I’ve always wanted to see the two of you get back together.

A friend I served with in the Army was in town this weekend, (S.)  We were inseparable before she got sent to Germany.  It was the first time I had a BFF.  I was eighteen when we met.  We were the self-appointed cut-ups in our unit.  (It may have been a factor in my extra time as a private.) For some reason, everything was hilarious to me back then.  (Except the times when I was bawling, which was often.)  It took me an embarrassingly long time to recognize the correlation.

S. used to hang out with me while I did whatever extra duty I acquired (for saying what I was thinking.)  When people would honk and laugh at me while I picked weeds, she would flip them off on my behalf.  We spent most of our free time noticing funny shit about the Army and laughing about it.    I didn’t watch TV when I was in the service.  We made our own entertainment.  We spent a lot of time singing harmonies in the latrine.  The acoustics were outstanding.  We had a woman Executive Officer, which meant we were automatically signed up for every women’s event.

We ran a 10K (in El Paso when it was 104° F.)  We played on the softball team, (I was benchwarmer/babysitter.)  I’ve never played softball in my life.  (But I did note the ball is not soft.  It’s not soft at all.)  I know this because the few times I was forced to go on the field, it was either left or right outfield, I forget.  All I did was pray the ball didn’t come to me.  The one time it did, it hit me in the forehead.  I’d like to say I was lined up under the ball, preparing to catch it, and the sun got in my eyes; but actually, I didn’t see it.  I was too busy thinking of what to offer God in trade for preventing the ball from coming to me.

I had a mild concussion, and I never had to go on the field again.  (Yay.)  S. still claims it’s the funniest thing she ever saw in her life, but she exaggerates sometimes.  She told me what it’s like to be a mom.  First, she thought about it for a while.  She has two kids, both adults now.  (She named her daughter, Heather!!)  Then she laughed and started telling me.  I have no idea how long we talked, but it was several hours.  It felt like watching over her shoulder while she grew into this remarkable woman.

I haven’t slept since she left, so I’m still processing what she shared.  I laughed when she told me it felt good to talk to someone who doesn’t interrupt.  It’s sort of an inside joke.  When we first started hanging out, she told me I listen like I’m memorizing everything she’s saying.  I told her it’s because in a way I was, but I couldn’t elaborate.  I got diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome not long after S., and I met.  It’s funny because I used to get in trouble for constantly interrupting as a kid before I figured out I got more information by just listening.

I decided to watch more of the Stevie Nicks documentary (instead of sleeping.)  I usually watch things in small segments when it’s my first viewing so I can process what I’m observing in between.  I love that Stevie made this album in her home.  It’s a big old house.  It has a dramatic staircase that curves and a massive crystal chandelier in the foyer.  She talks about her writing process, and how she’s been writing virtually her whole life.  I smiled when I saw her with a stack of handwritten notebooks.  I still have mine from ages six through eleven.  It shows the deterioration of my handwriting as I began using a computer.  I’m steadily devolving into just scratching an X for my signature.

I ordered all her live DVDs and music on CDs.  Whenever I come across an artist I would love to experience live, I do this.  It’s to make up for not being able to support them in person, (massive overstimulation.)  It’s hard to grasp the fact I can own a copy of their music for less than $20.  I struggle with this concept when it comes to authors and musicians.  I feel in debt to some fascinating people.  It doesn’t stress me out, though.  It makes me feel very fortunate.

I squeed when I found out Stevie likes Twilight.  She said she could relate to Bella when Edward abandoned her in the woods.  Now I have to do a Twilight marathon, again.  It’s been at least a year since I watched them.  Honestly, I’m baffled by the people who insist they didn’t love the films.  I usually suspect they’re lying, because who doesn’t want to watch beautiful vampires run around doing amazing shit like they have bionics and giant wolves and everyone is gorgeous?  It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.

When the aliens land, who do you think they’re going to relate to?

