Synaptic Connection Lost – Send Help

Oct6

Testing, testing, 1–2–3. Once upon a time, in a land far away . . . the swift brown fox jumped over the lazy dog . . .

Pardon me, just trying to be certain I’ve not forgotten how to type. It seems the keys are in working order, my fingers easily find each one, so typing is not the issue, it appears I still remember how to form words in a manner resembling sentences.

I guess I can check those excuses off my * why on earth am I not writing? * list.

There must be an internal malfunction disrupting the usual flow of words I rarely have to fight with such vigor to release.

My typically energetic neurons have been slacking off in the synaptic connection department, maybe the receptors are busted. The problem must lie somewhere within those billions of nerve cells running my information processing center. My synaptic connections are simply not synapsing and connecting.

Perhaps my neurons need input. I have hundreds of books from which to choose, all with the potential to jump-start my ridiculously stubborn mind. If I could just syphon all the excess and unneeded and unwanted thought from it, I’m certain I would regain coherent and functional use of the blasted thing.

The closest I’ve come to actual writing these past weeks was changing the words to Green Eggs and Ham to reflect my disdain for people. Sam-I-Am meets his demise at the end. A dear friend suggested I seek pharmaceutical intervention after reading it. I assured her I was properly medicated, but she seemed doubtful.

So, woe is me.

I suppose I will peruse my overflowing shelves for a good read, suggestions are welcome.

       INTERMISSION

I’ve narrowed my choices down to four, but I cannot come to a final decision.

The Bell Jar —Sylvia Plath

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The Professor and the Madman — Simon Winchester

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Miss Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children — Ransom Riggs

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The Fourth Hand — John Irving

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Please feel free to provide your thoughts as mine are wholly unreliable at this time.

Sigh. Ugh. Argh.

Sep18

 

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I seem to have taken ill, or lazy, or moody; they feel surprisingly similar at times. I am a miserable beast, my current disposition is slightly less than amicable and considerably less than favorable. I’ve done my best to mask the monster for nearly a week now in hopes no one would notice, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to contain.

Of course, I am prone to the dramatic when I feel like this, things are never as bad as I ultimately make them out to be . . . but they are. This is more than simple 6 AM melodrama because I am annoyed at being awake. This is, I have a headache, my body feels like it’s run a marathon from a simple day of housework, no one has bothered to pick up dog poo for a week, found the handle of my eighth favorite coffee cup on the floor, it’s so hot here I can’t properly breathe and I look like I work in sweat lodge, bills are due, and I forgot the important stuff at the grocery store, kind of turmoil..

Legitimate reasons to brood, no? I’ve not sat down to write anything of substance or value in quite some time, this particular grouping of words cannot be counted as proper writing since it is basically nothing more than a mini whine session to convince myself I am justified in my misery, not that I truly need justification. My complaints are just.

I’m mostly laying the blame for my ghastly circumstances on the heat, I grew up in Alaska, it’s not in my genetic makeup to survive and thrive in the September heat here in Western armpit of the United States. I’ve had eighteen years to acclimate to the seemingly volcanic temperatures my fellow citizens seem to adore, it’s not going to happen.

Sigh. Ugh. Argh.

Crystal R. Cook

The Pit and the Pity Pot

Sep12

The Pit and the Pity Pot

So here it is . . . the pit. Well, I suppose it’s more of a pothole really, but it certainly feels much deeper right now. I don’t even know how I fell into it. One misstep and BLAM! I was on my behind at the bottom scratching my head and wondering how the heck I ended up in here. Looks cozy enough – There’s even a nice little pity pot for me sit upon and mull over the glorious day I’ve had thus far.

So, I am sitting here on the pity pot. It’s actually about the size of a small pool right now, care to join me? There’s plenty of room for two. Watch out though, there are little creatures below just waiting to bite you on the butt. I haven’t yet been pinched by their pearly whites, but the way this day is going I’m fairly certain it will happen soon.

Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with the details of my plight. I’ll simply say I have good reason for my brooding, at least it seems like a worthy reason at the moment. Tomorrow it may appear trivial as I know something even more dreadful will overshadow today’s events.

So much for optimism hu? My glass is half full, it really is. Unfortunately, someone has replaced it with a dribble glass and positive thinking is doing nothing more than dripping off my chin and staining my shirt.

Oh, if only the sad sound of a sigh could be written. It’s said for every dark cloud looming above there is a silver lining. It looks like tin foil from here which only reminds me the house trolls will be wanting to eat tonight and I will be forced to cook which means I’ll have to claw my way up and out of this wretched little hole and put on a happy face.

I think I might just order pizza and lock myself away in my room for the night, maybe the week. I wish my house had a tower, that would be perfect for a day like this. I could run, sobbing, up the dark, winding staircase and throw myself down upon the beautiful canopy bed at the top of the tower. I know, makes no sense, but there is always a pretty little room at the towers top in the movies, isn’t there?

I doubt my prince charming would saunter in and wake me from my fitful slumber with the sweet kiss of truest love, freeing me forever of my torment and whisk me away into happily ever after though. Nope, not my Romeo. He’d probably forget all about me until he ran out of clean underwear.

I would cry it out, but then I would have a stuffy nose and a headache. I would scream, but the neighbors would think I’m nuts. I know, I know, I’m deluding myself, they all came to that conclusion long ago. I’d pull out my hair, but . . . ouch. I’d break something, but then I’d just have to clean it up and in doing so, would cut myself on a broken piece of whatever it was and bleed to death.

