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Maybe I'm flashy
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Would you like to hear about my rough week? I had a migraine and some other stuff went sideways. Should I pretend that I was productive or should I whine? Which one turns you off to my clap trap of a newsletter? Where does the phrase "clap trap" actually come from? Hold on, I'll check.
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Well, first of all it's not a phrase, but a word – "claptrap". It comes from the late 1700s theatrical scene. Trap the claps with our non-sensical pretentious nonsense. How fitting! Because I'm about to link to an article that says there's a "dark side" to not having stress, which is about the most pretentious nonsense I've ever read in my life. The psychologists went out to prove that ignorance is bliss because the philosophers didn't bother to link to their data. Oh, and as if no one knew, personality tests can be used to mess with people. smh.
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"Everything is derogatory" means that anything looked at through a particular lens can be bad. It's a riff on idiocy. Unbridled dogmatic belief in anything is dangerous. There's always a second story, a third story and a thousand stories after that. We live in a philosophical, complex, multifaceted and, damnit, just down right twisted world. People think they are victims, companies think they're morally correct, governments think they're choices are for the greater good. There's no such thing as reality though, it's all just atoms flying around in the unbelievable vastness of space.
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Maybe I'm fluttering
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Yes, friends, I decided to flutter into a random rant about word origins and perspectives rather than tell you all about the stuff my own brain did this week. It's scary to write about this week's Laura brain. Full of trauma or death or going to the moon.
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Then again, this is what you come here for, isn't it? To be reminded that the tingling feeling you get south of the clavicle from time to time is somehow normal?
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This week I saw my past self, and I wrote my future self a reminder:
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I was standing at the bottom of the stairs when he told me that they had committed suicide. I remember dropping down and sliding back. Hugging my knees and leaning against the wall. When I found her blue and cold in her bed, I ejected myself backwards from the room. I hit the wall across from her door and slid down. Hugging my knees and rocking back and forth. I remember when I heard that he had died in his sleep, for no reason at all, I sat on the edge of the bed and then slid off it, onto the floor. Hugging my knees and crying silently. When they came to take him away, the woman lifted him from my lap, and I pulled my knees up.
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I guess that’s my pattern. I drop to the floor. I pull my knees in. I make myself into a ball, and I feel it wash over me. It didn't feel like that when my grandparents died. I wasn't on the floor.
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David Morris wrote in “The evil hours”
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“Normal, non-traumatic memories are owned and integrated into the self. These are, in a sense, like domesticated animals, amenable to control, tractable. In contrast, the traumatic memory stands apart like a feral dog, snarling, wild, and unpredictable.”
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Backing away from the grief is acceptable, just not if you do it all the time. The feral dogs will get out if they can't breathe. Grief needs air holes.
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Maybe I need help?
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Holy shit, this episode went real. I'm sure you have other things to do. Sorry about that, but the writer inside doesn't care about the rest of my comfort.
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It's Friday, so maybe you need to take it a bit easy today and let the end of week vibes wash over you. That's what I'm about to do.
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