on conscious forgetting:

So here are a few things about me:

1. My memory is fascinating. As a teacher, I remember names, faces, and everything my students write, almost immediately. I remember historical dates, seamstresses in films, every single song lyric, most poems. All of it.

2. I am absolutely haunted by my dreams. This can't be understated. My lucid dreams alter my conscious experience.

3. I consciously forget everything.

But let's just talk about right now, specifically, and how all these things become related, ultimately equaling the same thing (which probably is that I'm a little ridiculous and probably let the stars dictate how remarkably close I hold my hand to my chest).

We have traveled to Tampa. 

We have traveled to my parents' home, the one with the big gate, and all the acres, and gardens, the animals and the golden sun, the two houses.

We have traveled back in time. 

We have traveled to the miniature house I used to live in, off and on for ten years, between the times when life delivered blow after life-altering blow,

we have traveled to the place I used to stay when everything fell apart. My nest, cocoon, the greatest hiding place behind the big gate.

Everything is the same; it's no mirage, no mirror. The space is absolute: the trees are sturdy, and there is the constant sound of falling water everywhere. 

But I'm not the woman I was before.

I'm not a woman that clawls at the walls anymore. At least not right now, not for the last (almost) three years. You know: I figured out what to do to not to be that old ghost anymore. 

I mean, I got rid of the ghouls. 

No: I mean, I have forgotten what the ghouls did to me. 

No. I mean. I left. I mean I never spent the night again. I mean.

I mean I stopped throwing gigantic parties. I stopped talking.

I mean. I built a house. A small one. And I put myself in it. I put myself in it, and I only made a door when necessary.

I know that doors are not permanent things anymore. 

That is, my conscious mind knows the score. It knows the game of forgetting, and it's good. But. 

My unconscious mind, my lucid dreams--  the ones that stack on top of each other to show the big picture-- the ones that, no matter how many times I wake up and fall back to sleep, are still there. All night. 

Maybe it's the miniature house and that stark contrast between what it is now and how it used to be. 

I dream about people I don't even know.

That's a lie. 

I dream about people who used to be around, who showed up and did something stupid or outrageous, something worth remembering, before they disappeared. 

I knew this girl who was a stripper in high school. I knew this girl who made a sex tape, spontaneously, on one of those buses. I knew a girl who blew every single dude at every single party. I knew a girl who slept with a lot of dudes, one after the other after the other, all in a line, all in the room, all in my apartment. I knew a girl who dropped acid and showed up at my house, freaked out, and disappeared into the woods, crying.

I don't know any of these girls. 

I don't know their names. 

If I walked by them, if I met them at an art gallery, and we talked about something great, I wouldn't know it. It doesn't matter.

Those moments and myths are burned into my brain. 

They're knocking at the door I didnt know was there. Pulling down the walls, setting fire to my storeroom.

I don't know who they want. I dream of them in dialogue, on videos. I dream of sneaking into my house, hiding behind my walls, to learn the truth.

I can't believe it. But I do. I put those images away, like truth. And I wait for the voodoo. 

the one with the almost wedding: the third &final party ever almost thrown in my honor, &why it ended up being the best thing ever.

if the rule of threes is an overarching theme that possibly ends the circular ruins that we sometimes find ourselves falling into, then this is absolutely germane to the revolution of proposals, parties and weddings that I found myself in.

I could start this story back in Omaha, cut to years later though, and I think it was the Winter of 2010 or maybe it was 2011. no, ten. I don't know. the primary point to note is that I lost my mind again. the life of my little apartment in Tampa was fading fast, and I had packed my world into boxes to move away, out to the Midwest, where again, only a very few people would know my name. I was still blonde and still long-haired then, and I thought my plans existed in a space of controlled chaos that was larger than me. if I am going to cut it straight like I have so far: I needed an escape. desperately.

if I am going to cut it even straighter than that, I thought I had fallen in love with someone, but he was none too in love with me. we had got an apartment together; I had shipped my things. but when he was supposed to come to Tampa, meet my parents' for Thanksgiving, and take me back to Omaha, he didn't. that didn't happen, and I was still without my things. when an escape falls away, and there are no other windows and no other doors to leave from, it can feel like the sky is falling, which is exactly what happened to me.

so I cut off all my hair; again, I wanted a new identity. I was so terribly embarrassed about being so publically taken down, that I did not want all my new friends: the ones at the parties, the bookstore, to recognize that I had given up on everything. this was a terrible time. I couldn't even exactly say what I was thinking, but at this time, I started writing in phantoms and the space program extensively, and listening to what everyone else thought but me.

on a particularly terrible day, I was on Davis Islands, and I called my mom; it was probably the most hysterical I've ever been. she left work and came to check on me. she told me that I needed to be around normal people, and she suggested that I see an old boyfriend because, by all appearances, he seemed the most normal. so I did, and that was exactly the wrong thing to do.

this I absolutely cannot talk about specifically because it is unfair for me to air anyone else's secrets but my own, and if I am using guilt as an overarching theme, along with the rule of threes, then I have to put this all on myself, which is definitely how his parents would want this to be. I will only say that I was never happy, and I never, ever wrote a thing because writing must retain a sense of the self, if it is going to retain anything. I will also say, that right now, it is incredibly difficult not to be specific, and for the purpose of the comedy and the direction of this story—

this is getting too long and too convoluted, so I will get to the wedding. I adamantly and absolutely did not want a wedding, but his family insisted, like they insisted about every thing. it went much in the way of the first: everyone was planning around me, choosing the specific things they felt were needs. it was to be a garden wedding (again) and at home (again) and small (again). however, my mom made me the most amazing, beautiful, hand beaded dress, in blue, because I wanted to wear it again and again and again, even though I did not want to be married.

