Mood: 7
Yesterday my mom told me I was born at 8:30 am instead of 9 am. First it was 10 am. Then 9. And finally–or most recently–8:30 am. I stayed up past two am reading up on what the different planet placements for the new birth time meant. And then I wrote a lusty puerile work of pure imagination following the ecstasy of meeting Brandon Flowers.
My finer tuned female hormones have been singing lately. My understanding is that women at 34 are akin to men at 19. In short, I’m sexually peaking. Also, I had a series of unfortunate events over the past winter. I went off my anti-depressants without telling anyone, my mom was driving me nutso, I was doing a lot of MJ while attending yoga teacher training and getting lotso judgment for it, my husband was working at a new job that occupied a lot of his attention, my in-laws were going to be moving close to us, which I now understand I dreaded more than I care to admit, and Henry’s school was sending us serious-sounding letters regarding his defiant and sometimes aggressive male Sagittarius kid behavior. I ended up in a domestic dispute with my husband, was sent to Orange County Jail because I left a tiny nail imprint on his check, was interrogated by an undercover inmate in the crazy girl wing, and only found freedom after citing religious reasons for my aberrations rather than taking in the complexity of circumstances, chain of events, and my environment being too overwhelming for me to deal with skillfully.
Everyone loves a label.
Jail taught me about what women go through largely due to their significant others, relationships, and drugs. I found out no one could take my mind from me, that even there I could do yoga, and that the experience proved to be highly meditative due to the lack of clocks, stimulation, and starvation (I wasn’t fond of the food). The cold concrete environment forced me to stay alert. To call upon my mindfulness, my spirituality, my trance-like state. It’s a lot like how doulas describe natural birth, and in a sense, I felt my ever Scorpio dying or shedding its dead skin only to emerge with blazing wings. I went throw the stages of grief in the days that followed. I could not see my family for seven days. The first day out I saw everything so clearly. I noticed every detail without judgment. It was like I was a half-blind kid who suddenly got prescription glasses.
Then I remembered who had brought me to the point of my husband’s refusal to hear me out. Jacqueline Kennedy. The vision of me in the pink Coco Chanel suit. My eye-widening prediction that my husband would run for president. The visualization of us on stage, balloons falling, Henry kicking one and Frances reaching out with both hands. “Ba. Ba. Ball.”
In bed I Googled pictures of Jackie. I found a picture of her and her first fiance. It made me think of Brandon Flowers. I started catching up on The Killers’ music videos. I started to notice symbolic similarities to some of the visual details in my old Youtube channel, the one that housed an old video of me hugging Brandon Flowers.
I listened to a hypnosis track to take me back in time. I received a Facetime call from an unknown number. Someone in the south. We texted back and forth.
“You seem very interesting,” she wrote. “I like talking to you.”
I looked up “her” number, but there was no record of said name.
I fell asleep and awoke to voices.
I heard voices in jail too. I chalked it up to the fact that there were guards watching me from security cameras and all the pipes. I imagined what they were saying.
The voices I heard outside the motel were the cries of fathers and children. I realize now that it makes sense I paid attention to these voices. I was missing my husband, the father of my children, and I especially missed Henry and Frances. But for a split second I thought heard a name. “Ammon!” Then feet darting across the ceiling.
Ammon. I thought. Brandon Flower’s son. Brandon Flowers is here. Brandon Flowers is looking for me.
(to be cont.)
H.M.K. 