Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Laying in a Hammock

2012

Follow the story. 
Read the previous entry here.



There's been talk about DeLoreans and Time Machines here, here, here, here and here.  This is my contribution to that thread.

June 2011

I'd been living sans Mr. Scabs for a few months when he handed me an envelope.  I turned it over in my palms confused by the pasted drawings all over it.  Time machines.  He had carefully cut and pasted pictures of time machines all over the envelope.  In another time, the gesture would have been cute and quirky, like the Mr. Scabs I knew before he was Mr. Scabs. 

Inside was an apology but back then, it wasn't enough.  No matter how sincere or sorry he thought he was, I knew he wasn't.

After reading it, I scribbled across his words, this is a lie!  His black tongue told nothing but lies. The distance between his words and his heart was colossal. 

More than a dozen times I screamed, "Build a damn time machine!"  to his endless requests wondering how he could fix this mess.  

I left him hopeless.  Even Mr. Scabs, who's an inventor and creator by nature, couldn't build a time machine.  He was incompetent.  I mean, really, how did he expect to fix this?

So, I hung a hammock.  

Time stops in a hammock.  Taking idle moments under the green canopy of an orange tree, my feet dangle and the swaying temporarily erases anxiety.  Returning to the womb.  A time to slip between dreams and a soft reality.  

Almost the whole of summer 2011 was spent in my backyard time machine.

June 2012

A year later, I still erase moments in my time machine.  I've spent entire afternoons in the hammock.  Sometimes a wiggly child will join me, or a lady dog will uneasily lick my feet till she gets bopped in the nose, or I'll be left with my thoughts.  Collectively searching to make sense of the past and present.

Although, I may have the occasional afternoon getaway, there's much less time spent in the time machine than last summer.  Progress, right?  Nothing is clear, there are no guarantees but I feel the evolution of myself.

There are moments of depth.

There are times of understanding.

And, maybe even moments of love.


9 comments:

  1. You're amazing. I just love you. I have a hammock too. I sat in it last week with my two boys. I will do that again in July. ;)

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  2. I like that - finding a place where you can just be and maybe forget a little about what has happened. Those moments are so precious and sweet!

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  3. Love this -- and I want a hammock now! :-)

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  4. I think we all need a time machine of some sort. Mine is my writing. Since I write about things that take place long ago in the past, I feel I can leave what's here and now and live someone else's life for the time I spend with my characters. All my pain and anger tends to get poured into them. I guess it's no wonder I end up killing a few off with each story I write. Sometimes it's the only way to get rid of either the evil inside that character or just to put one out of his/her misery.

    I think I need a hammock, though.

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  5. I love this! I love that it shows that evolution of feelings over time. It seems that you are feeling a tiny bit, even if it's just a tiny bit, more peace than you were one year ago. I also like that you found a personal time machine! Like a small space in the universe where all your time, thoughts, and feelings are yours alone! It makes me want to find my own hammock!

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  6. Love this about the hammock. It's amazing what a place like that can do for you. It does transport you. I remember last year, when I first started dating the ex, we stayed at a B&B and it was a beautiful sunny day. There was a large hammock, and we both laid in it, stared at the sky, just quiet. How I wish I could go back to that for just a moment. Our relationship got ugly after that, but the "good" memory is still there. I miss that.

    I think about you and glad to see you are doing Ok :)

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    1. Ladies! I don't know what it is but a hammock will restore you. Lol! I promise u won't regret it.

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  7. I am in awe at your and your husbands recovery given the depth and pain caused by his addiction. I find myself speechless after I read your posts. And unable to comment. The depth at which you touch the pain and healing in written word...there is little that I have read online that compares. My soul is touched when I read your words. The comments I would write seem inadequate to express how I feel. The reason I don't comment and probably many others is that what you write captures so well what I feel-I feel like commenting might ruin the gift of each post. Peggy

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    1. Wow! Peggy, thank you. You're words are so heartfelt. And I am doing pretty well. I know you're doing a lot better too. We can do this.

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hi

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