Let us now bless shotguns
Is it morning or night when you wake up at 3AM? I’m not quite sure. But this morning, I was up and so I packed about seven boxes full of stuff. Stuff that I’m inclined to believe I have too much of despite a major purge back in October of 2011 when we first started renting via VRBO. Stuff that also has attached memories to it, much like the view out of my window this morning.
Another beautiful sunrise across the bayou courtesy of the LaLa, the vacation home in a home, that never really felt like a vacation. Sometimes things are what they seem or what you dream them to be. Interestingly enough, a friend text me early today saying that she had seen her therapist yesterday and was encouraged to opt out of all the stuff that has been keeping her down under. So she has chosen Superbowl Sunday, the most testosterone laden day of the year to burn all of the dreams.
How coincidental I told her since I too saw my therapist yesterday who encouraged me to hold a ceremonious goodbye to all the pieces of the dream that went into this house upon my exit from it. I had burned Nick in effigy back in 2006, and so I thought of burning the LaLa in effigy as well – ceremoniously – I’ll just have to find another long pole to do this and a friend to write a poem about it as they did for Nick’s erasure.
The good news about the sunrise this morning is that it came after I had watched two episodes of In Treatment. One about a couple with a child who are splitting up after therapy – Gabrielle Byrne described them as having “radically different notions of a relationship,” which was so close to home. OUCH. The other was Byrne’s own therapy after he has a panic attack when he tries to have sex with the object of his desire from the past year. Another OUCH.
I’m so excited about my shotgun apartment I could spit. Truly the best transitions in my life have happened upon moving into a shotgun. When the first love of my life (now dead) committed himself to a mental hospital, after my first divorce, and now upon entering reinvention number (who could count) whatever. The little shotgun that can hold all that I (we, including Tin) need to be happy and free.
Let us now bless shotguns.