Just One Of Those Moments

11-11-08

You are the self-proclaimed Baking Bitch in this house. With good reason. You often wind down in the evening by experimenting–what new, sinister, irresistible calorie-bombs can you create? And yes, while the presentation leaves something to be desired, the flavor is deadly.

So when pretty much everyone in the house asked you to make Special Brownies, how could you resist? So there you were, Friday evening, walking to the house with a couple pot branches dangling from your fist, as though it were a normal thing to hold. You’re not a smoker of the stuff, or very much interested in it in general, but you couldn’t help but behold how random it felt to have gathered some of the “crop,” take it to the kitchen, and chop and weigh out 1/4 ounce for the pot butter. Unfortunately, you are an idiot, and basically produced what others might call “shake brownies,” but they were effing DELICIOUS, and you thoroughly enjoyed yourself–played a couple games of chess, melted happily into the bed as you watched another steamy episode of the L Word, and eventually mosied on downstairs to check your email.

Behold infamous Ben in the sitting room! Ben, yes, Marlene’s brother, whom you had met before. Ben, who told you that you control everything that happens to you, whom you found difficult to digest–antagonistic. You knew he was going to be at the farm for the weekend, and you knew fully well that as soon as the two of you started talking, you would bash heads again.

Surprisingly, he told you he sensed a dramatic change in you. That you were somehow warmer, realer, easier… something. You told him–no, in fact, you were just high, and that ok, yes, you’d taken some time to purge your demons, but you are your same old crazy self. He didn’t really buy it, but it was an amusing interaction. Throughout the weekend, you noticed his gentler approach to communicating with you–marginally (only marginally) less antagonistic, a little more willing to listen, a little less condescending. Perhaps it his his reaction to your “new” self, or perhaps he has his own “new” self, or whatever…

Problems thinking lately. Everything, every idea, sort of goes up in smoke. You can’t seize it, and the harder you try, the more that smoke wafts and dissipates, leaving you with nothing but a faint smell–some memory of the original concept. What a shame. Hard to explain yourself at times, and you get to repeating things. Repeating phrases. Repeating words. Repeating a feeling. Repeating. Repeating. Repeat. And so forth.

Now and again, Neil picks up on what you are trying to say while your eyes are flicking and your fingers twitching, feeling, spinning up by your head as though trying to weave your thoughts into something tangible. Sometimes the two of you share the same problem: too much to say, too broad an idea, but too narrow a conduit (words) through which to channel it. Good times during your nightly, late-houred habit of meeting in his room, sputtering and giggling about mostly incomprehensible subject matter–but the interaction itself is what makes sense to you. For a moment, wouldn’t you just like to say “fuck it” to content? If only you could turn your thoughts off at will.

But not today. Not after this weekend–not after the pub crawl (your first successful pub crawl ever) with Karen, Marlene, Douglas, and Ben. Not only did you find yourself in another precious moment of randomness (shit-faced in a podunk bar, wearing enormous rubber boots, two pairs of pants, and covered with dirt–dancing like a giant asshole in a sea men and women interacting in a manner which was basically a throw-back to middle school), but you found your thoughts and feelings spiraling chaotically. Whoa! What about? Hahha…. wouldn’t you like to know. But you love moments when you realize how full of shit you are–how utterly answerless you are, and how desperately you attempt to rationalize things, when, at the end of the day, it’s a bunch of garbage. Linguistics. Head games. With yourself. Self-deception? Always. You take yourself by the hand and lead yourself in circles. Spinning round and round (“Stop the ride! You want to get off!”)

Or DO you?

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Categories: Beauty, Ireland, Workaway/Wwoof | Leave a comment

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