The weather is so perfect today.  It’s been around 70° F and breezy.  I have all windows open as far as they go.  It’s going down to 46° F tonight, so I hope I remember to close them later.  I drove to one of my Senators offices with a sign before work this morning.  It said:

2016:  Veteran

2017:  Preexisting Condition

I got lots of thumbs up and honks.  The Active Generations (seniors) bus made my day when the driver did shave and a haircut, two bits on the horn.  I’ll be visiting the other Senators office next week.  I plan on finishing the Stevie Nicks documentary this weekend.  I like it better than the first one, that’s for sure.  The first one was too tabloid.  I’m not interested in gossip or details about people’s private lives.  That shit baffles me.

I’ve been reading The Dark Tower series by Stephen King.  I just started book five.  It’s fascinating and has incredible depth.  I can’t comment further until I finish.  I’m off to continue.

I hear everything.

The Depression Monster has me in a Full Nelson.  (I had to use Wikipedia.)  I’m no longer able to ignore him, but I’m flipping him the bird.  I’ve learned studying Stevie Nicks requires a commitment of sorts.  You have to accept the fact it’s going to hurt sometimes, or you have to move on.  I didn’t even need to think about it.  I like earning my passage into her world.  It’s calmer.  I also like how it doesn’t matter that I’m out of sync in time.

I’m on the second documentary now.  It’s called Stevie Nicks:  In Your Dreams.  I’m at the point where Katrina happened.  Fuck.  I wasn’t ready.  You can tell Stevie directed and edited.  It’s raw where it needs to be, and soft where it’s not.  I suppose this is a trigger warning.  Pause when you see the first hint of Katrina coming next.  It will be obvious now.  Make sure you’re in a safe place to ugly cry.  Get tissues and a few bottles of water.  Round up your pets, and your favorite blanket.  Then take a deep breath, and hit play.  You’re welcome.  (I do this because I love you.)

This hasn’t happened since I spent hours listening to Amy Lee (Hartzell) sing, Hello and Like You on repeat, while I wept with her over losing our little sisters.  It’s a good thing I eat intensity for breakfast.  I never thought I’d say that.  I’m so used to people telling me I’m too intense, (and having it sound like, “fuck off.”)  I’m glad it keeps proving valuable where it matters.  I slept on Tuesday night, so I should be good for a while.  I started writing my short horror story last night.  In hindsight, it may have been better to do it in the morning.

I learned some secrets about fear years ago.  It has a ceiling.  There’s nothing beyond scared shitless.  Further, I discovered there’s a limit to how long you can remain terrified.  I’m sure with practice you could extend it, but for most of us, it’s a relatively rare event.  It’s intense until you run out of energy.  Then it’s surreal.  It stays surreal while you recover a bit.  Then it repeats a few times, like a chorus.  But it has diminishing returns.  Your initial level of terror is greater than your fourth course.  Eventually, it just becomes hysterically funny.

Don’t look at me, I didn’t create these rules, I’m just reporting them.  This is how humans process prolonged fear.  At least the ones who don’t pop straight away, that is.  It’s not good news, but I believe it’s better to know up front.  I hate surprises.  So anyway, my point is I’ve learned how to cope with fear.  I don’t flee at the sight of it.  It’s a bitch, but so am I.  And you can refocus your eyes, I’m done giving myself a pep talk.  I plan on writing more tonight.  Last night I wrote two pages, then deleted them and started over.  I thought about an outline, then didn’t create one.  Finally,  I wrote two better pages.

Creative writing clearly had a far greater influence on my writing than English Grammar.  I love rules, except where creativity is involved, at which point it reverses.  Rules are for one type of thinking.  Creativity is for the other.  They don’t mix.  Mixing them should cause profound halitosis.  That’s how serious I am.  Incidentally, when my orchestra instructor tried to tell me how to feel about Beethoven, I noticed he had funky breath.  (I don’t believe in coincidences.  I’m far more impressed by irony.)

