What wasn't, now can be; what isn't, just might

I've heard about the transformations people make. Mostly it's from socialist, hippie freak punk kids to conservative, blue-grey haired cranky old people. I very well might be progressing along that line, but I'm doing a rumba as I go.

It's such an odd life.

And I sometimes wonder who's really living it.

I know nothing at all about Scientology but someone told me once that it has something to do with humans believing they're actually aliens inhabiting a human form. Well, I feel that way all the time.

"This can't really be my family."

"Yeah, well, I'm trying out the hair dryer and make-up. Learning to be a woman."

"What would it be like to work for the Federal government?"

It's all so curious. My father and mother are aging before my eyes and annoyingly so. I don't like seeing it. I don't like realizing that I'm actually smarter than my dad right now, more nimble than my mom. But I haven't suffered much. I mean, I've always been this way: grumpy in the morning, independent in the afternoon, and more friendly over wine. I have no office in their house so I'm using the dining room table to set up my computer. (After I Skyped with my friends in Portland who smoke the jones, I realized I needed to be able to find a space where the laptop could face a wall and not have my parents stumble behind me to see Jane and Michael pulling on the bong.) I end up sighing a lot. I breathe a lot when I'm stressed. And there one of them is - "What? What's up?" I call it hovering. Stop hovering, I say. My father stands there, in front of me or next to me. He wants attention. But I refuse to acknowledge him if he doesn't say anything out loud. He needs a volunteer job for fuck's sake. Instead, they've been building an eco-friendly house in the woods 2.5 hours from here. But he won't tell his sisters and mother (who live in town) or his brother or friends. It's a big secret because he's ... well, selfish and sneaky. So they get all busy with this house but don't warn or tell anyone they're packing up and leaving town in a few months. This leaves his sisters to take care of their mother, who lives in an assisted living home. I don't think it's fair to not be open. I don't think it's nice to lie through omission. I find it hard to fake through answers to "What are your parents up to these days?"

But, the fascinating thing is that I'm so much like him. Self-absorbed. Attention hungry. Me first and the gimme gimmes.

My mother putters on. I'm not sure who she is. I can see her eyes frantically searching my face and eyes every time she talks to me. A look of hoping that I'm understanding her. A look of worry that she's boring me. This intense desire to be loved by me. But at the same hand, she'd turn and chop me off any block. She's such a strange person to me. So nervous in company - but I remember when I holed up in Paris and didn't speak to anyone for days and would go out into a party and worry about controlling myself, trying to be a person after forgetting, after living in a den of routine and killing comfort. So, I'm trying to accept her. Love her through my eyes.

But damn it all if I'm not impatient and annoyed with my lack of individual space. I have nowhere to hide during the day when I want to work. What does it matter though? I'm about to sweep away for a job.

The internship in Madison has gone really well, but the networking in other circles has gone better for now. DC might be calling. I'm hesitant for this transition, and not sure I'd pass their tests to get there. I wasn't sure about interview #1 but I got #2 from it. I wasn't sure about panel interview #1, but got offered a job from it. Now, the time for sitting alone. Now, the time for a tarot reading.

I know it's hippie. I know it's weird. I can't explain it, but I can. Sure, it's mostly the research, the outreach, the work I do to get there. But then there's the secret rituals I do to throw out there my dreams, my needs. I sometimes call it "God" or "Mother" or "Destiny". I meditate. Driving back and forth between Chicago and Madison, Madison and the river. Hours to listen to NPR and catch the college radio stations, fantasize about truck fucks in the road stops, and meditate, think, dream.

I cannot stay much longer with my parents. I love them. I am fascinated by their process and our interactions. I cannot stay. I need my own space. My own kitchen. My own center. I need to pay off the debt. I need the next level in this game. I need to see who I'll become next.

And this all just might take me to DC, into the fray, the speed, the honey bee hive, the lies, the masks, the ambitions, the desires, the steam, the cold, the bones, the waves of change.

After all those prayers of meditation, all this work of humility and drive. I really am not driving the train. As I wasn't when I followed art to Minneapolis, Fernando to Costa Rica, Ryan to Madison, school to Paris. Once I launch the dream of hope, the hunger for experience - someone else starts conducting me there.

I have no idea why or how or wherefore. And, the background checks might prohibit this path. But for now, well, it looks damn near close to the Capitol.

[no editing this one]