Clock time. The social construction that helps organize the mind so that our schedules can run smoothly. I have a love-hate relationship with it at times, pun unattended.
I look back on yesterday and wonder if the moon will shed some light. Craned my neck again to see the delicate lunar lacework before it became opaque. Waxing gibbous, its bottom curve latent. Something in me stirred. I wanted adventure. I literally cried for it. I finally listened to my husband’s recording of the astrologist interpreting his natal chart. He spoke harshly about my spending habits, implying I would never be satisfied. The condemnation arouses from our mutual inability to fully walk a mile in each other’s moccasins, as much as I’d like for us to, obviously. I mentioned I felt hurt, and he immediately put up his defense walls, saying things like, “See, I knew you were going to get upset,” and, “No, I don’t know want to talk about it.”
“I feel invalidated.”
“You’re invalidating me! You’re the pot calling the kettle black!” These words have been repeated enough times for me to almost see them as his catch phrases. “Why don’t you look in the mirror?!?” This one is particularly cringe-worthy as it is verbatim what my mother-in-law once sputtered to me during a fight.
We made up right away. I cried and told him how his criticisms–or criticism in general–affected me physiologically. “It feels like there are shards of glass in my throat,” I gulped. “I don’t want to live. The pain is so bad.” Then we tried to be more future focused as this tends to hasten hope and optimism. “Let’s go somewhere new. Let’s experience new sights and create memories together.”
Northern California with the children. Japan and Korea in the fall.
After accidentally shattering a full wine glass, I downed two glasses at the delicious rib joint in Garden Grove. Then I had 20 mg of THC. It didn’t do much at all.
My mood average for the day was a 7.
The hourglass is my mortality.
H.M.K. 