Monday, May 25, 2009

Play and Repeat

I bought a Neti pot because my older sister said.
When we were young, we developed an elaborate game of shared daydreaming, magical strategizing called, Play. Play was the existential hovering of our make-believe among swing sets and hand-made miniature kitchen sets and dollhouses throughout bike rides and entire days at the beach. Oh--the Barbies. It was important to me to establish exactly why we were imagining these things to pass the day and on what grounds.
My sister and I are intricately fierce beings possessing ironically, starkly opposing traits but similar to each other more than to others. I wear her clothes, use her artistries and toiletries, talk her head off. She admires my intensity, how I cover the bills and buy the Christmas presents then wrap them. I am her emotional thermometer. I give her pretty words.
In the yard, walking down the street, in bunk beds at night or assisting mom with grocery shopping, Play went like this:
"Older sister, when we play I’m going to be married to Tom Cruise and I'll be Whitney Houston and have a pink Corvette, a brick mansion and a beach house, one boy and one girl named x and y and we attend Catholic church because they use holy water and prayer stools and we will eat Swiss cheese not American, etc, etc, etc?"
Or Play went like this:
"Younger sister, if I don’t get to have the purple toothbrush or the Ken or you don’t be quiet right now then I won’t Play anymore."
The idea of not musing out-loud to my sister terrified me. It somehow seemed I would have to stop musing all together.
I bought the Neti pot and tried it and thought it was sort of great but odd that the salt water went down the throat—seemed a cleanse of colon as well. I was doing it wrong. I was not a Neti artist.
Coincidentally, I am not a Neti artist and when I meditate and stretch, I realize I do not breath through my right nostril and when I do, my systems seem to entirely shift. I can imagine what may be lodged in the nasal passages from my left to my right--most likely my real life.
If I could stop talking inside my head, I’m sure it’d come out to play.

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1 Comments:

At May 25, 2009 at 10:44 AM , Blogger R said...

i love this i love this. i'm so glad you write so much and so wonderfully.

 

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