Discombobulated

A very nice man came to interview me today. 

I had totally forgotten that he was coming.  I usually check my calendar for the following day before I go to sleep; last night I didn't.  I went to sleep thinking that I was meeting Miss Vicki for lunch and meditation, that I'd spend the morning finishing the boxes I created when I cleared off the desk. 

Sitting at that desk, I watched a little white car cruise up the street, back up, pull into JannyLou's driveway, drive past my house, back up again, turn into my driveway and drive down one side and then around the bottom of the U... and not reappear in the window on the other side. In my nightgown, I went to the garage, opened the door, and asked if I could help him. 

Ooops.

He unpacked his equipment while I threw on some clothes.  Future generations may be interested to note that the blouse I am wearing on the tape I created for historical purposes should not be considered an indication of what a serious, thoughtful woman might wear.  It was comfy, it was clean, and it was quick.  By the time I got back to the courtyard and invited him into the house, I was in a lather.

He'd been sent by the January 8th Memorial Foundation to create a record of what I remembered about January 8, 2011.  He wanted me to tell my story, in whatever way it tumbled out of my mouth.  As he connected the microphone to the battery and set the tripod so that the light was just right, we talked about music.  I'd seen Mavis Staples this month at The Fox; years ago he'd spent time with Miss Mavis and her sisters and Pops, interviewing and soaking it all in.  He was willing to share his stories, and it made it easier to share mine.

And share it I did.  I relived it all.  I held her hand and I flew in the medevac helicopter and my cell phone and its messages became evidence for the FBI.  I'm not writing it here again.

In fact, I'm not writing much here at all.  I've tried to right the universe by meditating, by sharing FlapJilly photos with strangers, by holding my husband and sighing.  I'm going to try the pool and some sunshine, and if that doesn't work there's always Stoli in the freezer.

I'm too deep within myself for much in the way of conversation, it seems. I'm trying to be mindful and non-judgmental and compassionate to myself....... I've got nothing left to share.

 

*****

 

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go to the sidebar and click on the 2011/January link. 

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Getting Shot.