lift lid on brain, stir a few times, consider what rises

Psyche-surfing can be very illuminating.

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As I say, the pictures don't speak to me much. But the subject does.

Definitions

Maybe I should have stayed away.

Maybe I shouldn't have charged in, like some absurd parody of a fairytale, the damsel rescuing the knight in his high castle.

Suppose I hadn't spent that long night, picking up empty booze bottles, trailing my fingers over every surface I could reach, trying to scentmark, imprint myself. Suppose I'd abandoned you in your mess, in the house you shared with Dolly. Would there be this empty place in me now?

To me, home always meant one thing: comfort. Now, it also means regret.

Is home illusory because comfort is perpetually just out of reach?

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Sail. connie. Deb. Wow.

Each of those is amazing, and very close to bone. I love "trailing fingers...trying to scentmark".

The shoe metaphor was well-used, very well. It's so familiar a thing, and so personal for each of us. You made it very easy to relate.

And connie, your last paragraph started tears. It's what I want, too.

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And connie, your last paragraph started tears. It's what I want, too.

The thought gives me great peace.

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trying to scentmark

Mmmm. I was going to write something very similar to that (but not so well wordsmithed) about leaving our old house.

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The thing is, the two cats in the house followed me from room to room, Pig scentmarking everything about an inch away from where I was touching. It was - I don't know. An affirmation.

And all wrong. Her house, not mine. And the stupid heedless fool, who had everything I wanted, didn't treasure anything except the status and the visibility. And somehow or other, she got to keep it all.

This challenge is just about as hard for me to deal with as I suspected it would be when I suggested it.

edit: sorry. This is really kicking my ass. But if I get some decent writing out of it, well...

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It is smaller now. She is bigger. The rooms can't swallow her up anymore, but she doesn't need to hide. Every wall feels within her reach. No monsters lurk around corners, chasing her behind the furniture.

They are smaller now. She is bigger. She won't be running now, or failing to run, and bruising and crying instead. Her arms reach further than theirs, faster than theirs, stronger than theirs. She doesn't flinch at the sound of her own footsteps.

"Carol?" The cry is querulous.

"What?"

"The water ... you said we could have water."

"For Christ's sake, mother, I'm coming."

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ita just gave me grave-cold chills. Personal issues.

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Ditto, but not personal issues - ita, you just brought back (in entirely different language) one of the bases of Jackson's "Haunting of Hill House", Eleanor with her invalid needy demanding mother, draining Eleanor's life away, making Eleanor susceptible...

Damn. Nice, nice, whoa and nice.

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Wow, ita.

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