Beaten by a Baby Doll

So it appears that I have two blogs, but I can't find the other blog that I started about the random people I encounter on public transportation.  So now this blog gets to be about that for awhile.  Which is fine, because ultimately both blogs are just about odd things that I obsess about.  Or in this case, odd people.

I have been watching one particular woman for months now on the bus.  At first I thought she was a weird looking little girl.  Then I saw the gray in her hair and realized she is actually a mature woman.  One who wears little girl dresses, bobby socks and bows in her tightly braided graying hair.  And aprons.  Lately she's been sporting aprons.

She gives off an odd, twitchy vibe and rarely speaks to anyone else.  She always has a little girl backpack and a bunch of small plastic bags stuffed in it, each containing a handful of food.  She'll nibble on them and read during the bus ride.  She also hates eye contact so most of these observations have occurred over the last 4 or 5 months.

I keep coming up with new theories about her.  Now, granted, I tend to live largely in my own head.  It's just more fun there.  So my imagination tends to take off when someone like this is thrown in my path.  My first conclusion is that she is bat shit crazy.  I reached this when she pulled out a large baby doll out of her little girl back pack.  I thought, "Wow....okay....nuts.  There we go. Case closed."  Then I quickly looked away because she caught me staring at the baby doll and I thought she was going to start beating me over the head with it.  Which would have been both terrifying and totally awesome at the same time.  I would go through that experience if I was guaranteed a video tape of it.

Then spring came and she discarded the bulky coat and I thought, "Oh...she's pregnant and the baby doll was for a parenting class and I'm kind of a judgmental asshole for assuming that just because she dresses like a twisted version of Cindy Brady that's she's nuts.  And I went with that for awhile.

Well, that was months ago and she has neither gotten bigger nor appeared with a real baby that isn't stuffed in her little girl backpack (hopefully, she hasn't opened it in awhile).  So now I have two choices.  She's either an oddly shaped woman with horrendous taste in clothing or she's kind of loopy.  I probably won't ever find out unless she actually decides to give me or someone else on the bus a beat down with a baby doll.  Which on my bus, is probably just a matter of time.

What We All Share

I think that every human shares the same desire.  We all want to be safe, happy and loved.  What separates us is how we define those words and the circumstances we are in as we pursue them.

I commute now and I see the same people almost every day.  We all have our routines.  I stop in Starbucks and grab a coffee, walk to the bus stop and drink it while I watch a Jack Russell race wildly through the town square.  His human sits on a bench  or rises up to throw a ball for him.  The weather changes, her outfit changes, what doesn't change is the sheer joy this small dog has tearing through the park, his tail wagging constantly as he embraces life fully in his own doggy fashion.

Every morning an SUV pulls up and a man leans over, kisses his wife good-bye and climbs out.  He opens the back door of the car, retrieves his briefcase and kisses his infant daughter as well.  He stands for a moment, waving good-bye to the baby before he closes the door and walks away with a smile. 

We are all going to different places, different jobs, different homes, but we all have our routines that interconnect and bind us.  We see the same people every day and give nods or smiles of recognitions to one another.  We know what stops they get off and when they'll see them next.  I know on Mondays an older man in a wheelchair gets on at the same stop at the same time.  The bus drivers know as well and will wait for him.  We all connect in our daily lives, even if we're unaware of it.  I know that on Tuesdays through Friday a young woman who dresses like a small girl will be on the bus as I go home.  She carries a doll in a child's backpack and glares nervously about if you make eye contact with her.  She is part of my routine and I am part of hers. We expect to see each other as we expect to see the gregarious guy who works at a local grocery store or the sullen couple who sit silently, surrounded by bags of possessions they carry everywhere. We're like a small clock with cogs and wheels, moving together to gain a larger motion.

And that's just one small segment of society.  One bus at a certain time in one city.  Widen out the view and you have hundreds of people at the same point every day going to their jobs, dropping off their children at schools and day care, all connected in the desire for safety, happiness and love. 

It's overwhelming, beautiful and frightening at the same time.  Keep expanding and you have a planet full of lives, not just humans but all life.  Plants growing, birds soaring, everything breathing and continuing to live or die.  We are each so insignificant yet so important.  Because as much as we are all the same, we are all so unique and special that it's humbling to think we even exist.

Sometimes a Fish is Just a Fish

I dream a lot.  Most of them are pretty easy to understand.  I have anxiety dreams, dreams that are made up of things that I experienced recently and dreams from eating rich foods right before I go to sleep.

People have always been fascinated by dreams.  They share them with their therapist, they have them interpreted, they even use them to pick lottery numbers.  I have to admit, I'm dubious about the last.

I understand my anxiety dreams.  I have two running scenarios.  The first has to do with my teeth slowly falling out, usually in a public setting.  I helplessly collect them or try to put them back in.  It's a dream I have when I'm stressed out and has to do with major dental work I had performed a few years ago that was very traumatic. 