I guess I am doing the only thing I can do, write about nonsense and nothing until I feel better. You know what? I think it’s working. I actually do feel a bit better . . . I still wish I had a tower though. The drama of it all would be so grand.

Tonight will be one of those nights I must end with my knees on the ground and my eyes toward the heavens. He’ll know how to fix it, he always does.

Crystal R. Cook

God Be There – 9/11

Sep11

September 11, 2001

12, 10, 9, and 4. That is how old my children were on September 11, 2001, the day everything they knew about their world changed.

When my oldest came to tell me something really bad just happened, the look on his face was something I’d never seen before, something I never hope to see again. He was scared and confused. “Something bad has happened mommy, it’s on TV and lots of people are going to be dead now.”

I followed him to the living room as he told me an airplane had an accident and hit a building. When I saw the awful scene playing out on the screen I felt a sickness in the pit of my stomach, how does an accident like this happen?

The second plane hadn’t hit yet.

When it did, I crumbled.

I remember falling to my knees right there in front of the television, still not completely comprehending what was happening, or perhaps I simply didn’t want to.

My children were crying, I don’t know if they really knew why. What they did know, was something was very wrong and very sad. Since they were babies we’ve always whispered a prayer when we hear a siren or see an ambulance or fire truck, God be there, our way of helping those in need I suppose. It’s something my mother did with me and something I have always done with them.

The buildings hadn’t begun to fall yet.

When they did, I forgot how to breathe for a moment.

Through my tears I saw my children, huddled together on the floor in front of the television, heads bowed in silence. As the footage ran and the buildings continued to fall, four little voices called out in prayer, saying “God, please be there.”

Crystal R. Cook

Collection of me – sort of.

Sep9

 

 

A little weird.

I have an extensive collection of graphics and memes, by extensive I mean I’ve been copying, saving, and hoarding them for years. I am a Pinterest addict, I am always collecting these things thinking I will pin them or use them as some witty Facebook reply.

Truth is, I simply have a file full of funny, weird, odd, and why the hell did I save that, kind of stuff. I should delete them all but . . . I . . . can’t. My ridiculous attachment to them is, well, ridiculous.

Mixed in and missing amongst all the nonsense are screen shots of bills I’ve paid online, precious photographs of my family, my daughter’s wedding, you know, actual, real, important things which I shouldn’t have to scroll through a gazillion and seventy-seven unimportant, albeit funny, cute, cool, amazing, blah, blah, blah, things that are ultimately inconsequential and inconvenient.

Right? 

Please tell me you have a similar addiction. I don’t particularly care if you do in fact have this  issue or anything resembling it, I just want you to tell me you do so I feel a little less like a loon.

I’m keeping them, of course, because I must or I just wouldn’t be me, but I felt the need to see my silliness in print. Thank you for your participation, or at least momentary, involuntary inclusion in my lunacy.

Coffee Shop Blessing – So Many Angels In Our Midst

Sep9
Francois Boucher

Francois Boucher

I am becoming increasingly convinced my coffee shop is a place where angels gather. I’ve been witness to many unexpected and very much needed blessings while standing in line for a caffeinated concoction. Yesterday was no exception, it was however, exceptional.

Hot, hot, hot. While beautiful, the day was sticky, sweaty, and a little miserable to be quite honest. I almost didn’t go in, I feared someone might see the beads of sweat trickling from my forehead and conclude I had a tropical ailment of some sort.

My desire for the relief and happiness a venti iced coffee would bring won out, as I knew it would. I was relieved, and a little grossed out to see most everyone else eagerly waiting in line was glistening with the heat of the day as well.

The man in front of me seemed to be melting. He was a big guy. Big. I would hazard a guess at 6 feet tall and certainly well over 200 pounds, most likely a fair bit more. He was fidgety. One step to the side, two steps back, one forward, etc..

He looked down at me, my non-statuesque height of 5’3 left me feeling like a little girl in comparison. He said, “She wants a vanilla bean with extra caramel. You ever hear of such a thing? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

I smiled and said it sounded too sweet for my taste, just coffee and cream with a touch of sweetness for me. He held up the dollar bills in his hand, “She gave me seven dollars and didn’t even tell me what size to get, you believe that?”

“I guess you can get her any size then, I’d go for the big one.”

He started chuckling which led to a full blown belly laugh, “I see, you want me to go and make her really happy today, alright,”

He began telling me all about their day at the mall, what his wife was buying and why, his unfortunate happenstance of bringing her on a day Macy’s was having a sale. I laughed and said, “Isn’t Macy’s always having a sale?”

With that, the belly laughter returned. There was silence between us as he ordered and then it was my turn. He’d stepped outside for a moment to sneak a smoke as I heard him tell the barista. When he returned, surprisingly and thankfully smelling smoke free, he began humming a tune. It was lovely.

I told him the tune he was singing would be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. His already wide grin grew. “You’ll like this.” he said as he stepped closer to me. He began to sing to me. My second coffee shop serenade.

It was beautiful, positively beautiful. It was about love and devotion, a sweet blend of gospel and soft R&B. When he’d sang a few lines he asked, “You hear that one before?” I told him I hadn’t but I loved it. He said he was going to let me in on a secret. He was writing it.

He looked me in the eyes and asked, “You know who that’s about?” I said, “I think I do.” He laughed, “That’s right, it’s about my Jesus, my Lord and savior,” and he began to sing it again. He grabbed the venti vanilla bean frap with extra caramel for his wife and shuffled out the door still singing.

I really think that little coffee shop is a place where angels come to gather.

Crystal R. Cook