Welcome to my Friday Flashback! This post originally appeared here on July 12, 2017, a mere two years ago. Some people (women) are unforgettable, larger than life, and you retain vivid memories of them decades after your last meeting. Even if you’ve only met them briefly, something about their looks or vibe is utterly captivating.
I’m not one of these women. People forget me instantly. They forget my name and that they ever met or knew me. Men who slept with me don’t even recall it. I’m bland and ephemeral. Light as air. I should have been a spy, blending into the scenery wherever I roamed. I do like staying home though.
I can’t seem to forget you…
YourWindsongstays on my mind.
Remember that commercial for the Prince Matchabelli perfume from 1980? I thought about it tonight when I unexpectedly ran across someone online from years ago and remembered him, but he had no memory of me at all. It was so vivid for me too, that connection we had during a time that was intense and painful for both of us, about a decade ago, and yet… it clearly meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. He apologized for failing to remember me, but it’s happened before, many times.
When I messaged this man, I was so… buoyant. I think that’s a good word for the emotion I felt earlier today. I had to shop at Target, and the whole time I was a bit floaty, thinking to myself how wonderful it would be to chat with someone who knew me from the time before… before the divorce, before my mother was gone. Why this is important to me, I don’t know. But it is. And so for a couple hours I felt light and happy, certain that my life would take a new direction as the man and I renewed our friendship.
I came home, put my stuff away, fed my kitty, fed the feral kitties (all three were around tonight!), got a snack, logged back on, and after a little while a message arrived. The man did not remember me. Oh well. Then that old commercial jingle popped into my head and I wondered if it would be possible to find it on YouTube. Of course… first hit.
It was supposed to be my vacation. A long overdue break from demands, deadlines, and stress. But I couldn’t relax. During the mornings, I sat on the sand, watching the waves, my stomach a knotof anxiety. In the afternoons, I wandered through the quaint shops, where tourists tried to scramble over each other for bargains, but I walked away, uninterested. Why couldn’t I enjoy myself?
And at night came the dreams, each one more disturbing than the last. The dark corridor, the semi-open doors with a faint glow of light emanating from inside. But I couldn’t see what was happening. A vague sickly sweet odor. Fabric rustling. Moans… of pleasure or pain? I could not tell. I knew I had to choose a room, and once I made my choice, all others would disappear. But each night I awoke drenched in fear just as I stepped over the threshold of the one I’d chosen.
Except this night, the last one of my stay. I walked resolutely down the shadowed hall, the decaying fragrance stronger than ever. I heard fabric tearing, as if someone were ripping a bedsheet with their bare hands. And then in the deepest, most recessed alcove I found the right door. All my worry melted away as I glided into the light.
Rocky the Referee stood on the Biggleton Bridge, where he could oversee the annual boat race. No one else was allowed up here during the race to influence him with their pleas and tears. The winner would be determined by a combination of skill and luck, helped along by the ephemeralhand of fate. If there were any shenanigans, Rocky was in control of the distribution of the proper penalties. Several years ago, someone had tried to rig the race, but Rocky had dealt with them harshly, though fairly, and nothing similar had happened since.
Naturally, it was understandable that people became a little emotional over the annual boat race. The losers were promptly killed and eaten at the Annual Biggleton Barbecue.
~*~
I was tagged by Tao-Talk for this challenge, which originated at Nova Namaste.Hope it’s okay if I don’t tag any more peeps. 🙂
Support(ive) is the best way to describe my relationship with my dad, before he faded from dementia. He was an encouraging, upbeat guy, with a salesman’s type of personality. He’d get angry, but it was gone in a flash, and he generally stayed within the range of mellow to happy. Though he had definite opinions about politics (card-carrying liberal from NYC), among other things, he’d bounce back after a discussion or debate, no hard feelings.
Daddy wasn’t a griller or a BBQ dude or any sort of handyman guy. Mom actually did all that stuff (RIP). Dad believed in going out to dinner. Mostly though he just read books and of course his beloved NYT. That’s what he’d be doing today, if he were still around and able. I’d likely bake some fudgy-wudgy brownies for him. Those were his favorite.
