Day Three: Words


Day Three: Words

I’m so excited to share with you, (or over-share with you), that I’m tempted to write thirty posts today. And I could. I truly could. I could type for ten hours straight, not eat, and have a bit of hot chocolate to keep me going. I’d ignore and put aside my three beautiful children, whom I adore, by pacifying them with genuine hugs and compliments, by explaining about my obsession, and by trying to make the lack of my current availability up to them somehow in the immediate future. But I won’t. I’ll only write one post, and then probably come back and recheck the writing repeatedly, dedicating way too much time to editing and spicing the words up some.

The worst (and absolute best), is the way the words feel to me. That’s one of the main reasons I keep returning to the writing. There is a word for it: synesthesia. (From the ancient Greek together and sensation.) Though I might be stretching the meaning a bit. Synesthesia, in my view, is when one sense gets tangled with another. For some people words have taste, for others numbers have color. For me, the experience is somewhat different. Numbers feel masculine or feminine, and have distinct personalities. I literally like certain numbers and dislike others. Some make me feel very comfortable and others threatened. I’ve had this number experience since I was very little. I’ve always liked the number 113, because the number contains all of my favorite digits (well most of them). I am drawn to the masculine numbers for some reason. For me one, eleven, thirteen, and three all have a masculine feel. The number five is a female. Six, he’s kind of on the fence. Four is a girl. It’s odd, I know. Get used to it.

When I think of the power of numbers, as in a binary computer code or the signals transmitted from satellites orbiting earth, and how in both instances symbols are decoded or unencrypted to view on a monitor, I understand how numbers can have extreme power.

Back to how the words feel. I used to think I was experiencing the energy of the person or the thoughts behind words. Now, I’m not so sure. The Kabbalah teaches of the power of the ancient letters. The ancient religions speak of the power of sound, how some sounds are direct connections to our chakras. (Last year my special interest was in spirituality and religion, including sound-healing, and I read about two books a day on the subject for the course of approximately nine months, until I woke up one morning and the interest was gone.) Thusly, from my studies, I can conceptualize and hypothesize about how words can have different feelings of weight. Perhaps I’ve tapped into something unintentionally. Perhaps I’m wired this way. Because of this sensitivity to words, I have a hard time reading in general, especially my own writing.

For instance, the 10 Traits I listed about females with Asperger’s, that list, well, the list feels very heavy to me. Similar to being pulled down by gravity on a high-speed amusement park ride. As a result I keep going back to the list and tailoring the words; the process of returning to my writings is liken to me clipping topiary. I’m attempting to trim off the excess unwanted weight. Trying to figure out what needs modification. And it’s not about adding humor or making the subject matter lighter–not that at all. Nor is it editing to make the message crisper and clearer–not that either. It is the words themselves. Every word feels different, every word a little difficult to punch out onto the computer and set free. I have to go back and change words so the sensation is right, and the meaning is close to the truth of what I’m thinking. In time, sometimes years, the words will feel right. Yet, no matter how long I clip away and alter, I understand I’ll never truly express exactly what my intention and perception is to anyone. That in and of itself, this realization that my words will never actually express the inner workings of my spirit, is a very sobering and isolating thought. I long for that futuristic Vulcan mind-meld, where I can touch a person and know his or her story, and bypass all the words. Then again, I’d miss the words and their rhythm, much like I’d miss the ocean waves lapping onto the shore.

Day Two: The B Word

Day Two: The B Word

I’d thought on writing of deep philosophy, of sharing poetry, of sharing my fictional prose or a bit from my memoirs, or perhaps providing a little history about raising a son with Asperger’s… I thought on telling of my past and current studies, of my family, of my joys…I used to be a school teacher, an advocate, and later a spiritual life coach…I’ve homeschooled. I’ve been to beautiful places. I live in a beautiful city. I’ve found my vocation, my authentic calling. I have a purpose. I have gratitude, and have ample self-worth and self-acceptace.  I have genuine and nurturing friends. So, yes, I  have some insights, some life tales to share, some beauty to spread. Just not at this moment, I suppose.

Instead, right now, at this very instant, I’m sipping from a dark-glass bottle of a Double Chocolate Stout. (A surprise from my neighbor last week, when she’d heard I’d had a hard day; I’d been saving it for just the right moment.) Honestly, I don’t even know what a stout is. Maybe ale? I’m not a drinker, at least in the true sense. I can count the times I’ve had an alcoholic beverage in the past year on five toes. Though, I might be moving to two feet, this year.  More than likely it will take me a good two hours to nurse this one bottle, if I finish it at all, that is. Alcohol generally hurts my stomach or makes the glands around my jawline ache–gives me that stinging sensation like when I try to blow air into a balloon. The stout seemed appropriate though. I don’t take medication for anything, not for my physical pain, anxiety, depression, or phobias; so when I’m in a real funk, like today, sometimes I have a few sips of alcohol. I’m not worried about turning into an alcoholic though, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m way too overboard-anal-retentive and anxiety ridden to become an alcoholic. Seriously, I can’t eat a piece of cheese without thinking of the poor cow abuse and the injected hormones, and the health consequences to my body. Yet, I did enjoy that cheese sandwich this morning.

When Bob, my husband, (aka: saint, Godsend, patient man) entered the computer room this afternoon, after I’d been in here a few good hours, I gave him a true verbal hacking. I couldn’t stand the way he smelled. I kept repeating, “You stink. Take a shower.” He finally left, after I plugged my nose and said, “You smell worse than our wet dog.” He’s a good sport and all, but my frankness and over-sensitivity, to practically everything, wears on him. I typically feel a little bad after I am so direct. But I did tell him five times the smell was bothering me, before I snapped. I thought he’d get the hint. He’d just finished working out and taking the dogs to the park, so he had that outdoorsy and sweaty stench.

Truthfully, when Bob entered the room, if I wasn’t fixated on achieving a high-score on some online game, I was obsessing over my writing, or some other distraction. I waste a lot of time clinging to obsessive attachments, and it isn’t until afterwards I realize I’ve truly made a grand waste of my time.

All he wanted to do was connect, my husband that is, to touch base and check in, but I wasn’t in the mood. When I’m like this, I’m scary. I can see what I’m doing, but can’t help myself. Luckily, I self-correct after a little while, and dutifully apologize; still I’d sure like to paint an ideal picture of myself, to tell you all the super great qualities I have. But truth be told: sometimes life in general is the B Word. (And yes I meant to make angry eyes in the photo.)