of the quietly satisfied, unhurried tree sloth variety of postal worker? ANOTHER POSTAL WORKER!!

She used to work there and she's catching on up with the chit chat from this side of the counter. My postal guy comes back with my mail and only then does the conversation next to me begin to end. The people in line are so used to the yawning stretches of time there, they haven't even noticed.

Underwater

Yesterday after work, I was so tired and pulled in so many directions I hid in the bath in snorkel gear.

How do parents do it?


Photo credit

Retail Medicine

The dress is so beautiful I'm taking it off the rack.

Nevermind it's a size small and $205 on sale. I hold it up to myself in the mirror and admire the ivory crocheted top with the sweeping neckline, the navy floral skirt with the orange oversized flowers spilt down its sides. It's me if ever I hanged on a clothing rack. Beautiful and thoroughly original, I'm saying to myself, "just hold it up to you," then, "maybe you could just try it on anyway."

I am not a size small. There are five minutes left to my lunch. I'm gripping onto the hanger and these...delusions! I say, "Hang it up, Pema. Get ahold of yourself."

I hang it up. I shake my head a swift jerk as I walk away.

I say to myself, "You just said, 'Get ahold of yourself.'"

Dress lust.

Platinum Medicine

Eagle Medicine

"...the dance that leads to flight involves the conquering of fear and the willingness to join the adventure that you are co-creating with the Divine.

...If you have pulled Eagle in the reverse, you have forgotten your power and connectedness to the Great Spirit. You may have failed to recognize the light that is always available for those who seek illumination. Heal your broken wings with love. Loving yourself as you are loved by the Great Spirit is the lesson which the contrary Eagle brings."

-Jamie Sams, Medicine Cards

Why Do Whales Sing?

"It turns out that humpbacks near the Great Barrier Reef do so for one main reason--sex. Joshua Smith, a marine biologist at Australia's University of Queensland, has found that though female humpbacks don't actually sing, male songs can be heard up to 12 miles away and can last as long as 22 hours. They are 'likely an important courtship display.' That's not to say the humpbacks are wooing life partners. 'When a male is singing and a female is present, it is not like that male is courting that female for life,' Smith wrote. 'The function of song would be more for immediate reproductive benefits, more like a one-night stand.'"

(Frank Burns writing for Audubon Magazine)

Aka "blowing hot air," in the whale world and human night life as it turns out.