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leg narcolepsy

I’m not really sure when it started.

I can’t really put a finger on the day I realized that I have a thing for benches.  At some point in my life, I just started to notice that whenever I walked by a bench I tended to sit on it.  I would be in the middle of a conversation with someone, walking along a street, and then suddenly they would turn around – mid-sentence – and find me sitting on the bench, swinging my legs.

“Sorry,” I’d say with a big Cheshire grin.  “I have a thing for benches”.

It didn’t really matter if it was raining and the other person wanted to run to their car to keep their hair from getting messed up.  I just told them I’d catch up.

It didn’t matter if we were going to be late or if we were in the middle of a very serious, vulnerable conversation.  It just didn’t matter.  I had to sit.

I don’t know what caused this particular neurosis, or if there is a name for it, but I have to sit on a bench when I’m around one.  But once I’ve sat on one, I don’t have to go sit on all the rest in the area; that one will give me the fix I need.

Maybe I was a pigeon feeder in a past life, and the fond memory of the birds coming to my feet to eat seeds, bread, and popcorn draws me unknowingly to these interesting pieces of furniture.  Maybe my philosophical side yearns to sit, just for a moment, and consider the deeper things in life while my physical side is making its way to the used book store.

I’ve never really known anyone else that has this problem, this “Leg Narcolepsy” that forces me to collapse happily onto a hard, uncomfortable structure.  I wouldn’t normally select a long piece of hard wood to sit on, or a cold length of heavy metal.  Not my idea of leisure resting.  But when it’s a bench I manage to set aside my discomfort for the sheer pleasure of the sit.

So here is my thing with benches, and more to follow, I’m sure.  Though very utilitarian and practical, I find them works of art on their own.

I must be a Cauldron

 

it is Thursday night – well, Friday morning – while i am writing this. it has started raining tonight, and the smell permeates my room, making me melancholic, dreamy, and strengthening the somber that is already in my heart today.

i am slightly weepy tonight. i have no way to steer my emotional boat. i suppose all people feel the same types of feelings; fear, anger, sadness, joy. some people seem so in control of their emotions, i wonder if we have the same ones at all. people at work that smile at me, and laugh when i wear cat ears, or devil horns because i’ve gotten bored or i’m in a foul mood. so i know they CAN laugh, but emotions seem so far from them…nice people, sure. but i wonder if they look through the cupboards in their kitchens, wondering which emotion they must choose today, make their selection and then proceed with their choice into the fresh horizon. “look, i have a snack pack of depression, i think i’ll take it in my briefcase today”. i’m sure they feel. they have to; they are human. but their faces and bodies respond so differently than mine. they drive around on their feet like little maid robots from the Jetsons, sweeping up emotional turmoil with a little broom, swishing the mess of life into a dustpan with a flat expressionless face, and a spark over their head that implies something is going on in there. somewhere.

me, on the other hand, i’m all explosions. i’m explosively happy, joyous, jubilant. i love life, and stop to talk to trees, or bunnies, pansies or old guys. i hug, and kiss spontaneously. i touch and laugh and dance and squeal. i run through the streets, swaying my hips to the sounds of the music in the car idling at the stop sign.

i’m explosively angry. i curse and yell and kick the damn stove door when i burn my meal. i get flustered and ornery, mouthing words that are usually only heard on an episode of the Sopranos. i scowl and mutter and pitch a fit. i pout and fume and stomp off in a huff.

i’m explosively sad. i worry about love. i pine. i cry and fear and long for arms around me, that will hold me through a night like tonight, while it rains and smells divine. i get swoozy inside, and become a puddle of tears when a sappy love song plays in the middle of my TV show. it’s only 10 seconds long. it’s only there to imply something, and tie two scenes together, or build you up emotionally to the season finale. it’s not there to make you cry for an hour. but i do. i cry in the kitchen. i cry in the bathroom. i lie on my bed and cry some more. i’m wounded, i suppose. already have holes in my heart and soul from previous experiences, previous encounters. previous lives.

it doesn’t take much to stir me. what am i, a pot of stew? wassail? a witch’s brew of emotional turmoil? ‘bubble bubble, toil and trouble’… it fits me well. i know i don’t have much of a poker face, which is hilarious, since i spent a good many years acting in plays and musicals. i’m a good little actress. surprising i can’t keep my own emotions off the radar.

so tonight, i sit and wonder: do i feel more strongly than others? am i actually FEELING these things in a greater dimension than other people, or to a hotter intensity, or with a deeper amount? or am i just one of those weirdos? a writer?