Ode to albatrosses

My horoscope tells me that Pisceans have split personalities.

"One fish can be seen to be the fish that wants to return to a state of deep unconsciousness. This fish wants to go back to the deep sea, where all there is to do is to eat, procreate and sleep.

"The other fish wants to swim to the light. It senses that to follow this longing to return to the state of oneness, as felt by them in the womb - with the added ingredient of awareness - of conscious knowing - is their potential awakening."

I'm superstitious. I generally don't pay much attention to horoscopes because I'm a scientist too, the astrology of it doesn't work with the universe expanding. But if my tarot cards tell me to watch out for having an accident, or there are a number of things that happen consecutively like breaking a mirror and falling flat on my face when trying to leave the house to go there, I take them as signs.

That horoscope worried me though. I guess it makes sense, occasionally you have to come accross one that sounds like you. If just because there are so many variations that it is impossible for there not to be one that sounds vaguely right.

Today my tarot card was the chariot. "It means a union of opposites, like the black and white steeds. They pull in different directions, but must be (and can be!) made to go together in one direction. Control is required over opposing emotions, wants, needs, people, circumstances; bring them together and give them a single direction, your direction. Confidence is also needed and, most especially, motivation."

Tell me I'm insane. Tell me my superstition is idiotic and that there is no such thing as serendipity. Yesterday I told you I was torn. Today I'm no better, in fact I'm probably worse. I'm torn in half, torn between which one of me to listen to, and torn between a lasting friendship and just throwing it all away. And I don't know what to do.

Labels: Introspection, Superstition

When I’m cold and lonely, when only the local vicar visits me on a regular basis. When my face is not wrinkled, but so far past that the wrinkles have wrinkles of their own. When the world is a completely different place, where technology that seems miraculous to us now, is the norm. When my six cats are my constant companions and my grandchildren suffer my company with a frown.

When I live in a bungalow, and have my food made for me by a nurse. When I write my signature with a wobble of my wrist, and sorrow in my heart. When sitting down hurts, and standing up seems impossible. When I walk with a cane, and leave the house only when I really must. When every room smells of old people, and I grow to despise the young. When I feel awkward and useless, when I doze off in the sun.

When those I know now are all dying, when I throw out my clocks to forget the ticking. When children laugh as I walk by, when a slight fall could end my life. When arthritis is the devil’s work, and hospitals a regular drop in. When I turn to religion as a last resort, to hope that when it’s over, there is something.

When I genuinely forget important dates like my anniversary. When I keep a photo above the fireplace of the husband who is no longer with me. When a cake is no longer big enough to even hold half the candles that my years require. When a cool breeze sets a chill to my bones, and freezes my soul in summer. When forever becomes a myth and right now is not enough. When the immortality of youth seems a distant and pathetic illusion.

Remember me.

Labels: Poetic licence, Superstition

Winter is endless. The frost on each blade of grass every morning when you wake up. The snowdrops along the borders of the garden. The churning grey clouds that cover the sky as far as the eye can see in. There isn't even a hint of the daffodil in the air. Spring is a time for new beginnings; birth and rebirth. Spring is an emerald green. But winter is a time for reflections; for coveting the old and harbouring your memories. Winter is a gun metal grey. We long for the spring to arrive, but without the winter we would never appreciate it's arrival. We would never look back and contemplate on everything that has been. We need it as a contrast to everything else, and we need it as a time to rest. It can be harsh, it can be cruel, but it's unchanging. It's as inexorable, as unstoppable, as an avalanche.

I wrote a letter to my mom. It wasn't any great literary achievement, it was just unusual. She hurt me a lot. But upon reflection, the time when she really hurt me wasn't when she left, it was when both her and my dad hurt me. It was when they excluded me from their lives, separated me. By the time she left everyone, I already felt exempt from her heart. But that rejection didn't come from just her, dad was equally responsible, yet somehow I forgave him. Hating her had turned to habit, something I had to do, just because. I've always blamed her. Blamed her for all my weaknesses; my overpowering fear of rejection, my inability to love just for the sake of it. I blamed her for every time I looked over my shoulder to check that no one had a knife to stab me with. And that isn't fair.

Had I been a stronger person from the start, maybe I wouldn't have been affected. Had she stayed, had their marriage worked and her lack of maternal feeling not been a problem, I would still be as insecure. As sure that something had to go wrong because it is completely impossible to be happy. I don't mean for me to be happy, I mean for anyone. I'm a cynic, but I'm cynical in the way that only someone truly messed up can be. There are layers. On one layer there is the constant amusement, the joy from anything new, or merely old but forgotten. And on another layer lurks the cynicism. The belief that I have to take joy from the simple things because they are the only constants. The only things I can keep close to me without fear of them suddenly disappearing, leaving me.

I've had a lot of time to reflect. It's too cold to do anything else. And she hurt me, she always will. For everything she did, for everything she said. But maybe I can forgive her for a while, move on at least. She hurt me, but I can't hate her forever, it just isn't in me anymore. Things change.

Labels: Demons, dynasty, Poetic licence, Superstition

When I walked out the house it was raining. I ran back in and got my umbrella and tripped up as I ran up the stairs. I was late. This isn’t exactly unusual, lateness and me are things that quite commonly spend time together, especially when it’s important that I’m on time. It was a sign, the torrential rain, the lateness, the tripping up. Seperately they’re pretty much mundane stuff, but together they were a bad sign. I can’t help it, I’m cynical of anything religious, political, or even vaguely related to the way people react to things. But I’m superstitious, I’m not sure whether it’s a contradiction, but I can’t help it. I won’t put an umbrella up in the house, and I read tarot cards. Worse, I listen to people who claim to be psychic, whatever they say. Even when they say the world is going to end, though I’ve gotta say that I do take those people with a pinch of salt and will look out for any other signs of madness that they might be exhibiting.

So if I see something that appears to be a sign… I worry. But it was ok, I didn’t need to worry. I had fun, and he was so nice. He treated me well, he had a nice smile, he was sooo nice!!!!!!!!!!! And I hate nice. I’ll take dangerous, or wild any day, cocky, even a total shit head. So I know I’m screwed up. And I’m wasting my time thinking about signs.

I’ve been wasting so much time lately. With the tarot cards that tell me stuff that I already know, or tell me that I’ll eventually manage to lose the unlucky-in-love thing I’ve got going on. But I don’t know… Before I left I checked my tarot cards and they told me absolutely nothing. Then I went out and I had fun. It was good, he was nice, we did the ritual and yeah, I didn’t hate it. But that isn’t what I want.

Labels: Being the Duck, Courting, Superstition