Joker Day!: Myth Me Musings (10)

Most people refer to this day as Leap Day, and this year as Leap Year.  I prefer to think of it as Joker Day.  A passage from the Solitaire Mystery:

‘The year has fifty-two weeks, so each week is represented by one of the cards in the page’…Seven multiplied by fifty-two…is 364. ‘Exactly.  But the year has 365 days.  The day which is left over we call Joker Day.  It belongs to no month and no week either.  It is an extra day, a day when anything can happen.  Every four years we have two such Joker Days…the fifty-two weeks–or ‘the cards’, as I call them–are also divided into thirteen months, each of twenty-eight days, because thirteen multiplied by twenty-eight is also 364.  The first month is Ace, and the last month is King.  Then there is an interval of four years between every two Joker Days.  It begins wit hthe year of the dimands, followed by the year of the clubs, then hearts and finally spades.  In this way all the cards have their own week and month…the year is also divided into four seasons–diamnds during the spring, clubs in the summer, hearts in the autumn, and spades in the winter.  The first week of the year is the Ace of Diamonds, and all the rest of the diamonds follow.  The summer begins with the Ace of Clubs and the autumn with the Ace of Hearts.  The winter commences with the Ace of Spades, and the last week in the year is the King of Spades…every card was given its own week and month, so I could keep track of the days of the year.  Every single year has been in one of the cards’ signs.  My first year on the island was given the name the Ace of Diamonds.  Then it was the Two of Diamonds–and thereafter all the other cards followed in order like the fifty-two weeks.

Yes, the calendar can be explained through cards.  In this book as well, all the cards have personalities of sorts.  I think it’s possible to actually assign yourself the card that you are.

I am a Joker.  Described in the book as the one “who sees too deeply and too much”.  Who describes himself as “not as clear-cut as the others…I am neither King nor Jack, nor am I diamond, club, heart, or spade.”

We are the ones who question our existence, see the world not at face value as others do.  We are troubled with the questions of the world and universe, and search for answers.  But our searching always begins with the question “There’s something I don’t understand.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about the word “misfit” lately.  It always seemed like an impish word, the little trouble-maker but in a good-fun sense.  But then I broke down the word etymologically, and it becomes a bit more sinister:

a person who is not suited or is unable to adjust to the circumstances of his or her particular situation

I relish my joker status, my misfit self.  I accept that I can’t adjust to everything around me without question, with full-understanding.

So today, in this odd extra day, I sit, and smoke, and think.  And reach for my jingly hat so that the cards can hear me coming.

Confession: Myth Me Musings (9)

Disclaimer: I know that what I’m about to publicly write may cost me people’s belief in my sanity. Be it as it may.

I just finished watching the latest episode of Lost, entitled The Constant.  I knew nothing about the episode other than what I had read in this article from EW’s Doc Jensen (my favorite Lost commentator).  So I knew it was an episode about Desmond.  And I knew it was going to expound further upon Desmond‘s odd time-traveling / vision episodes, which started at the beginning of season three.  In the previous Desmond-centric episode on this topic, he found his present self suddenly in his past.  But this one was different: Desmond’s past self found himself in his present, with no knowledge of his present surroundings.

Confusing?  It probably is to most people.  But not to me.

Because I have these same episodes.  Mine are not as Hollywood-perfect-to-advance-the-narrative complete time-switches, but they are flashes, which result in me coming back to the present confused, no idea where I am, no idea who I am or who is around me.

I know.  I sound crazy.  I might be.

These episodes started around the same time I got this book for a gift, or at least I think they did.  I was eleven or twelve.  It could have been earlier but after I read Einstein’s Dreams I had a way to explain it to myself.  See, this book is a collection of short fables, if you will, written by a scientist attempting to get inside the mind of the young Albert Einstein as he was coming up with his theory of relativity.  And the basis for this theory is that time is bendable, and ultimately bends back upon itself.  And that we, as humans, live in four separate times at once–our past, our present, our future, and our dreams.  It’s one of the reasons people never dream about their death–circumstance of death, yes, but never the actual dying part, and if they do they don’t dream about themselves again, because that time no longer exists.  And so if the theory is correct, that we do live in four separate times, our realities can become muddled, criss-crossed, confused.

I go through phases where these moments are nearly gone.  If I have them, they are confined to night, the moments between awake and sleep.  I will come out of one completely disoriented, my breath shallow and hard, clammy sweat starting to form, sometimes yelling out to hear the sound, reaching for something that convinces my brain I’m back in reality.  When I’m alone, this usually takes the form of my fist into the headboard.  If it hurts, I know it must be real.  Or throwing something, just to hear the noise.  I used to have them during the day.  I dreaded having them in class, zoning out and coming back, no outlet within the confines of public decorum that could convince me of reality.  I remember having one once at home, sitting at the dining room table.  My parents wanted to have me committed.  But they didn’t.  Maybe they should have.  Maybe something in the psychotropic drugs would have stopped these.

There are many things in life that take me awhile to convince myself it’s okay to do because I’m so scared of these happening.  Working a nine-to-five job that doesn’t completley engage my brain in an office surrounded by strangers.  Sleeping with someone for the first time.  Sleeping alone.  Sleeping without either a few beers or sleep meds in my system.

I’ve tried to explain them to people before.  I never do a very good job because I’m so afraid that the truth will just sound…unplausible.  So I write it off as a “bad dream”.  Or anxiety.  But it isn’t that.  Things just stop being real.