This is the closest I’ve ever leaned into my blog.  I’m incredibly impressionable, so it’s likely Stevie Nicks’ influence on me.  I’m becoming a little more open.  I didn’t see any of this coming.  Despite the tears, I’m having a fabulous time.  It’s a little like following a rabbit down a hole if you know what I mean. 😉  I have a long night ahead.  I’m off to get to it.

What does the little man inside say?

The Depression Monster is riding my back. It’s at minor annoyance level.  I’m a bit surprised by my suspicions of why I’m feeling low.  I think it’s because I’m studying Stevie Nicks, and I’ve come to a rough point in her past.  I’m at the overwhelming betrayal:  She was told she had to stop using cocaine or she’d die. Clearly, she stopped.  When she was recovering from addiction to cocaine, she was prescribed Klonopin.  It led to a worse addiction.  That’s a pretty big mind fuck.  I’m experiencing it retroactively, but apparently, my empathy didn’t get the memo.

I paused the documentary at that point to process what I’ve learned so far.  Fame is ugly.  It’s not new information, but watching Fleetwood Mac lose their innocence was hard.  I now know Rumours was created from pain.  They were all experiencing raw grief.  The successful album says a lot about their professionalism and abilities.  Most people don’t want anything badly enough to endure such circumstances.  They were about to make it big, but I don’t think they knew it.  They certainly earned it.

It bugs me something so sought after is basically a trap.  A trap for drug addiction, and a new type of loneliness exclusive to famous people.  It triggers my protective nature.  Fuck the universe for tempting so many people to strive for fame before revealing it’s true nature.  People don’t like to be fucked with, especially not after pouring everything they have into reaching for excellence.  Fuck.  Also, the men interviewed in this documentary are pissing me off.  They’re music producers from the late 70’s, which is probably enough explanation.

They’re accidentally doing a fairly good job of conveying how things went down, but you have to read between the lines.  They’re inarticulate and behave like frenemies at best, ex-lovers at worst.  Nobody is watching this documentary to hear about how butt-hurt the producers are decades after the fact.  Besides, Gen X women know misogyny speak fluently.  When men describe a woman as a bitch, diva, full of herself, bossy, and/or demanding, we are aware it actually means she was a formidable leader.  It says she didn’t submit to male dominance.  It means she’s someone worthy of our attention.

I’m noticing similarities between Stevie Nicks and Carrie Fisher.  They’re both survivors and storytellers.  They’re understandable to me.  I’ve probably stated this many times, but understanding is the path to love.  When you understand someone, you can’t help but love them.  Loving those who don’t know I even exist is surprisingly delightful.  It’s a safe secret.  I’m not very good at being a fan of famous people.  I rarely go to concerts because the other fans scare the shit out of me.  I’m pretty sure a lot of famous people have been traumatized by their fans.  We should rename fame.  It should be called Public Pain.  (I’m a huge fan of stating what’s meant.)

I can’t recall ever meeting anyone famous.  It’s a perk of living in South Dakota.  We’ve all rehearsed how we plan to act should it ever occur, but even my rehearsals haven’t gone well.  My imagination is kind of an asshole.  I’m barely able to manage it, (mostly because it amuses me too much to try very hard.)  The only famous person I’m confident I could meet (without regretting my behavior ever after) would be Michelle Obama.  I know exactly how that would go down.  She’d smile and offer to shake my hand, and I’d immediately start bawling.  I wouldn’t be ashamed because I know so many who would react exactly the same way.  (She’s probably used to it.)

I know I’m rambling on and on, but I can’t help myself.  I haven’t spoken to anyone but my cat in a few days.  (It was deliberate, but I’m an inch away from too weird, to begin with.)  So here we are.  I still have a profound sense the end of my life is impending.  It’s been over six months, but the feeling hasn’t waivered.  I hate to admit it, but I’m enjoying the planning process.  (I think it’s just that I like planning in general.)  I’m at a point now where I recognize I need to write a short story about my childhood nightmares.  It’ll be a cleansing.  I’ve always been reluctant to write it because it’s a horror story and it’s not reality.

I would suck as an author.  I have the discipline and imagination.  I don’t have the thingamajig required to convince anyone a fantasy is real.  The things I love most about novels are things I’m only capable of recognizing, not reproducing.  I’m pretty sure identifying them is more fun, though.  I don’t do the foreshadowing dance anymore, but I still get a burst of joy every time I recognize it on a first read.  That’s a lot of mileage considering I was in primary school when I learned of it.  But as a writer, I don’t foreshadow, I announce in advance.  Sigh.  Sophistication is a bitch.

Why give me comprehension without the skill?  That’s fucking mean.  But I’m not complaining, just rambling.  I’ve managed to put off this short story for most of my life.  I guess it’s time to purge it.  I’m extremely curious about what comes after life if anything.  I’m mostly sure the answer is nothing.  The thing I like most about that possibility is its nature; there can be no regrets.  The itsy bitsy chance someone imagined it right, or even close, is still enough to get lost in for a while.  It bothers me a bit that I’m not grieving, though.  Does it mean I’m ready?  We’ll see.  I’m off to beat my drums.

 

 

 

 

Why don’t you just drop off some chicken skins and lobster shells?

I saw a quote by Patti LuPone this morning.  She basically informed a reporter she hates 45’s fucking guts.  I got the impression she was reluctant to respond at all, and when pushed, she told it like it is (SNAP.) In celebration of this moment of honesty from a strikingly beautiful and talented woman, I’m going to state the obvious.  I love her.  I know.  Who doesn’t?  Welp… 45 doesn’t anymore.  Poor pathetic Putin puppet.  The modern day Helen of Troy thinks you’re wasting oxygen, too.  Dayum!

I spent several hours answering questions for my Prodigy last night.  It cracked me up how she initiated the session.  She emailed me a contract.  She basically asked me to promise not to withhold information based solely on her age.  I didn’t need to think about it for very long.  Doing so would be incredibly hypocritical.  I didn’t believe I was a child when I was her age, either.  I remember how offended I used to get when people assumed otherwise.  I’m pretty sure she knew I would agree.

I ended up telling her about my foster siblings.  There were over 100 before I joined the Army.  My parents fostered six kids at a time.  Most were severely developmentally disabled.  Some died in our home.  (I still have nightmares.)  I think because we didn’t talk about them after they passed.  The Foster Babies, as I called them, were a constant source of joy in my life.  There was always a baby I could rock.  I assigned myself the duty of night watch when I was little.  (It began as an excuse to be up past my bedtime.)  A few times a night, I would peek into their cribs to make sure they were still breathing.

My parents had baby monitors, but I preferred in-person checks.  We had a baby with microcephaly, Spina Bifida, and intellectual disabilities.  His mom was gravely ill when she carried him (Anorexia Nervosa), and she had a difficult time with (irrational IMO) feelings of guilt after he came to live with us.  Seeing her weep when she visited her baby hurt so much.  Just remembering it has tears welling.  He lived with us for two years, then passed when I was eight.  I still remember how kissable his cheeks were.  If you said his name in a sing-song voice, he would light up and laugh.  I try to remember those details, and forget the ones that still haunt my sleep.

When he died, I was putting on my uniform for school.  My parents ordered us to go to our rooms when the coroner came, but I disobeyed.  His skin was bluish gray.  I watched them take my baby foster brother away forever.  I remember not knowing how to feel.  I saw his mom at Best Buy once as an adult.  I walked up to her and gave her probably the longest hug I’ve ever given anyone.  I wanted desperately to tell her something, but I didn’t have the words.  So I just kept hugging.  I hope she understood.

A few were older than me when they lived with us.  I have a Native American foster sister who used to babysit me.  I see her about town once in a while.  She’s married and seems happy.  She’s intellectually disabled.  She was on the strict side but kept me safe.  I remember when one of my brothers called her the R word, and she slapped the shit out of him.  The slapping part was hilarious.  He knew he couldn’t tell on her for it, which made it funnier.  (My parents made it extremely clear we would not survive the consequences of harming one of the foster kids.)

