'Cause her head's up on some cloud

By Joanna and Mikhaila.

Sometimes a person may think about certain aspects of life or humanity more deeply:  for example when he or she is under the influence of alcohol or a natural substance, or if he or she is feeling particularly thoughtful, or just in-tune with all things, in all ways.  

My sister is a big thinker.  I am a thinker.  We think a lot.  But she thinks in a way that I can't completely reach or touch.  I admire her for that.  

I (Mikhaila) am thinking very ponderous thoughts about Disney Princesses. I am always thinking deep, ponderous thoughts about Disney Princesses. So many thoughts. So much thinking. So much neediness. Really. Even (soon-to-be) self-made princesses like Cinderella or Snow White, royal-servants who toiled amidst coal and… murderous abuse verbal threats. Okay, I take back the term ‘neediness’ I utilized quite mockingly. It’s hard out there on the streets, especially if you have to tell people your name is Snow White. Respect.

But the song remains the same: they needed help; they were looking to help; searching. And they welcomed all they received. Why, after all, did the little forest animals flock to Sleeping Beauty; the various pieces of fine quality dishware so eager to dance and sing alongside Belle (besides pure self-interest--in the latter case--which will not be elaborated on or explained at the current time, issues of self-involved potter are for a later date).

My sister, she can make me think so deeply about Disney Princesses, that I realized to even to sit on a pink carpet tile with Disney Princess character representations printed onto them, and possibly sit on a Disney Princess's face that wasn’t corresponding with my own personal feelings and emotional experiences at the time was absolutely ridiculous: (i.e To sit on Belle’s face, when you are, at the moment, greatly opposed to the idea of dishware and candlesticks (and freaking furniture) dancing and singing, [instead of at least the normal animate creatures--mice, birds, squirrels--doing the fucking singing], would just not make sense). 

Get off her face.  
Cinderella is absolutely more appropriate at that moment.  

Of course.

(If Mikhaila were to imagine the perfect Disney Princess she might have little words fluttering around her instead of birds or woodland creatures, making gestures in helping her emphasize the important statements she was conveying through song).

Which is deep.

And ponderous.

It’s crazy, though, when no one else can understand your mind, or cares to follow your thoughts…  

Gosh, if they do: If they can follow your thoughts, and you excitedly say, “Yes, that’s exactly what I meant…” Or just, “Yes, yes, that’s what I was thinking,” in a very prim and proper way of expressing emotions…  It’s beautiful. 

Because too many fucking people don’t think at all… or not enough.  Not enough.  Not enough…  Words don’t have the same power to others.  Words don’t hold the meaning and power that some of us, like Mikhaila and I, feel…  Which doesn’t fucking make sense.  How are they even in the same realm us?  I don’t know.  I know I feel the depth of every word I think and write.  I feel it and I ponder the committing it to page endlessly… “Can I say this?”  “Should I?” “Fuck it, I’m going to.”

Like writing them right now, is kind of mind-blowing and also weird because I feel like they are not going to be quite right tomorrow, but today they are just right and so perfectly articulated at exactly the most effective moment.  Tonight I mean.  This morning I mean.  We think about that.  How each word will take shape and meaning today, tomorrow… yesterday… because we think so much and so deeply.

And that’s the problem.  And the beauty.  

Thinking can be dangerous.  Hazardous.  But we can’t stop ourselves.  We’ll think and express and think more, we’re exhausted, but not sleepy.  Our minds are still thinking.  We’re just tired.  From thinking and talking.  We wish we could stop…

My sis started singing this as we were writing. (It’s funny, we were silently writing, yet she started singing and it seemed so perfectly right and perfect to break a silence of intense expression of thought):

I’ll take the high road, and you’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland before ‘ye…”

“Is it we will be in Scotland, or I will be in Scotland...”

“It depends on if we’re singing together, or I’m singing alone.”

Knock, knock...

There are moments in life when you suddenly realize you feel and know something so truly and strongly that you can't imagine ever ignoring that knowledge, or living in a way that ignores it because you actually know.  You know...
Maybe, and most honestly, you are finally acknowledging this thing--this thing--even if you always knew.

 Yeah.

I mean, are we ever so oblivious to something so clear and important, or do we just deny it, or push it away, or not allow ourselves to even think about it.  Do you think we don't even know we are denying anything are we so scared of change that we become oblivious on purpose.  It's easier to pretend, be oblivious if change isn't something we don't know how to deal with.