In the show tonight, the 2004 Daniel Faraday tells the 2004 Desmond (who is actually the 1996 Desmond jumping forward)  to find his 1996 self in order to help him.  And his answer?  Desmond needs to find his constant.  Something in his present that also existed in his past that will ground him, that he will trust.

And Desmond finds it.  In Penny.  The 1996 Desmond jumps back and forth enough to know what to do–get Penny‘s phone number in 1996 (who at this time he has left and run away from), so he can call her eight years later in order to ground himself.  She gives it to him.  And he calls.  And he knows it’s going to be okay.

And then in the last two minutes of the show, we see Daniel paging through his journal, accompanied by ominous music, as he finds a page across which is scrawled “If something goes wrong, Desmond Hume will be my constant.”

But I don’t think Desmond knows this.

Maybe that constant is what I need.  But I know I’d rather have a willing constant other than me clinging to one who doesn’t necessarily want that job.  Or know that they have it.

All I know is that over the last year or so, these episodes have become fewer and farther between.  Until lately.  And now they’re back in earnest.

The Bathroom

is finished.

Send in Trading Spaces

This is a picture of my mom right after she got the drill stuck in the ceiling while trying to put in the new shower thing.  You can’t see her standing on the claw foot tub, though.

Thank You Readers

As of today, I have had over 1000 blog hits this month.  That is a record.

So, thanks.

The Biggest Loser

I’m sitting here finishing up tonight’s episode of “The Biggest Loser” on TiVo.  Admittedly, this is one reality show I didn’t have much interest in until I met someone who feels about this show the way I do about Race, and I watch it so we have something to talk about on Wednesday mornings.  I do love the message of the show–that if you’ve struggled with something, you can get through it if you put your mind and body and hard work into it.

That’s something I think a lot of us forget sometimes.

And it’s cool, because you can actually see a physical manifestation of that philosophy come through on the show.

I wish there were such physical manifestations possible for anything I need to set my mind to and work through.

It’s the 26th of February, which means it’s been 26 days since I’ve inbibed in any kind of alcohol.  I’m not an alcoholic by any means, but I am a regular social drinker.  Two beers is my usual imbibement in a night out, with the exception of my birthday, the Race finale parties in New York, and St. Patrick’s Day.  But I went on a bender the last couple days of January, drinking what I could reach in the house to make the pain stop, the thoughts stop, the visions stop.  I was alone, couldn’t reach anyone that I needed for various reasons.  I didn’t know who else to call.  I was embarrassed to call anyone.  I thought maybe just once the bottle would help, not for good but just until I could reach someone.

So I shut myself in my office, a bottle of Jameson in my hands, and just drank.

It didn’t help.

I’m a smart person.  I should have known that it wouldn’t.

And it scared me enough to take it out of the routine for a month.

I wish I had a physical difference that I could see as a result of this, because I’m pretty happy with myself for doing it.  But I don’t.

I still feel like crap.  I’m still not sleeping.  The visions are still there.  The thoughts are still there.  The pain is still there.

And I still feel very much alone.

But back to the show: does anyone else find it just a little funny that four very straight big burly dudes went to Vegas and all got tattoos of the word “pride” in some form?

Okay.  Maybe it was just me.

I heart the Onion sometimes


Diebold Accidentally Leaks Results Of 2008 Election Early

Wise words

Denying who you were will only stutter who you wish to become.

A very wise woman wrote these words today.  A woman who is wiser than she gives herself credit for.  The idea of stuttering who you are struck me quite hard today.  It doesn’t mean that you can’t become who you wish to become if you deny your past, it only means it might take a bit longer to get out.  Especially if you grew up in Saskatchewan or something.

It is funny, because if I think about all the things that I don’t really like about myself–the massive guilt-complexes, the neurotic fears, the lack of confidence, etc. etc., I can pinpoint the places in my past that provided the first kick of the stone that turned into the avalanches of my faults.  I don’t deny my past.  But that doesn’t mean I’m at a point where I embrace all of it.

So wise woman, I will challenge you to embrace it.  And share it when you are ready, because sometimes that’s what it takes.

I do heart me some Oscars

“Thank you life.  Thank you love.  It is true there are some angels in this city.”–Marion Cotilliard

It’s quotes like the one above that I think I heart the Oscars as much as I do.  A moment of genuine gratefulness for the position one has achieved in life.  I know there are people out there who sheepishly admit to practicing their Oscar speeches.  I’ve never been one of them.  But I’ve decided I’m going to.  Not because I honestly think I’ll ever be up there on that podium (even though I harbor a fantasy of becoming a film editor), or even believe I’m even in the ballpark of talent it requires.

No.  It’s because there are moments all the time in our lives that are our Oscar moments, and that if we don’t take the time to stop and thank a litany of people and circumstances, we won’t recognize their significance and meaning on who we are.

Thank you life.

Thank you, Love.

It’s true, that there some angels in this city.

Oscar Day!

I’m having a few friends over tonight for the Oscars.  And while it won’t be quite the spread of themed food it was a couple years ago, I am making:

Hamburger (phones, from Juno)

Milkshakes (okay, I haven’t seen the movie but apparently this is a big deal in There Will Be Blood)

Ratatouille (from, well, Ratatouille)

and my favorite, Chigur Cookies (No Country For Old Men)

Let the ballots begin!