Unfortunately, they weren’t always able to prevent asshole moments like above.  My older siblings were embarrassed by the foster babies as teenagers.  My oldest brother tried to convince my mom to let me go live with him and his wife because he didn’t think it was a healthy environment for me to grow up in.  (She said no.)  Gar is the brother who taught me how to read, used to make us call him Garfunkle, and has a ridic high IQ.  He’s fascinating, but I don’t think he’s terribly compassionate.  I love him, but I’ve always kept him at arm’s length.  He told me when I was twelve he thought it was more merciful to kill the foster babies than help prolong their lives.  It painfully annihilated my ability to trust him.

It was hard to leave the foster babies when I left for basic training.  When I got out of the service, my parents were retired.  I visited a little brother, who was three when I left, at his new foster home.  It sucked.  He was “too old” to be picked up and showered with kisses.  He loved his new foster family.  His new dad owned an auto body shop.  It was testosterone heaven, and my adorable baby brother thought the idea of giving me a hug was funny.  That day sucked ass.

Shannon is probably the one I remember most strongly.  Before my parents brought her home, they had a talk with us about her condition.  She had a facial deformity.  She couldn’t open her eyes, and she had a severe cleft palate.  I remember being a little nervous as it was the first time we had such a talk.  It was for naught.  Shannon was the most affectionate and loving person I’ve ever met in my life.  She had bright red hair, porcelain skin, and I got a peek at one of her cobalt blue eyes through a tiny slit where the skin opened.  I think it was just enough for her to detect light.

She had plastic surgery soon after she came to live with us.  They repaired her palate and nose.  There was barely a scar.  She was less than a year old when she came to live with us and was blind and deaf.  I loved her so much.  My mom got really attached to her, too.  When you picked her up from her crib, she would hug you, kiss you, and pat you on the back.  She knew who was holding her by touching our faces and hair.  When she hugged my mom, she would make cooing sounds, like she was comforting her.  She lived with us until she turned six, and was sent to an institution.  That sucked, too.  I’m so glad I got to know her.  She was love personified.  I’m off to read.

 

 

They’re gonna name their baby Seven.

I’m so overwhelmed.  Yeah, I saw this coming, too.  Sleep deprivation is expensive.  Typically, I feel like I’m a few seconds behind the world.  I’m used to The Pause.  Presently, my mind is racing.  I have too many things I want to process at the same time.  I’m demanding my brain keep up, but it’s like trying to make the rain stop by shouting at it.  Nevertheless, I’m still shouting.  I know it’s futile, but any action seems better than stillness.

I’m struggling to understand Americans who hate me so much, they’d rather destroy America than tolerate my existence.  It’s not going well.  I have a glitch I was apparently born with.  It scares me, sometimes.  I’ve never in my life managed to hold a grudge for more than a few days.  When I hate someone, it takes over my mind and becomes all I can think about.  I can’t read, listen to music, watch TV, or socialize, and hate someone at the same time.  Hating is essentially cutting myself off from all else.  It’s exhausting, and my hate-stamina is pathetic.  I always end up rejecting it, and as I’ve matured (shut-up 😂), I often skip the process and let it go straight away.

My sister, Heather, seemed the opposite in this respect.  I remember marveling at her ability to remain furious at someone, seemingly permanently.  I assume it’s a survival mechanism to some degree, but mine’s broken.  It makes me feel vulnerable.  It used to make me question my intelligence, but I decided it’s irrelevant.  I know a lot of people are feeling the tremor in The Force resulting from Americans hating Americans.  I suspect many of my fellow neurodiverse people are struggling right now.  One of the lovely perks of membership is often a high sensitivity to strong emotions of others.  A tremor in The Force is nearly literal, (depending on your level of Star Wars/life integration.)