And sometimes everyone else sees it.
And they wonder what the fuck you are doing not acknowledging it.
Or they think maybe you're so stupid you don't get it at all.
But they know.
And you are the one standing there, when everyone else is laughing at the funny joke, realizing you didn't get it at all... or maybe it was an inside joke, and you would never get it anyway (ah pretend you are oblivious). They sure think it's funny.  And they are laughing.  And they are happy because laughter means happy.  And you want to laugh and be part of it all, but you can't.

Because that joke is you.

You are the joke.

So, when you don't push it away anymore, and you feel it and think about it fully, you feel so stupid.  You feel so stupid and embarrassed.  You let that time go by, you let it build, and you hid from it, and it just got worse and bigger and suddenly, you wonder if you are anything more than a joke.  The joke that was on you.

Joke's on you!

Hahahaha...

Yeah.

Hey, you know what is funny?  It's funny to sit alone and marinate in the truth and feel it all that way in your bone marrow.  It's funny to have your mind feel like it could explode because it's so real to you suddenly, and you still don't know how to handle it or deal with it.  And you want to erase it all from your memory and pretend again.  You'd rather have people laugh behind your back.  You'd rather have people think they know something you don't know...  "She's so stupid.  She has no idea."

It's worse to sit here and feel it when you're alone.  Or feel it and know that there is no fucking way anyone could ever comfort you or make you feel any better.  Because it's your truth.   And truth is exactly that.  It's you.  It's like.  It's your life.  And you don't get to escape that when you are... well... living... Alive.

So what do I do?  What do I do?
What am I supposed to do?
I want to run away.
I want to run away to a safe place where the joke isn't me, anymore. Because strangers don't know anything about it.  And you're just human, and you have a chance to have a new truth, or live a truth that doesn't feel like death, anyway.

Or maybe you have someone who never thought of you that way.  Maybe they were waiting for you to feel it and think it fully and come to your senses and they would never tell you, "Wow, you were stupid for a really long time," or, "Oh, now you get it?"  You would just be enveloped in a truth that they knew that you were never a joke.  That silliness, and self-imposed ignorance was not who you were.  It was self-protection. And they were just waiting for you.  Because they could tell you, directly, in the first place, but you wouldn't believe them...  No way.  You had to figure it out yourself.  Love is wanting someone to grow and become strong, not holding them up and whispering in his or her ear what they should think or know.
It's wanting them to truly know.
We have to know our own truth.
Otherwise, it's not truth at all is it?

8 Legs.

I'm looking at my knees, bent up against my body, as I sit on the basement floor.  I did a terrible job shaving them.
I need to be less careless when I am taking my morning shower, knowing my legs might be bare to public viewing that day.  I should shave them properly, and take care in the process.
But I won't.
I don't totally give a shit when I miss a spot, shaving around my knees, as I see I have missed many spots now.
Oh well.

I'm sitting on the basement floor.  It's 3:00 am.  I've seen two spiders, which I have smacked with a shoe Michael grew out of that was in a box next to me.  Kill a spider, it will rain...  It's supposed to rain tomorrow anyway, so fuck it.
Fuck it.

I don't want those creepy things coming near me when I'm sitting in my house--albeit a concrete basement floor.   My house.  Not spider house.  If spiders are outside I'd leave them be.  That's their home.  Outside.

Sam said he won't read my blog and hasn't for several months.  I tried to tell him I've been more positive, but he said he doesn't like to read it...  The thing is...  I'm a writer.  Sometimes I don't know how else to express something that is haunting me, or hurting me, or for goodness sake: making me happy!

When I write, I think about how to word it just right (and yes, I miss typos.  I'm sorry), and make sure it's clear.  Sometimes it's harder to verbalize something to someone--I mean say it out loud--especially when they cut you off and say, "I don't want to even talk about this," when really, if it's written clearly, the point of it all is so very innocent and clear, and not bothersome to hear.

Knees.  We see what we want to see...  

One of the most disturbing realizations imaginable, for a person who has a lot to say, and a lot to think, is knowing no one cares to hear her... Or him...  Me...  No one cares if I say anything or if I'm silent.   Silently speaking, floating along in life, talking about daily living...  Nothing further or deeper than a day; nothing more than what can be seen in my facial expressions...