the only difference is that this time, I was strong. I did not go through it; I left. I worked three jobs and lived in a hotel for a while, and no one knew which hotel I was in (it was a terribly cheap one. the carpets and bed were sticky, but there was free breakfast and the soap and shampoo smelled like orange skittles. it was only fifty dollars a night). I went to work every morning at seven am. my jaw swelled from the stress of it all, but eventually, I moved my things out of the house in a day, and got my own apartment, and found my own way.

when I told my parents' everything, they were not only supportive, but kind and proud of me. they threw everything from the wedding plans— the tree trunk cake stand, the invitations, the paper rings— into a huge bonfire, and since then, everyone is closer, and happy.

so in my life, I've received four proposals, three rings, and two almost not quite there weddings. if these were the only symbols to lead by, these alone prove that my husband, Tim, was made for me because he took me off to New Orleans to elope all on our own, and rather than a ring, that pointless symbol, he branded me.

the one with the fake wedding: the second of three parties thrown in my honor, and why it was absolutely awful.

the second story of terrible parties definitely parallels the movement of being remarkably late for very important dates; so late, in fact, that by the time the day came, everything the date was centered around had already done died and gone away. I do not remember as many details as I definitely should; memories are static things anyway, and the worse a memory, the more likely, for me at least, that I attempt to forget it completely, which is especially so because I never talk about this, and I have never, ever written about the days around the happening. 

it was 2003-- I know that because it was the year of all those wild storms and hurricanes that took a way parts of the south, piece by piece, and I am pretty sure it was summer time, see, because we had just moved into our own place, because he had just proposed to me (which is kind of an embarrassing story: it was during one of those hurricanes, and I was terribly sick from too much vodka the night before, having partied with my old friend Lindsey, and I was in the shower, puking, and he came in with a box of Burger King chicken things, and the silver ring from the stone jewelry store I worked at was in the chicken box and--). he decided to up and leave on my birthday, and I kind of went to pieces, or

went to pieces in a way that only could reflect the circumstances of the two years prior; where a good few people I loved very much had died, and he had just decided to go away, which may have been harder to take. I don't know, either way, but when he decided to come back, he had a list of things I needed to do, include buying a nine-hundred dollar bassoon, and marrying him, the next day, at the courthouse, at noon.

but we couldn't tell his family because they were religious. or unsupportive. or terribly afraid of surprises. or something. I remember the day we left the courthouse. we saw his mom across the street; she was leaving the criminal courthouse because she had testified as a witness to a robbery, and we didn't say hello because we weren't supposed to be there;

I worked at a basket warehouse for carnies. I unloaded trucks, and there was no air conditioning. in my work clothes, I sat on the desk at my parents' house, and my mom signed the marriage certificate because she was a notary. it never seemed official because it was too easy, but we were married: I had the ring, and eventually, the fake wedding.

the fake wedding was postponed three times because it was 2003, and there seemed to be a storm every weekend and hurricane parties were the place to be. when the day finally came, no one knew the date: I can't even remember. it was sometime in December because there were Christmas trees. there were koi fish on the tables, and they were terribly unhappy because it was freezing.

my mom officiated the wedding. I remember that; she looked beautiful, and I remember all the fighting: he and me, me and the maid of honor. me and my mom, my grandma-- the photographer. me and my aunts. the caterers. the families. the music did not play, so there was just this heavy tension in the air, that was only amplified by all the empty chairs. 

and the food was spare because his aunt, the caterer, was upset that my mom's pilates friend was helping out too.  I remember thinking, I have to do this to get divorced because no one really knew we had done it in the first place. and my mom's pilates friend stole some kitchen knives and silverware, and other things happened; I sat at a table by myself for a while. I cut the cake at some point and then

I disappeared. I was maybe at my fake wedding for an hour. maybe I was there. I left far before it was dark outside because I had really fallen through the looking glass that time, and I knew I was not being too fair. to anyone. because no one knew that it was over already, and pretending to be at the start of it all was kind of devastating.

I think I was married for six months. one night, I packed my suitcase and skipped town and hid out in Omaha for three months because who would ever, ever find me there. I dyed my hair red because I did not want to look familiar to anything. I studied at the library for six hours a day, spent four hours at the park, and the rest at either the bar or listening to records with a remarkably good friend. having this kind of structure was really a benefit. 

I finally went back home, eventually. I finished my degree. I went back to Omaha for grad school. I lived in my brother's old bedroom; 

I worked at a bookstore; I had new friends that did not know the old me. I lived on coffee. on cigarettes. on vodka and whiskey and black beans and rice. I watched a ridiculous volume of movies; I listened to records; I sewed clothes, and I became excellent friends with my parents and people. I hosted enormous parties. 

everything went on moving, and I was someone else, and still now, no one ever, ever talks about any of this happening. until it almost happened again, which is the third and final almost party that was ever thrown for me. it is the final story of this series, and it's also how all of this ends as a comedy.