Complicity

Hiding under the bed, I became used to dust bunnies in my nostrils, and weird shiny bits of paper occasionally floating by me. Still, it was generally warm and, the main point of being there, quiet. Once, a pair of fuzzy-slippered feet hesitated not far from my nose, and there was a distant and muffled noise that just might have been my name being called. It’s hard to say… I’ve rather forgotten the sound of my name. There were the right number of syllables. I think.

Another time, a wee mousie scurried under my bent knees, on his way somewhere more interesting and less encumbered by my presence.  Even had it been moving more slowly, slowly enough to make eye contact before disappearing beyond the short range of my dimming vision, I’m not sure I would have invited it to stay. I had little if any conversation left in me, and what else does one offer a wee mousie, when one is hiding under the bed?

Generally, I spent my time humming quietly to myself, solving word problems that I set for myself, in my head… very simple ones, of course. I wasn’t there to expand my intellect, after all. Once in a while, I would squint my eyes to examine whether my fingernails had become too long, and if so, I would chew calmly on them until all was right again. I was content, as content as one should be with no disturbing view of the outside world, no distracting opportunity to flex muscles, no annoying food or water, no… well, no bathroom facilities.

Honestly, it was this last that motivated me, finally, to emerge. The necessities of life and human contact can’t be avoided forever, apparently. First I stretched out my right arm, and wiggled my fingers beyond the shadow of the mattress. The air felt a little cool, but bearable. I waited for a while, for possible negative side effects or consequences. Nothing. Nothing touched my fingers, no one yelled in sudden, frightening awareness of my re-emergence. I waited longer. Finally, I began to shuffle my body along the dusty floor, pausing once to sneeze into my elbow, as I have been painstakingly taught to do. When I finally dragged my head out into the open, I covered my eyes with one hand. Too much light. Too much, too soon. I began to hear street noises, distantly, in the background. I eventually uncovered my eyes, and looked toward the source of the light and noise… a window, blinds closed, but not fully blocking the outside from intruding on the inside.

In time, I gathered my courage, and rolled over onto my hands and knees, and slowly, used my hands on the edge of the bed to pull myself into an unaccustomed upright position. I shook my head, patted my hair, smoothed my clothes, and… here I am. Please don’t make any sudden movements or loud noises. I’ve become unused to it. I startle easily. But here I am.

This post is being written by an automated blogging device.

If Bohémienne had any integrity as a blogger, she would have updated this so-called blog many days ago. Since that is clearly not the case, the Automated Blogging System (ABS) has been activated. This blog will contain all of the required and habitual elements:

1) Navel-gazing

I am a most interesting blogger. I have no doubt that you are fascinated by each and every one of my scintillating words. Today I choose to pass along the following tidbit of wisdom — try not to take on too much over the Christmas season, or you may, in fact, run out of time to write. 

2) Angst

Do you still love me, even though I haven’t been posting regularly? Have you decided to abandon me as a lost cause? Please… I really can’t get by without your attention. I promise to do better. Don’t leave me.

3) Self-deprecation

Really, it isn’t as though anything I write is worth your time and effort. I’m awfully ordinary. I’m more than grateful for your attention, and I take it with a grain of salt. Truly, my talent isn’t so great. No, no, stop it. I blush.

If Bohémienne decides to get off of her ass and post again soon, this ABS will not need to be activated again. In the meantime, your patience is appreciated.

ABS

I wake up with a low rumbling at the edge of my consciousness. I’m not immediately certain whether this is a headache or the angst of the night making a last protest and grab at my attention before receding at the approaching day. The sensation does not pass, though. It insists and takes hold, until I am forced to recognize it. It steals the tepid pleasure from the pale wintry sun trying weakly to push its sickly rays through the blinds across the room. It resonates with the sound of the alarm shrilling suddenly, as always 5 minutes too late. I’m already awake, or the next thing to it. The buzzing at the back of my head is now a throbbing. It is pain, but it is also memory, a feeling that is hanging on too long, according to my practical daily self, and the practical daily people who tell me to move on, let go, get over it. I placidly, obediently agree. I set my conditions, double my efforts, and refuse to give in.

