I’m back . . . but not really, and only for a moment.
“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”
Had I written that sentence, it would have had at least one comma. Possibly, two. The simple, unfettered declarative sentence, absent clauses, agendas, and sub-textual digressions; simply not in my vocabulary; that vocabulary of my words-work, which – like my life -is a construct I create, moment to moment, eschewing the normative rules and rudiments of that limited language of polite society, discovering as I go along a lexicon with its own morphemes, grammar concordance, and syntax, born of the necessity of communicating my own specific and particular Love and Light, the articulation of which requires quite a few commas.
Last night, I dreamed I went to that place; again.
I did too. Dreamed it. I certainly did NOT go there.
I should have gone to the gym yesterday, but I spent hours cleaning. Not just a little dust. No. This was scrubbing soap-scum from shower walls and crawling on hands and knees to hand-wash and polish floors, scouring down the front of wood cabinets, tooth-brush-edging floor board trims, all at a level of vociferousness resulting in a semi-sprained right arm. Part of the cleaning was to go to a place near here called Dirt Cheap where one can buy discounted items, in particular, vacuums, which this multi-generational home where I dwell has been lacking since I moved in; the drought is over. There is now a heavy-duty, upright Electrolux for multi-surfaces, as well as a charged-stick vac with a removable hand-vac option. I vacuumed for hours upon my return.
Lots of people. Still, I feel – somehow – completely isolated, behind or through or under something . . . bad dreams haunting me on a lonely journey, the baggage, just too, too much.
So, I never got to the gym. Too, I don’t have my car. Why? Because its “Service Engine Soon” light came on again. Too, I’ve known for some time it needed some work. And too, too; the tires have long been requiring more air more often than seemed right. Well, Mr. Mechanical – you called it. Long story short: both rear tires have “something metal – not a nail or screw – not sure what it is” rammed – or – inserted – or – injected – or – well, some verb – in their SIDES. Get that? The sides of the tires. As in, “No, you couldn’t have run over it. It seems like someone would have had to have – you know – done it.” I suppose if I knew – FOR AN ACTUAL FACT – who had done it, I could shoot them, claim I feared for my life, and never be convicted. Right? Or, is that only in Florida? And only if it was a young black man in a hoody? Which, it was not.
I blame Mrs. Danvers. “You’re overwrought, Madam. I’ve opened a window for you. A little air will do you good. Look down there. It’s easy, isn’t it? Why don’t you? Why don’t you? Go on. Go on. Don’t be afraid.”
So, total repair cost, adding the tires to the need to re-seat the engine for some O-ring thing or another – that steady oil leak – and – well, a few thousand dollars.
Mrs. Danvers, again: “Jump. Jump and it will all be over.”
Yes. I was, last night, at Manderley again. And then, equally terrifying, high school. I couldn’t remember in which room I belonged or where it was. Until, finally, when I did know where to go – after having walked into so many wrong rooms – it seemed far too late to go there. I searched for the office. It seemed I needed permission. But there, outside the office, this gaggle of people who I had once believed loved me. I couldn’t walk through them. I waited on the stairs, behind a pillar. Until, finally, coast clear, I started down and there, waiting, the two people I have known in my life who shot themselves to death. Both of them giving me advice on who to see inside the office, who would understand my confusion about rooms, which rooms, when, where, my fear about walking in late and being looked at.
I think Elaine Stritch said it best yesterday to Kathie Lee and Hoda: