Revolving Doors
*Disclaimer: This was initially a stream of consciousness journal entry. It has undergone limited edits, and not for lack of trying. Rather, because I had an extremely difficult time during attempted edits. The age old writers advice “murder your darlings” wasn’t helpful either. Although, on some days I thought it quite possible I was a literal genius, on others I mostly hated everything and wanted to burn it all to the ground. Alas, sometimes it’s best to just walk away from the canvas and let her be. “Imperfection is beauty. Madness is genius.” And all that jazz.
It is a bit of a fever dream, so good luck!
And as always, thank you for taking a moment to wander inside my mind. I appreciate you more than you know.
Wednesday August 9th 2023 —
Today would have been Grandpa’s 82nd birthday. It’s strange to think that maybe I’ve gotten used to him not being here. That you can get used to someone being gone. When I think about it for too long I start to feel bad. Then I remember that I’m just really good at saying good-bye. At letting go. At starting over. Again and again and again. I’ve had to be. When you’re always leaving or being left, eventually you just accept it for what it is.
Nothing gold can stay.
It’s just another plot point in the story. Another shift in direction. Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. Now that’s something I can always count on. Like the friend who always shows up unannounced with a story to tell. Or the neighbor who peeks over the fence with life advice at the precise moment you need to hear it.
Although, I’ll admit that imagery may be a bit confusing. Comparing someone leaving to someone arriving. It would be just like me to use an analogy that isn’t actually an analogy at all. To take something from inside of my brain and try to make sense of it outside of my brain before it’s ready. The parallel was absolute in my head, but verbalizing it, writing it down, now it sounds off. I don’t know though. The more I sit with it, the more the analogy feels right. That someone leaving and someone arriving are connected somehow. Don’t ask me to explain it because I’m not entirely sure. This is clearly one of my half-thoughts. A concept I haven’t fully turned over in my mind enough to know what it means yet. It hasn’t had enough time to bake in there. The middle is still gooey. Like uncooked brownie batter. Eventually, the thought will fully form, a timer will ding, and it will come to me. It always does. These things just take time.
It’s actually kind of funny. When I think about my brain and the way I articulate my thoughts, it seems I only have two modes. I’ll be clear, concise, collected, or I’ll sound broken. Like a record skipping. Or a deranged parrot, maybe? Talking in crazed circles. Start-stopping while sharing half-thoughts in broken sentences. My tongue lost in my mouth, brain thinking too fast, breath rushing out past my lips. Always a bit manic in my delivery. Already frustrated and exhausted with my own self. I’ll often feel really dumb too. Like there’s this mental bulwark I can’t break through. It’s as if I can see the thoughts in my mind floating behind a glass wall just beyond my reach. Words I want to touch. A noun, a verb, an adjective. But one nudge from my fingers and the letters scatter like alphabet soup.
I hate when that happens. It makes my skin hot and itchy, and my arms and hands a bit flail-y. I’m essentially just a toddler who needs a nap. Or a snack. Or both. Honestly, I probably need a distraction. Someone else to take the lead. Someone to take over the talking and thinking for a bit. Someone to shut me up. I need an adult-sized time out. Because at that moment no amount of speaking is going to get me where I want to go.
Occasionally though, I’ll linger somewhere in the middle. The verbal processing helping to catch the thought by its tail. There’s really no way of knowing which operating system I’m running, unfortunately. Although, that’s probably not entirely true. I’m sure I have my tells. I’m just not sure what they are. I should really pay closer attention to myself. Might be helpful to know when my brain is well on it’s way to short-circuiting.
I guess it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. I’m just coleslaw. A cantaloupe. An onion. A rat in the sun. A girl in a dress. I’m just eyes on a face and a heart in a chest. Same as you. Same as anyone.
Well, maybe not the same as anyone really. I mean, I just said I was an onion (among other things) and I’m sure at least half of whoever is still reading this thought I meant that metaphorically. You didn’t think I was being literal or anything, like a literal onion. But do any of you even know me? Of course, I meant literally an onion. If by “literally” we mean the new stupid definition of “literally” by which people actually mean “figuratively” and not “literally” then yes, I am a literal onion. Come on, people. Keep up. Pay attention. Know your onion! Onions for everyone! Huzzah!
