Erinyes

I don't talk about it much here, as I'd like this blog to be nice or pretty, or interesting at the very least. PTSD is none of these things. Talking about it doesn't help anyway. It only feeds the slavering maw.

But I've had a hell of a week. Oh, nothing happened, not as such, but then nothing really needs to happen. It was just a matter of taking an unexpected detour through a certain neighborhood at a certain time on a humid, drizzling morning. Suddenly I was back there, or rather back then, 23 years disappearing in less than a blink, a nerve twitch in a bloodshot eye.

I think it was the bird song that did it this time. There must be different birds in that neighborhood, some kind that prefer the sprawling dark of the magnolia trees. It had been a long time since I'd heard those birds calling out, in that way, in that weather.

I shuddered three times, full body shudders. That was my warning. I laughed it off, except not really. I told myself to laugh it off, because my flashbacks are stupid and dumb and meaningless. They aren't, of course, but I see it through other people's eyes. Stupid girl, dumb girl. Can't get over it, always grieving. As if it were real grief. What a fool.

This is before time disappeared, like the ocean pulling back before a wave. I never catch it in time, but then, I never think I should. It's something that doesn't come up in support groups - who's to say I don't deserve this? Perhaps these Furies live in my head because the punishment is just?

Given the oft-quoted principle of what you would say to a friend suffering this condition, if this was said to anyone else - and understand, I am a pacifist who abhors violence of any kind - I might feel inclined to punch the one who said it. Such a suggestion is beneath human dignity. It is plain wrong. But the Furies in my head are not so forgiving. The Furies want to kick my ass.

So there I am, woefully young again, on the precipice of losing. I'm about to lose so big that the  damage will spread to those around me, like a prairie fire or a row of dominoes. The man shakes me, calls me names. His cruelty makes me want to disappear. I want this to stop, yet I will have to relive it again and again, years into the future. The Furies aren't only vengeful, they're ironic. Their memory for nasty details is impeccable.

After the flashback, there's nothing to do but continue to exist, through the fatigue, through the brain-fog.  Put on my smiling face, even though it's a miserable fake. Draw a big X on my mental map, and write "here there be monsters." Or Erinyes, to be exact.

Call me a coward, but I have no wish to venture into their territory again. Some things are not worth the price.

Analemma

From Wikipedia

"In astronomy, an analemma is a diagram showing the deviation of the Sun from its mean motion in the sky, as viewed from a fixed location on Earth. Due to the Earth's axial tilt and orbital eccentricity, the Sun will not be in the same position in the sky at the same time every day. The north-south component of the analemma is the Sun's declination, and the east-west component is the equation of time. This diagram has the form of a slender figure eight and can often be found on globes of the Earth."

I love the way the pattern is there above us, hidden only by time.

photo attribution:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Analemma_fishburn.tif

Afternoon analemma 1998-99 by Jack Fishburn in Murray Hill, New Jersey.

The Bell Laboratories building is in the foreground

Temenos Tropicalia, Or The Color Of Sacred Space

Last week, my son and I went to lunch at a restaurant with an unusual color scheme. Despite the statues of Buddha and the mandala wall hangings, it had a distinctly Jamaican flair.

It had been my son's idea to eat there, he had been wanting to come for a while.

After we'd ordered and sat down at the table, he told me why.

He said, I don't understand it,  but for some reason this feels so much like home. As if I came from somewhere that looked just like this. But I can't think of where. Just 'home.'

While there were a few places in Victoria that had bright color schemes, they were few and far between. While it's possible this is what he was remembering, what he wouldn't have known (unless he'd read that post linked above) is that I've had dreams of similarly colored places my entire life. And if anything feels like home to me, I suppose that would be it.

It occurs to me that perhaps sacred space doesn't always need to be a space at all. Maybe it only needs to be a color.

Journeys

One night, around 10 o'clock, I went into the shop on the corner. Dale the manager was lost in thought. He had the next three days off, he said, and was heading to the beach. He'd thought about driving down that night, as soon as he closed at 11, but he wasn't sure. Maybe he should just wait until tomorrow.

Outside, the wind was from the West and the sky was full of stars. There was hardly a car on the road. Oh, no, I told him, it's a perfect night for driving. As long as you're awake, you should definitely go tonight.

Dale surveyed the view from the open door. He said, you know, you may be right. I think I will go tonight after all.

Later, after I went to bed, I could imagine Dale driving, winding down from the hills into the coastal plains. Red tail lights disappearing into the starry horizon. I fell asleep comforted by the thought of journeys and the way the landscape never truly sleeps, even in the dark.

Widdershins

There are different kinds of spirals, though.

Sunwise bringeth, widdershins taketh away.

Take away sorrow, despair, bad dreams at night.
The ravages of loss and time.

Take these things and leave me whole again.

Sunwise

All day I fight against the fear, the hopelessness, the gloom.
Are we in the rabbit hole or out?

One can only wish some light would appear from the grim grey sludge of feeling.