Tossing and turning. Can't sleep. Thoughts all over the place. Where am I going? Is that the title of a song or am I supposed to come up with an answer? Or shall I simply ponder the question? I always thought I knew where I was going until life stepped in and convinced me that I didn't have a clue. It does remind me of my poor sense of direction, though. I'll start with a fairly clear idea of my destination, then, inevitably, I'll miss the street or I'll drive right past the place, and have to make a complicated turn-around to get back. That's why I had to pay a large fine. And go to traffic school. An illegal U-turn. Phooey. I guess life's like that. A series of right or wrong turns, or perhaps I should say a series of good or poor decisions. I was an expert on the latter before I was 25 years old. Hah! But you can't keep a good woman down. It's true that you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and, I've often wondered, who would want to try? But you can make lemonade from a lemon. I've learned that. Many times.
Not very good at reading tarot cards. Have two lovely packs of them, though. A mythology set and a science set. A science set of tarot cards? Is that an oxymoron? No. It's a paradox. Is it? Romeo sighed, "Feathers of lead" and "bright smoke" when he was feeling depressed after being dumped by the fair Rosalind. He was being paradoxical. The Crown decrees. That's another trope, but which one? Can't think of it. I hate when that happens.
I'm proud to be a Capricorn. Not sure why, except I suppose my goal has always been to keep going or climbing, but I've never really thought about what I would do if I ever reached the top. Of what? And how would I know? Philosophy ties me in knots sometimes, but I do enjoy having a good think. I'm envisioning a strong, muscular goat nimbly leaping from crag to crag, never peering downwards, but ever-energetically rising up out of the clouds, steadfastly aiming for a pinnacle. No. I'm going to change this mind-picture, as I really don't want to look like a goat, even though I know we dream/think in metaphors. Erase it, erase it, erase it. Anyway, I don't like heights--or climbing--or sweating. I'd much rather sit in a comfortable chair, feet up, a cup of tea and a soft-centered chocolate at hand, as I read a good book. Perhaps this is my ultimate destination as I age. Gracefully, I hope.
Hmm. Planning committees. How many times have I had to listen to members of a planning committee pat themselves on the back after delivering pages and pages of ideas that fall apart immediately after implementation? It was back to the drawing board, again and again. Maybe this was their way of ensuring job security? Security is something we yearn for at any age, but it's an illusion. We think that we're in control of our lives, but the gods know better. "They say at lover's perjuries, Jove laughs," Juliet warned. Wow, why do Romeo and Juliet keep springing to mind? Although their dialogue does kinda fit my thoughts, I suppose. It's quite an interesting endeavor, trying to trace one's own train(s) of thought. It's at these times, at this ungodly hour of 2:30 a.m., that I find myself attempting to unravel the meanderings of my brain. Which I'll bet is fascinating only to me.
I'm aware of needing to go the bathroom. But it's cold out there. Now--wouldn't you know it, in pops a picture of me at age four or thereabouts, clutching my tilly, my mother's name for my vagina, and declaring in a stage whisper, I have to go NOW! And my mother dragging me off to the ladies on the second floor of Marks and Spencer's, whispering fiercely to me to remove my hand from THERE. One of my friends told me her four-year-old daughter stood in line at the movie theater, rubbing herself THERE. When told to stop, she answered that she didn't want to as it felt good. I told my friend that it was a failure on her part to instill fear in her little girl that the child would go blind if she persisted.
My goodness, I've strayed far from planning committees. I've nothing against them; in fact they're very important, but I don't want to join one ever again. I still need to go to the bathroom, though, but don't worry, I don't intend to grab my private parts on the way. Although I could. It's dark. I wonder if I will do that if I live long enough to develop dementia? Another friend became a nurse on her sixtieth birthday, and worked in an Alzheimer unit for a while. She quite enjoyed it as she only needed one or two talking points and she could greet her charges every day without varying a single word. A few of her patients were often very funny. One woman, in particular, an otherwise very proper and lady-like person, had an extended number of cuss words and oaths, and often stood by the nurses' station excoriating my friend for minutes at a time without taking a breath and, I might add, without repeating herself. When she had exhausted her vocabulary, she would announce, "That's all I have," and walk off very sedately down the corridor. Got it! The Crown decrees. Metonymy.
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