I’m focusing my energy on removing my contribution to the tremor.  You’re welcome.  I’m having a Healing Day to get back in sync.  I went for a long run early this morning.  I listened to Chiquitita by ABBA, Whenever I Call You Friend by Kenny Loggins ft. Stevie Nicks, and Edge of Seventeen by Stevie Nicks on repeat.  I mostly love repetition, but when people ask me the same question more than once, I get stuck.  (I wish more people would get behind my idea of a universal visual signal and/or sound whenever sarcasm is used.) Remember the cartoons with crappy resolution and expressive soundtracks?  The music was an essential part of comprehending the humor.  At least for me.

Oops, there I go again, wishing.  I just rolled my eyes at myself.  Part of me believes others should be considerate enough to let me in on the joke.  The eye-rolling part thinks it’s ridiculous to even desire the world where others put forth some effort to enable me (and many others) to participate.  Guess which part of me I like better?  I just cracked myself up.  Also, if you haven’t spent some time experiencing Stevie Nicks, stop being mean to yourself and get to it soon.  I’m off to play the violin to some cows while the humidity is tolerable.

LOS ANGELES, CA – JANUARY 31: Singer Stevie Nicks performs at the concert to celebrate the premiere of “Sound City” at the Hollywood Palladium on January 31, 2013, in Los Angeles, California. (Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images)

Have you ever seen Elaine dance?

Ladies and gentleman, hold your devices tightly.  From here on out, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.  The countdown has been reset to expire on June 30, 2017.  The catalyst is once again the threat to repeal the ACA (Affordable Care Act).  Unlike before, I’ve decided against a dramatic exit specifically designed to shame Paul Ryan.  It’s since come to my attention he’s soulless and impossible to shame.  It may be a prerequisite for a GOP leadership position.  (I’m not sure souls exist.)

It was a logistical nightmare, anyway.  Assuming I don’t die hilariously in the meantime, there will be no drama.  This pleases me.  I don’t have enough data to produce a significant probability regarding the vote.  I refuse to go black hat to acquire said data.  Fuck the dark side.  The Rule of Two (and Three) has been shattered beyond recognition.  The Sith have spent decades planning this coup.  It’s surprising how poorly it’s gone when you consider the time and money spent.  Fortunately, empires built on lies implode.

Oddly, I feel relieved and curious more than anything else.  In the meantime, I’m having a blast jumping and flapping to Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac.  I spent at least 40 minutes doing it earlier.  I have a playlist with just that song, so I can repeatedly listen without interruption.  Rhiannon is like Chiquitita by ABBA; it’s a hug made of music.  I used to listen to Chiquitita on repeat when I needed to cry but couldn’t.  The song wept for me.

This weekend, I get to beat on an acoustic drum kit for two hours.  I’m bringing my noise canceling headphones.  I’m going to be louder than I’ve ever been in my life the whole time.  I’ll be in a soundproof practice room, so nobody will mind.  I’m so excited.  For someone who can’t tolerate thunder, I sure love playing the drums.  Probably because I can control the volume and there’s no suspense.  We had a thunderstorm this morning.  I wore my headphones, but I couldn’t find my cat for a while and started to panic.  She’s mostly black and quite tiny.  She was lying behind the sofa, curled into a ball.  I looked there a few times without seeing her before I used a flashlight.  Sigh.

It irks me to get upset over irrational things, but I love that little fur ball.  I’m still amazed by how sweet she is.  She winked at me the other day.  I wasn’t certain I’d seen it, so I looked again, and she repeated the performance.  Yep.  I awwed.  Even when she’s a little shit, she’s sweet about it.  She doesn’t just fling my remote off the coffee table.  She makes sure she has my attention first.  She gently pushes it to the edge, then stares at me.   I think this is her way of telling me she wants a treat in the next few seconds, or the remote gets it.