It doesn’t go away, though. It stays there, buzzing, rumbling, throbbing, ready for the next grey morning, to remind me. It always infiltrates slowly, day after day, this knowledge of my unhappiness. I’m running out of options, though, of energy for fighting it, beating it down. Moving on, letting go, getting over it… that’s the easy part. The thing, though, that presence, that knowledge follows me, through my day, giving me respite only at night, knowing that it is waiting, hovering to push back in with my consciousness. It, memory, has to let go of me, and it hasn’t.

I’ve tried talking it out of me. I can’t do that any more. I’m the one who is talked out. I have attempted to cry it out, walk it out, think it out. It’s stubborn. It hangs on, as if with the primitive understanding that, once out, it will not be welcomed back. This is my next essay. This time, I will try to write it out. If I get the words just right, just write, it will fly from me, out the tips of my fingers, with those words, into space, into emptiness, I don’t care where.  I need to type the magic words, the sentence that will free of my self-imposed sentence. Can it be as simple as knowing the incantation? I suspect that even this apparently magical solution will not rid me of this burden.

The first impression is that there are no limits. All seems to be open and wild and free. You may roam where you will. If you step across an invisible barrier of any kind, it isn’t immediately obvious. You could probably cross that line a dozen times without being aware that it is there.

It does exist, though. Each time it is crossed, it becomes slightly more visible, gradually, only very gradually. It is as if the keeper of the border is almost infinitely patient. Almost. If you choose to spend time here, you need to watch carefully, keep an eye on that line that at first doesn’t even seem to exist. Eventually, if you keep walking over it in your ignorance and haste, it will become solid, and you may trip on it. Take that as your warning. The next time you trod carelessly toward it, you won’t be able to cross, you won’t even trip over it. You’ll find, quite suddenly, that it is a brick wall, unclimbable. You’ll see the ‘Keep Out’ sign. If you persist, if you push on the wall, you’ll realize it isn’t even only impassible. It’s an electric fence, and your stubborn insistence on trying to bypass it will only result in disaster for you.

Much better to stay on the outskirts, enjoy the appearance of freedom of access, and resign yourself to the fact that some places are just off limits to you.

Dear Clueless One,

Here’s a secret.

If you like me, if you want to impress me… learn to spell! It isn’t ‘luv’, it’s ‘love’. It isn’t ‘yr’, or ‘u’, or ‘r’… it’s ‘your’, ‘you’ and ‘are’. Punctuation is nice. Beginning sentences with an uppercase letter is fun. Give it a try.

Yours in frustration and disdain,

Boh

P.S. Referring to Yourself always with a capital letter doesn’t actually make You my Dom. Idiot.

Dear Dingbat Magnet,

You’ve really done it now, haven’t you? As if the capslocking wasn’t enough, you may have succeeding in turning me completely dingbatty.  I don’t know if that’s what annoys me, or you have annoyed me.  No, it’s probably you.  It is always all about you, isn’t it?

I know, it’s so out of character, isn’t it?  I’m supposed to be all nice and rational and unemotional and mainly placid, with just occasional outbreaks of stroppiness.  And, you know, I generally am.  I defend to the death your right to do anything you like, and I enjoy the honesty.

But quite honestly, I just have to say this:

Fucking hell, that really was a step or ten WAY over the line.

No, wait, that wasn’t quite what I had to say.  I think maybe it was this:

YOU HAVE REALLY PISSED ME OFF AND UPSET ME NOW.

(Yes, that was it)

Very much doubting the yours bit

Melograna

Dear Mother and Daughter,

I’ve been having a lovely time flirting for the past few months.  But now you think he might do nicely for me.

Cheers.  He’s lost all his appeal now.

Melograna

(daughter and mother)

Dear Self-Centred Egotistical Pricks,

Get over yourselves.

Sincerely determined to remain free of you,

Bohémienne

P.S.  You weren’t that good in the first place.

Dear Dingbats,

Where did I go wrong?  Having eradicated you from my life, what possessed me to get involved with men who are addicted to dingbats and TELL ME ABOUT THE FUCKING DINGBATS ALL THE FUCKING TIME?

It’s not easy being the only sane one, you know.  I have to keep capslocking all over the place to keep dingbat-fever at bay.  It’s very wearing.

Yours sincerely and sanely,

Melograna

Dear Fuckwits,

Enough already.

Yours very sincerely, more sincerely than you can possibly imagine,

Bohémienne

P.S. Fuck off.