Friday, April 27, 2012
I have a sheet of sketch paper on my wall that reads, "the sky was gold, it was rose". When I paint, use pastels, watercolors, colored pencils, my subject matter is different each time; however, I always end up using pinks, oranges, golds, and rose. Joe pointed this out to me the other day, when I told him I only kind of knew why I love the lyric, "the sky was gold, it was rose". He said, "Kelly, some form of a sunset always finds its way into your drawings." I started crying. I've been leaving clues for myself all along. Not everyone mourns for lost innocence. However, I am especially guilty. The sky was gold, it was rose, when I was young in the Berkshires. My mom & I religiously watched the sunset in a gorgeous open field in our backyard, or during one of our daily evening walks. When I can't take the pressure, when I'm falling apart, when the dishes are piling up, when I look in the mirror and see a corpse trying to live like a 20 something, I think about my mom & the sun. I think about the person I used to be. Spunky, outgoing, carefree, honest, emotionally open, trusting. Of course, everyone loses some innocence, some of their personality from childhood. But, I mourn so heavily. I am nothing that I used to be. Each day is a constant struggle, wriggling my way in and out of depression, anxiety, and severe avoidance. My dad told me that my grandmother, who is about to turn 90 with a severe case of dementia, still thinks that my dad is attending college. She believes her husband is alive. Although my grandmother's thoughts are due to the disease, I started crying when my dad told me these details because, first of all, in a way, my grandmother has left us. And I miss her very much. But, also, in a very beautiful way, she found her way back. She found her way out of this mess - to perhaps where the sky was gold.
Monday, April 16, 2012
I want to start out by saying I am fucking astute. I will leave this statement as is; however, I will return to the notion later. So, you will wait, please.
I, first, want to talk about getting locked out of my apartment. So, here goes. A few days ago, Joe & I were about to take an evening walk. As he was shutting our front door, he exclaimed, "Do you have your keys?". Door shuts. I don't. Neither does he. Needless to say, we will not be taking a walk this evening - just a series of short ones, back and forth across the parking lot. First, we walk to my landlord, Dave's, apartment. Of course, no sign of his existence. He's an alien, for sure. Next, I called University Police: HELP ME PLEASE I'VE BEEN OUTSIDE FOR SEVEN MINUTES I NEED TO GO BACK INSIDE. Officer Roth shows up with a set of janitor keys. He has hundreds! I want everyone in the blogosphere to know that I really liked Officer Roth. He was the kindest, gentlest police officer I have ever encountered. He was so patient with that hefty load of keys - none of which seemed to fit my lock.
He eventually calls backup when my mutant lock won't accept any normal keys. Now, when a university police officer calls backup, it is usually a maintenance man, rather than a squad of more police cars with sirens and guns. So, Art, the maintenance man arrives in his van. Art is very tall with a pointed nose, wearing a pair of 1980s bifocals. His voice is quite nasal. He is aptly named.
"Is this apartment owned by UD?" Art asks me.
"Uh, no. I thought they were all connected though," I reply, fearing that I will soon be on my own to axe down the door using only my converse tennis shoes and a hair pin.
"No, that's fine. We don't have a key for you, though." Gulp.
Art, then, looks at the windows, telling us that if this apartment was University owned, he would've smashed one of the windows by now. That comforts me. Officer Roth, still accompanying the crowd, shines his flashlight on the windows, while Art carefully examines the locks.
"There's no way we're getting in there," Art tells us. However, instead of leaving, Art calls 3 or 4 different gentlemen to help us. Mind you, it is 11:00pm, and he is waking each of them up with his calls. "Bruce?! Art. Wake up a minute. I have a series of questions for you."
Art wants to contact Dave, my landlord, but we don't have his cell number, and he isn't on location at the moment, or so we thought.
Joe decided to give my landlord's house phone a call to leave a message. That way, once he arrives home (if ever), he'll come help us. In the meantime, Art, Roth, Joe, & I are sitting in front of my apartment, not knowing what to do next. Art, then, calls another buddy, who claims that one of the R.A.s must have a spare key. The four of us walk over the R.A.'s apartment. As we are knocking on the door, Art spots a middle-aged man walking through the parking lot, towards my apartment.
At the top of his lungs, he shouts, "DAVE?!!" Dave turns around.
"Apartment 14?!!" He replies. He got our message! For whatever reason, he didn't come to the door an hour earlier. However, we were still thrilled to see him.
Dave had a tool to unlock the door. It seems as though he keeps the master keys in Cincinnati. Right where they should be. Anyway, the tool wasn't working. Art & Roth crowd around Dave, giving suggestions and the flashlight for sight.
Art answers his phone again.
"Oh, hey Bruce. I'm fine. No, this isn't a UD apartment, but it happens to be a UD student. We aren't involved." I laughed uncontrollably. As he uttered those words, he grabbed a tool, and started jamming it in the doorway, along with Dave.
Eventually, Dave opened a window with a crowbar. Joe climbed in and opened the front door. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE came in my apartment immediately to check the status of the window and to make sure I had my keys.
Then, they were gone.
Some nights, I miss my quirk-squad.
In unrelated news, I am gluten intolerant & astute.
I have lately pointed out – to myself, as I do – that I have created a label for myself. ‘Fragile’ is said label. Why, fragile, you may ask? Well, I am physiologically, emotionally, and mentally affected by the world quite easily. For example, in the summertime, I do not get 5 or 6 mosquito bites, I get around 56. When I have to speak to other humans, my stomach cramps and my speech immobilizes. Public speaking is even worse – I can feel every organ in my body cramping. I am far too keen on others’ connotations in speech and mannerisms. I am far too keen on my own mannerisms. These and other qualities have led me to believe that I am considerably fragile. However, since I have been researching language & disability, I have come to the conclusion that I need to alter my wording. From now on, I am astute. I am so keenly aware of my surroundings that it completely affects my body and mind.
Today, Joe was driving me to my Communications presentation, and I was nervous and sick. I blurted out, “Gah, I’m so fucking ASTUTE!” This is going to be fun.