I didn’t sleep last night, but my body is telling me tonight will be different.  Before I sign off, I want to apologize to the bloggers I’ve been neglecting (especially my Pocket Sister!)  It’s not you, it’s me.  My daily schedule is out of whack, and I’m flailing.  (Just flailing, though, which is miraculous.)  I’ll be by soon to see what you’ve been up to.  I’m off to waste time laying still for a few hours, so I don’t hurl from sleep deprivation.

She’s a bitter, unstable person. I need more.

Welp.  I got my Fleetwood Mac Rumours CD.  While listening intently, I had to laugh at my misinterpretations of the lyrics.  What I thought I heard while laying in bed as a kid is so much different than the actual words.  The songs make a lot more sense, now.  (My versions included a lot more humming than the originals, too.)  I like the album art.

After listening to it over and over again, in order, I played along on my drums.  Then I went on YouTube to watch some live footage.  I got sidetracked.  I know now it was inevitable.  I saw Stevie Nicks performing Rhiannon.  (The whole band was there, of course.)  I put my study of Fleetwood Mac’s history on hold and searched for Stevie Nicks.

I almost lived my entire life on earth without knowing about Stevie Nicks!  Tragedy averted.  I will admit, there were a few moments when I resented everyone I’ve ever known for not taking a few seconds out of their busy lives to inform me Stevie Nicks exists.  (My inner 5-year-old is still pouting in the corner.)  I know.  How the hell did I not know?  So I got over myself, and all is forgiven.

I wasn’t allowed to listen to popular music as a kid.  I used to sing while my sister played piano at her recitals.  It was the only exception.  So at least I know about Barry Manilow.  I was called the Human Tape Recorder growing up.  Most of what I heard and repeated was without comprehension, which I suspect made it worse.  My parents were strict about what I was exposed to, for obvious reasons.

I do remember an incident where I sang a song my sister taught me from Jesus Christ Superstar.  Apparently, it was controversial or something.  I was too young to notice (or care.)  In a way, I’m glad I’m just discovering Stevie Nicks.  It’s exciting.  I listened to her in a few interviews on YouTube at various times in her career.  She’s brilliant.  (No Mariah Carey Syndrome.)  That’s the point where I became a Stevie Nicks fan.  I love her voice.  She’s beautiful and fascinating.  I feel like I won the jackpot and my face hurts from smiling so much.  It’s been a joyful day.  I’m off to read.

Mile 114, clean as a whistle!

Today was unnecessarily dramatic.  I hate when that happens.  Fortunately, it was someone else’s drama.  I recovered quickly.  My body took a few hours to get the message, but I spent much of that time on my drums.  I’m still addicted to Rumours by Fleetwood Mac.  I used to hear these songs when I was laying in bed pretending to sleep as a kid.  My older siblings played music often, and it’s always been a big part of my life.  I have an incredible memory for music.  I can remember my location and how I felt when I last heard a song.  I remember the first song I learned when I was four.  Music is almost always playing in my head.  Every song I’ve ever heard is in there, waiting to be queued up when triggered.

My ideal learning method is through music.  Even if the lesson is beyond my comprehension at the time, it’s stored away and recalled when more information is acquired.  Many of us learned the alphabet through song.  I was taught through songs on Sesame Street.  When growing up, my siblings, nieces, and nephews and I would invent songs to amuse ourselves.  The last time, I remember we made a song called Yahoo Jen.  It was a cautionary tale about online hookups, based on an experience my nephew will never live down.  I laughed so hard that night.  It’s probably obvious, but I’ll go ahead and admit it.

Hi.  I’m Alison, and I’m a spontaneous singer.  I don’t sing loudly, so it’s easy to ignore.  I love every person who has ever caught me singing and decided to join in.  Remember that episode on Rosanne when DJ brings home a spontaneous singing frenemy, (remember who played his mom?)  Like that, only I don’t deny it.  I think it’s mostly unconscious.  I think music leaks out because I have so much inside me, and I refuse to let any of it go.  I’m off to read.