The other dream is that I discover that I never passed a gym class in high school and have to move back to Iowa, re-enroll in high school and take an entire semester over again.  I usually wake up very angry and frustrated, having hated high school and avoided as much of it as possible.  So I skipped a lot of school, which makes me feel guilty and on some level I feel the need to be punished for that.  That one is fairly easy.

But, what about those dreams that are so weird you wake up wondering what in the world is going on inside your head.  Take the fish dream, one of the most vivid dreams that I've ever had.  It was one of the few dreams I remember having in black and white, most times I dream in color.

I'm sitting in an empty room, no windows, no doors, no lights.  I'm sitting in a straight back chair holding a huge, dead fish.  As I sit I slowly bring up the fish, smacking myself in the face repeatedly with it.  I hit myself faster and faster.  I can see scales spraying about, smell the fish and feel the cold hardness of it as I hit myself.  It doesn't hurt, it's just weird and gross.  As I do this voices begin to chant, "It's a fish dream, you know what that means....you're dreaming about sex!  Fish equal sex!"

I woke up confused and laughing, but a bit unsettled.  Where does this stuff come from?  There are many definitions for this dream.  None of them, as the voice chanted, appear to be sexual.  I can't take dream interpretation too seriously.  I think we are so inundated with stimuli, we have so many suppressed fears and emotions, our minds are like a house on Hoarders, packed with useless items and hidden shame.  There's really no way to figure out some dreams.

Sanity is a Matter of Opinion

What happens in my head is usually much more dramatic and interesting than what happens in real life.  I'm intensely nosy and I have a horrible habit of eavesdropping, prying and just in general taking far too much interest in other people's business.  I can't help myself.  The couple at the next table having a whispered, furious exchange?  I have to know what it's about. 

I am a beacon to crazy people.  I had a fantastic exchange once on a city bus with a small, purple clad homeless woman who insisted she was the goddess Venus.  She was haranguing the men on the bus, informing them that they should fear her, worship her and kneel before her.  They were terrified, averting their eyes, huddling away from her, helpless under the intense gaze of a 95 pound old woman wearing three coats.  It was awesome.

The man sitting next to me chastised me after the woman addressed me, telling me that she was the goddess Venus and I responded, "It's so cool to finally meet you.  It indeed is an honor."  She was very pleased and moved on, the man next to me whispering that I shouldn't encourage her.  I whispered back, "But what if she is Venus?"  He switched seats.

I think we all have the potential of crossing the line between acceptable quirks of behavior and crazy.  A woman who has two cats, no one blinks an eye.  Four, maybe an eyebrow is raised.  Six?  Crazy cat lady.  Some people allow good intentions to become their own madness.  Animal rescuers who can't stand the thought of a creature suffering so they take one after another in until they cross the line into hoarder and are a detriment to the very animals they strive to save.  They cross the line.

Or someone who can't get over the loss of a lover.  They send flowers, write letters, call... refusing to give up.  In "Say Anything" the scene where John Cusack stands in his love's yard holding up a radio....romantic on screen.  Real life?  Call the cops.  At one point does relentless love become stalking?  Sometimes it's a matter of perspective.

Most of the characters in my stories are strange and usually have crossed that line.  I have a sad sack who is convinced a flock of crows is out to get him, a quiet woman who launches a vendetta against a laundromat that she feels offers sub par service.  I have a pyromaniac obsessed with a local fireman, a woman bullied into consuming friendships with people she actively dislikes or fears.  For the most part they manage to function in a "normal" life.  Their struggles are hidden from the outside world.  Eventually, their craziness is exposed when it goes too far.

I can connect with my characters because I have those elements within myself.  I check to see if I have locked my door at least twice before I walk away.  Two times is acceptable.  What if it became five then ten?  We all have the capability of spinning out of control.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not afraid this will happen to me.  I just recognize it's there.  So when the socially stunted man plops down next to me at a diner and launches into a thirty minute monologue about flea markets, his downstairs neighbor and vintage Beatles albums, I don't have the heart to shut him off.  He's just trying not to cross that line.

Open Wounds and Writing

To be a good writer, you have to be honest.  Sometimes that honesty is painful to the writer.  But, what about when it's painful to others?  What if the topic strikes home and causes hurt to those close to you?  Do you back off from the story?  Just never let them read it?  What if you want to be published?

I'm struggling with a story that has needed to be told for at least thirty years now.  The topic is close to me and to others.  It's ugly and it's true.  I find myself starting to back off from elements that are important to the story, fearful of causing pain or anger in others.  If I do that, the story is worthless, a fluff piece that will border on cute.

So, I'm going to write what needs to be said and if it's good, submit it.  I probably won't tell the people in the story that it's been written.  I think it would damage the person it's about and they're already bleeding so much from emotional wounds, I can't bring myself to cause another.

I suppose what needs to be said, doesn't always need to be heard by everyone.