Ha!  I used to be terrible at hiding any emotion or thought if the other could see my face.  I'm learning--yes it has been a long lesson, indeed--to show only what I know is necessary to make it all feel comfortable or pleasurable for anyone who can see.   I could always say the "right things," but my stubborn, silly face showed truth, always.

I am realizing, now, I can change my facial expression to satisfy the "listener."  I can wipe the blank stare of loneliness and emptiness, clean away, and produce a smile, with my words of encouragement or humor.

But scares me is that doesn't stick.  I can't trick myself.  I've read if you smile, it tricks your brain into feeling happy...  but my brain doesn't work that way.  As soon as my face is not in view, it slackens and becomes more...  Blank?  My eyes can see nothing.  I can see nothing at all, after pretending... Things are blurry, and I stop even trying to think about what's truth.  My face shows it when no one is looking.  I don't think about it anymore.  I can't.  I can't, sometimes.

No.  I am Luteal now, and I shouldn't write these things.

I don't know what's real.  Maybe I don't feel this way at all. That's right.  That's how ridiculous and crazy PMDD is.  I don't know...  Anything...  At least I don't believe in myself and what I think...  I feel very clear, then I think, "God, but I'm crazy right now..."  But sometimes people don't listen.  They don't want to hear it.  They don't want to read it.  They don't want to see any of it.

And I'm still sitting my basement floor at 3:38 am...  Studying my knees, and killing creepy spiders.

Heaven.

...That's what we got, with our sweet Michael and Stella.  My mom was sick and couldn't attend, but when I visited her to say, "Happy Mother's Day," she did mention that Michael's tie was too long and it was backward.  "How could none of you notice." She Photoshopped the pictures I sent her to look better.  

You know, Michael wanted to wear one of "daddy's ties," and he chose Sam's Knights of Columbus tie, and he put it on himself...  We were trying so hard to get things ready... I was up most of the night...  cleaning, baking... hoping things would turn out just right for them...  And it was perfect.  I'm sorry she couldn't come.  She would have seen it was perfect, and not studied photos and found flaws in the appearance of the little boy, smiling so happily.  

John didn't make it.  He came up later, with his kids.  I thought it was for the little party for the twins we were having at our house, but I realized afterward, that he didn't even congratulate Stella or bring her a card, (He's her Godfather).  He had wanted us to babysit his kids so he and his wife, who didn't make it to the party, could go to Massachusetts to pick up a tractor.  It was after 3:30 when he mentioned this.  He came very late to the party.  I have the hardest time saying no, and I love my brother, but that day was about my children, and I was so tired, and I wasn't going to babysit on a school-night, far past even my own children's bedtime, let alone the bedtime of a 5 and 3-year-old.  

Yet, Susan, (my cousin, and Michael's Godmother), made it to the Mass with her 6-week old baby Julie Estelle. It was lovely.  I didn't cry until that night after school left.  I was so happy she had come.  It meant so much to my babies.  And It meant so much to me.  XO.

 And my Uncle, Steve, brought Nanny up.  It was at 9:00 am, and she called before 7:00 am, worried Steven wasn't feeling well, and might not be able to give her a ride.  Sam had told her he would drive down to get her if Steve couldn't do it.  When I called her back, she said Steve was coming with her, and she would be there.  Steve told me afterward, he was so tired, and felt kind of crappy, but his wife said, "Stephen, if your 91-year-old mother can get up and be ready to go before 7:00 am, then you had better get your act together, and to bring her to her great-grandchildren's catechism!"  

I was proud, but not surprised that the first things the twins wanted to do after the Mass was "hug Nanny Tops."  Their first religious experiences were really with my nanny and grampy, going to Mass on Sunday evenings in Springfield together.  They would drive up, the babies were really still just little babies, and fit in their car seats, and we would sit together and it felt good.  It felt happy.  It was Heaven.

1. Just about 9 years ago, minus a few months, Nanny holds Stella at her Baptism.  
2. Their expressions looking back to see Nanny Topsy (91 years old). They were so happy she was able to attend.

Michael's first Communion.  In Mike's first Reconciliation he confessed his "sins," and then Father Peter asked him if he ever lied.  Michael said, "No, I never lie."  And that's the truth.  Father Peter joked that his penance was to was his car. 

They were so very happy to get their First Communion.

Stella's first Communion.  She is very spiritual.