Journaling Day 5


Warning: spiders discussed

JusJoJan 1 & 2: spider and time and journaling

We keep spiders in the house – my mother, very superstitious, said it was bad luck to kill a spider – and any time I do by accident when I’m sweeping, I feel bad.

Spiders, if small enough can stay and eat the ants that swarm out of the walls  and through the cracks usually in Spring time, but we had an winter invasion this year. Spider webs take care of other creepy crawlies like silver fish and the millicentipedes that seem to drop from the ceiling.  We live trap everything but silver fish, millicentipedes and really pesky flies. Spiders that are too large or scary looking get the time out treatment – caught under a glass, then thick paper slipped under, and taken outside. If it’s really cold, it’s a death sentence., so we might take them next door. (Don’t tell the landlord we house sit for).

I like the jumpy spiders – the sort that jump across the wall or the floor. They stay small, most of the time, and are harmless. Rarely see Daddy-Longlegs these days. Miss them from my childhood. Just like praying mantis. But that’s a different insect family.

So, if you don’t like spiders, you probably shouldn’t visit – there’s bound to be one or two dwelling somewhere in the corners, or ceiling of our place. You might want to limit your time here if you did come.

So, I’ve spent some time on spiders (A friend suggested I just jot for myself in my journaling, so I picked the first two words. I might link later)

Another friend suggested that I play a game with my voices “Listen to your negative talk and for every negative thought say something positive.” Doesn’t matter if you believe it, just say it. Just keep going that way. “Soon your brain will think less negative” She warned it won’t be magic, but maybe it will help pull me out of the darkness I’m in. The voices howl and whisper, and seem so rational and logical. So true and believable, it will be hard to counter them with positives that I don’t buy into or believe. Guess it’s about resetting your responses, pressing replay and getting a different tune. I’ll try. But it seems so hard. Like everyday seems so hard.

Another wet, cold day. Errands done, but milkshake consumed. So nothing else to eat today. Calories, sugar, fat, spent. Peppermint candy cane shake – left over from Christmas. So depressed, like moving through molasses – everything a struggle. And not much achieved. Just tired. So very, very tired of it all. Pain starting to build, so break from typing. Maybe all for today’s entry.


The bubble woman




The woman who lived in the tiny house squeezed between older houses turned to apartments came out in the morning and blew bubbles. She had various bubble wands and depending on the weather/ and I suppose her mood, she chose accordingly. She didn’t dance so much as move with her her bubblies, giggling and obviously deriving pleasure from the pursuit.

I stood at my kitchen window, munching a muffin and sipping strong coffee, deciding my day based on her play. It gave some life back into the dull routine of days. I’m a mathematician so I made all sorts of bubble computations and algorithms such the probability of a bubble sailing over the roof, or did her clothes affect the bubble production. I thought I might give then to her some day.

I felt like a voyeur – watching someone pleasure herself through thin curtain in my kitchen and the thin veneer of the public space. I wasn’t aroused, but amused in a pleasant way by her antics. When I saw bubble making supplies – yes, I strayed over to the children’s summer aisle – she would enjoy like a kit with 8 different wand configurations, I wanted to buy it for her.  But I was afraid if she knew she had an audience she would stop. And we would both lose out.

Then, she didn’t come out bubbly-day every morning. I would gather jelly, muffin, coffee, cream and wait for her door to open. There was movement inside but no bubble swaying, whaling, and sashaying. Her bubbling became erratic; one frantic evening she ran around in the dark, bubble juice sloshing. She had pulled together whatever was clean, I suppose, as she wore a dress over pants, and short sweater topper. Her hair had musingly been pulled into a ponytail/bun that sat like a strange animal of the top of her head. Her shoes and socks didn’t match and she let out a keening wail of pain and sorrow like I’d never heard before. She fell to the ground, shrieking and rocking, then just rocking.

I didn’t know what to do – go down and see if she was okay – she definitely wasn’t okay—call 911? As I was searching my conscious, she got up and with a drag in her step walked back to her house. I didn’t see her for weeks. Not in her yard, not on the street, café or neighbourhood. I asked Mrs. Krasty – she who knew —  all where all I knew was  Bubble woman was. “Police and ambulance came for Teona. Tried it again. (Mrs. Krasty crossed herself.) “One more and they mite just keep her. Best fer all.”

Tracking her to the mental health facility took some work, but I found her. At the nurses’ station I left a brown envelope with some of my equations. a note and my cell #. A few days later, a husky, druggy sounding voice asked if I was Richard the bubble mathematician . I thought she might just blow me off. Rather,  she said” Visiting days are Wednesdays, and I put your name on the list.”

© adh