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Tuesday, Mar. 18, 2003 / 11:02 a.m. ~Desensitized~ Thoughts and memories are popping into my head. Just flashes. Like� I�m glad he�s out of my life. I hope I don�t ever forget how I feel about him and let him back in. I don�t like the way he makes me feel. Uncomfortable. The restaurant where Mindy and I stopped for lunch, central Yucatan. They had wild animals in cages. There was no roof, just a trellis. We were the only patrons, and I remember us not talking, being angry or tired. I can�t remember what we ate, but I can remember the air, the way it felt, the temperature, the dark clouds in the sky, El Nino, the rain later, the drive down that one road that traverses the entire peninsula. Gravel. Jungle to the sides. Cenotes to swim in. Sinkholes. I had bad dreams this morning, unpleasant dreams, woke with a start before my alarm went off. Too bright outside, even with clouds and threat of rain. Hermione�s four year old was mad at me, didn�t want me in their house, told me to leave. It was Halloween and I knew what the holiday means to them, wasn�t sure I should drop by, but I took a chance. Hermione and S. were showering, getting ready to go out, I had a gift for little Lilly, but it was broken, a sequined bag, but hard, like a credit card, small (I had my ATM card in my pocket yesterday after work, on my way to buy groceries, and I worried it would break), and when I held it out to her she told me, in 4 year old language, that I should just go. Hermione and S. didn�t defend me. There was more, just unpleasant, uncomfortable, disturbing, it went on to another locale, another situation, and I remember, but I don�t, like dreams can stay and go at the same time. I�m listening to Moby�s �Play� and feeling all the signs of PMS full-blown. Hot flashes, bloating, crankiness, anger, emotional sensitivity. After I wrote last night that I wasn�t angry, I was furious, I wanted to change it, but I left it. I�d originally written that I wasn�t angry, I was merely sad and disappointed, then I thought how ridiculous that is, of course I�m angry, beyond angry, but at the time, I was lulled, I was numb, I felt helpless and resolved. I still feel that way. There really is no fury at the present situation, and I was thinking that perhaps this is a manipulated response, that after so much posturing maybe we�re all a bit desensitized. It might have been purposeful, if one could attribute that much cunning and forethought to the current administration. It�s possible. Talk about it until no one wants to hear it, warn of danger, of threats, of a need for preparedness, until finally, when it�s time to do that which has been talked about to the point that no one even listens, who the fuck cares anyway? I haven�t stopped caring, but Bush is used to murdering, look how many people he killed in Texas while still governor, this means nothing to him. State sanctioned murder bothers so very few to begin with. How can I care about anything when I�m listening to �Inside�. It�s such a simple song, trance-y, but the simplicity may actually mask its beauty. It�s incredibly beautiful. There�s a drug commercial running on the television lately, I�m not sure which drug, but there is classical guitar in the background, some etude, some etude I used to play on guitar, and I can�t figure out what it is or who composed it, but it inspired me to get out my guitar last night and play. I haven�t played for maybe 5 years, maybe longer. The last time may have been when I was desperate for money and I opened my home to the couple who collects Martins, watched as they examined it inside and out, the case too, used tools to test the timbre or pitch, and then listened as they offered me a pitiful amount for something so old and precious. I may have played it after they left, or before they arrived, but I don�t remember playing since then. I dusted the case, I pulled it out, I sat on the floor, in the wrong position, pulled out my sheet music, struggled to know where to put my fingers on the neck (Fingerboard? Fretboard? Keyboard? I can�t even remember), tried to remember �Stairway to Heaven�, couldn�t, couldn�t remember, played etudes, played wrong notes, played right ones, the strings wouldn�t hold their tunes. Re-tuning, playing more, pain in my fingertips from pressing on strings, and by the end of 15 minutes or so I could play �Stairway to Heaven�, and the Sor, the Bach, the Carulli, or whoever, but I still couldn�t find the sheet music for the tune in the drug commercial. More waves of memories, smell of guitar strings, listening to my mother play her guitar, lying on the bed listening to her practice until I fell asleep. The excitement when she came home with the sound hole stuffed with bills and my little hands could reach inside to retrieve them. Sitting for hours, alone, playing, practicing until I could play Bach�s Bouree complete and without error. I could start again, play until it no longer hurts. Play until I hear all the right notes. Because it sounds so good. I�m awful tired. Cost of the War in Iraq
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