My apologies for drifting a bit here. It appears I’m very probably mildly passionate about produce. Anyway, back to the initial thought train on leaving and being left. Hmm…leaving…revolving doors…
YES! Holy shit! That’s it! The connection my brain was looking to make earlier! Why someone leaving and someone arriving felt connected! Here’s my full circle moment! Tad-da! Get it? Full circle? Because revolving doors? See, I knew it. I’m no dummy. My brain works just fine, thank you very much! She just gets turned around. Lost among the library card catalog. A bit of a wanderer that one. Still figuring out how to give her roots and wings. A phrase I’ve been repeating over and over in my head for months on end: roots and wings, roots and wings, roots and wings…
I used to think that all this leaving and being left, all these revolving doors, this transitory life, was some kind of curse. Like Sisyphus being condemned to roll a boulder endlessly up a steep hill in Tartarus. Just when Sisyphus believed he would reach the top the boulder would roll away to the bottom forcing him to start again. Repeating this task for eternity. His punishment for cheating death. Twice.
So just like Sisyphus and his boulder, the revolving doors of my life would open and in walked someone new. Curiosity, conversation, friendship, love, what have you. A flower blooming, a new life building, a sense of home growing. Then out the revolving door they’d go. Out the same way they came in. Boulder meet ground. Rock meet bottom.
Now, I’m not sure what to think.
Am I cursed? Am I learning? Is it both? Is it neither? I know what I’d like to believe. I’d like to believe that all of that cursed Sisyphus bullshit was temporary. That I tolerated it for a time. That I gleaned all I could from it. That I’m fed the fuck up and just done. That whatever chains or curses held me are fucking gone because I say they are. Simple as that. Because when I think about the likelihood of curses being real, I think it stands to reason we would be the ones cursing ourselves. At least to some degree. Which would lead me to believe, if we’re the ones cursing ourselves, then we’re the only ones capable of severing whatever holds these curses have on us.
And then just like Dorothy in The Wizard of OZ, we’re the only ones who can send ourselves “home”.
You had the power the whole time. You just had to learn it for yourself. You wouldn’t have believed it otherwise.
The irony isn’t lost on me that one of my favorite childhood fairytales is The Wizard of OZ. How I dreamt of far off places. Of magic. Of running away. Of a place somewhere over the rainbow. A place to belong. That internal struggle between, you guessed it, roots and wings.
How so often I have to lose something to find it. I can’t just have the thing. It’s like I have to throw everything away first. Like an aggressive game of hot potato.
I don’t actually believe I throw everything valuable away though. That’s hyperbole. It’s more like I hide things away. To keep them safe, maybe? But then I can’t remember where I put the damn thing. Does that make any sense? Any sense at all? Fuuuuck.
Remember the onion? I think it’s gone bad.
I’m tired of being the girl who’s gone through it. The one with all the stories to tell. All the lessons learned. All the storms weathered. All the love lost.
I want someone who sees me. Really sees me, you know? Someone who sees all my weird and wild layers and still says, “can I keep you?” Someone who smiles and shakes their head at my filterless mouth. I want adventure and a soft place to land. I want roots and wings.
I’m so tired of being the goodbye girl.
I just want something that lasts.
xx,
Jenny
Another Mood Mixtape coming at ya! Click HERE for the Revolving Doors playlist on Spotify. :)
" Like Sisyphus being condemned to roll a boulder endlessly up a steep hill in Tartarus." This was my favorite line oddly. I think because I have still been obsessed with the game Hades. Aside from beating it. I just endlessly run through the three levels of Hell: Tartarus, Asphodel, Elysium. To the surface, only to descend again to the River Styx. I am endlessly trying to unlock everything. Despite the game being virtually done, there is still more to the story to unfold. And I just generally like seeing if I can do it better. Alas, it might be time to pick up a new game but I am starting to see the allure of speed running.
Anyways, it doesn't matter if our thoughts are perfect and fully formed. It still goes out into the world and comes full circle, maybe in 20 minutes, 20 years, or 2000. Here we are, amnesiacs, making sense of it all and joyously losing ourselves to nonsense. Hark, AN ONION appears!
I don't have many answers but I enjoyed reading this and I hope we all find our still point of home. The endless frittering can be exhausting. There has to be that still point of balance, leavings, and arrivals.... And so often we want that home to be in another who can soothe our weary souls. True Love?
You have given us a gift, Jenny 🥹 You know, it's so strange, I already knew how similar we were and how easily we got along, but reading your thoughts like this... it's a whole other level. It's like looking past our commonality directly into the *source* of our sameness. I can't express it.
Could I have imagined it or did this post really reference (so subtly, elegantly, skillfully) both The Shins AND Casper?? If this was a fever dream, I want only to be sick. What a treat. What a gift. Thank you! And, you know what's better than perfect art that never gets made? Real art that exists in the real world 😇