Friday, March 11, 2011
Generally speaking, I do not have a problem sleeping. I attribute this to my clean living and crystal clear conscience. Every so often though, I wake up in the night with a thought that I can’t let go of to save my life. Last night, I spent from 3:01 AM - 3:35 AM dwelling on the word “Orangey”. Not orangey, the adjective. I can deal with that. It was orangey, the noun … which, as you well know, does not exist. I vaguely remember dreaming before I awakened about a parade of figures shaped like oranges, with human legs, marching down a street. No more.
I have tried to look at this from many directions. And I have some theories. Is my brain wordsmithing? Since I am not sure that wordsmithing is a word either, there is a strong likelihood that my brain is to blame. That is, if wordsmithing actually means to create words, which is what I take it to mean. However, if this definition is not generally accepted in the public realm, the theory falls completely apart. That would indicate the word is not a word at all and that my brain is generating the pseudo words and accompanying definitions for use only within the domain of my cranium. To confuse me and amuse itself I assume.
I had a second theory. There is an internal language of the brain used primarily when we are sleeping. Or, used in some multiple reality of which I am not aware. I am receptive to such a possibility, but I find it perplexing to understand why I would not be told about such a thing. After all, I am a confidential secretary … duh! If this is the case and the language does exit, what would be the purpose of awakening me in the middle of the night to converse in a language that I do not understand?
Theory three … and I am going with this one … is that this is a clear example of the concept of mythical reality. Simply put, a mythical reality speaks to the existence of a duality of reality. Let me explain. It is generally accepted that Bigfoot does not exist … generally . Therefore, in reality, Bigfoot is a myth. However, if it is proven that Bigfoot is a reality … as many claim … then Bigfoot is not a myth. So, logic tells me that in order for my brain to converse with me in a language that is not real, but in reality does exist, both myth and reality must co-exist in the same space … mythical reality.
It is so simple … why couldn’t I sleep?
3:35 AM. I am awake and have been. One might think I have been perseverating over the orangey thing. But, that‘s not true. I have been profoundly and persistently pondering since 3:01 AM to the detriment of my sleep. But, I let go of it … I moved on.
A thought occurred to me … Ken and Barbie … their relationship … is it really what it seems to be? Idyllic? Take Ken … the button-downed shirts … Izod … the blazers … not a JC Penny Fox in sight. And Barbie … oh my … an endless supply of outfits … more shoes than the wife of a Philippines President … not to mention the pink Corvette. It makes me wonder. Is the real Ken a Sleaseball ? Ken and Barbie. Wonder why no last names? Untraceable ? So perfect … so squeaky clean! To me, it’s too perfect to be true. Surreal is a better word. Ken and Barbie … it all seems so … plastic.
I wonder how it looks from the other side of the door … the closed door. Are the names different on the street. I’m thinking AKA “Pimp Daddy” … pimping Barbie out at $300 a pop. On the street, the word is “in the Pink”. Or do I have it all turned around? Man eyes can do that to you. More likely , she is walking him like a dog on a leash, bitch-slapping him like an angry Housewife of Orange County.
I just don’t know. But, I let go … I moved on … at 4:00 AM, I wondered if it was snowing. So, I cut on the light to see. It was
… and I went to sleep.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
We were visiting the Market Square in San Antonio. As we walked around a corner, I accidentally bumped into a man heading in the opposite direction and pushing a small cart. I virtually did not see him and could not describe him to you in any way. The bump was no more than my backpack grazing him.
"Sorry" was my instinctive reply.
Immediately, the vendor from the booth at the corner we were rounding spoke up. "That guy is always doing that. He just tries to see how close he can come to people with that cart to aggravate someone" he stated. He looked me straight in the eye and gave me that wink and a nod look and said, "Damned Mexican!. What are you going to do? Damned Mexicans are all the same" "Hey, where y'all from anyway"?
Anne and I looked at one another. I know we were thinking the same thing.
Same cake ... different frosting.