He was always up for a conversation with me. Always supportive of my endeavors. Always encouraging of my dreams and goals, though he would express his ideas if he thought I might be making a mistake. He was a good father and I was lucky to have him.
“If you could choose one — and only one — particular malady, condition, or disease for which a safe and effective treatment was available, what one condition would you choose to treat and why is that your choice?”
I choose to eliminate Alzheimer’s. It not only steals any joy and dignity from the patient’s final years, but it’s such an awful burden in every way on their loved ones. It’s better to die of cancer or heart disease imo than to waste away from this hideous mind-melter.
My mother’s death was a shocking tragedy because no one expected this vibrant person to get suddenly diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, but she was 75. I guess that isn’t really so shocking to someone outside the family. We all just assumed she would live much longer. But as awful as that was, at least it was over quickly.
My father however spent around a dozen years fading away as his once formidable brainpower weakened from dementia. His memory and thoughts became jumbled, and he reacted with confusion and anger. He became susceptible to every con artist that knocked on the door (and those evil assholes know to prey on the senior community). After my mom passed, he immediately jumped into a new romance, asking a woman to marry him after dating for only a couple months. (She said no.) Then he began getting lost and needing more care, often forgetting who people were, and which ones were still alive.
It was so hard on all of us. I hope hope hope I do not burden my children with this horror! Just shoot me.
Neoma waited for further instructions. She gazed out at the harbor as dawn turned the dark sea to turquoise and illuminated the commercial boats, few now, more later. The man she’d been assigned to seduce was showering in the bathroom. Now she registered that he’d turned the water off. Soon he would emerge and likely inquire if she desired breakfast. It was possible she would be told to kill him.
The moon tattoo on her wrist emitted a slight vibration. Neoma glanced at it, interpreting the numerical code. She was to leave here immediately and locate a new target, abandoning this one.
“Where are you going?” the man said as Neoma put on her shoes. “Don’t you want coffee?”
He grabbed her arm as she reached for the door handle and she shoved him away, just hard enough that he was only airborne for a moment before landing on the floor.
Linda told us to grab the closest book, open it, and put our finger on a page ~ this would be our Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt. Mine is the quote in the title, which is on page 64 of Tortilla Flat by John Steinbeck, a used paperback I picked up at an exchange a while back but haven’t read yet.
Honestly, I’m not really inclined to read the book now, given the annoying dialog on this page, and the names of the characters (Pilon and Pirate). I feel it well within my rights to make such an arbitrary and snap judgment because I have an enormous pile of books to read, and more come in all the time. I’ll never get through them all before I die, so why not cull them in any manner whatsoever?
May sucked as far as reading. I began a few books and lost interest, played games on my phone, read a lot of blogs and news, and was basically a scatterbrain. I need to get more focused now. Today I deleted my phone solitaire games that I play when I can’t sleep, and which probably keep me from sleeping too. Duh. I could spend that time reading. It’s less stimulating as far as keeping me awake like a game. But to be fair, I have dozed off in the middle of a card game, though not often. Maybe once.
I don’t think I’m a worry to my friends. I’m very sensible and predictable, at least that’s how I’m perceived. Reliable. Dependable. I can be counted on to do a thing if I say… which is also a curse, you know? Because unreliable people always get a break. Hey, no biggie if Joe didn’t show up… we know how he is. And oh there goes Janet again, such a wild and crazy gal! But me? If I mess up or don’t show, everyone is all but you said!!!
Eff that. Why can’t I be the wild one once in a while? But it’s not me, I know. I like plans. I schedule everything. I’m on time, or early. I reply. I’m considerate. Bla bla bla. Boring! I’ve even tried to plan my own funeral. I want one of those I Dream of Jeannie urns. I want to have coconut cupcakes and a song list. Hotel California, of course. New Kid in Town. Those Shoes. Tequila Sunrise. End of the Innocence. And a lot of Neil Diamond. Jimmy Buffett. Fleetwood Mac. Supremes. Sheryl Crow. Gordon Lightfoot. Johnny Cash and Rosanne Cash. But that’s a bit too planny.
