One more....

I got a message on MySpace from one of my roomates in Muncie from 1997. I wrote her back with a summary of my life and am waiting to hear back from her. Her profile is set to private, so I can't see what she's been up to yet. I can't wait. She is living in Germany, I know that much. And that makes sense. She is brilliant.

Feeling so old

I have been having this weird thing with not feeling my age. At least, I thought it was weird and just me until I spoke to some other 20 and 30 some-things and found they felt the same way.

HOWEVER

Through the magic of MySpace, I am talking to people I had lost all contact with for years. Some since high school, some from before. And those kids who will always be kids because they were younger brothers or sisters of my friends are married and having babies.

And they have changed so much.

HUGE case in point....my friend Amy. We were friends in elementary up through 7th grade (I believe) when she moved to Florida. We were best friends. We sat and watched New Kids on the Block videos until all hours of the morning, fighting about who was the better New Kid. She loved Jordan, I was a Donnie fan. We choreographed dances to Paula Abdul. We sang in church choir together. They lived so close and we were constantly at each other's homes. Her parents were like mine and vice versa.

Once she moved, I saw her once. We went to Florida for spring break and stayed with her family. Her dad is a minister and moves where they are needed. Her parents were SO cool, and her dad is the only person my dad ever talked to about religion. In fact, Dan baptized my dad, which was NO small feat I can tell you.

We spoke every once in awhile about how our lives were going, who our friends were, and so on. Then the communication stopped. There would be an email every few years or so, but nothing much.

Then, a few weeks ago, she found me on MySpace. We have talked more in the last two weeks than we have in the last ten years.

My point? She looks completely different. She is a classic case of the ugly duckling/beautiful swan. When I knew her, it was coke bottle glasses, braces and frizzy hair. Pictures of her now....she looks like she stepped out of a magazine. And her sisters.....Abby and Annie were always younger, always the kids who wanted to play with their older sister and her friends. We made them be the Barbies we didn't want to be. We had Abby play the cat in the Paula Abdul dance. We wouldn't let them stay up the entire time with us because, when it came to the New Kids, we were experts on love and they were too young to understand.

Now, Abby and Annie are grown up. They have boobs. They have the faces of women. They ARE women. They aren't the little kids who followed us around anymore.

This is not an isolated case.

There are so many people that have changed so much, and I don't see that I have at all. Sure, I've become thicker around the middle. My hair is a bit more curly than it was, due to the hair cuts I had back in high school. But despite it all, I still feel like I look like I could walk through the halls of Eastern High School and fit in.

And the reality is so far from that.

Another glipse at mortality? Is this the MySpace equivalent of finding more grey hair and wrinkles?

Jason's intro connection

I normally don't read the intro's other people have on their blogs, or I do once and don't read them again. This morning I was flipping through all the blogs I read and noticed Jason's. I realized I had never read his intro. Not three sentences into it, I started singing "The Final Cut" by Pink Floyd in my head. And now one verse is trapped, running around in my brain like a hampster on a wheel........

"And if I show you my dark side
Will you still hold me tonight?
If I open my heart to you
Show you my weak side
What would you do?"

This song is one that, no matter where I am, what I'm doing, who I'm with, it stops me in my tracks. For those who don't know it is about a suicide that gets interrupted by a phone ringing and consequently never happened again.

I found this song during my obsession with all things Floyd in late junior high/early high school. In fact, funny story ~~~~~flashback bubbles~~~~~~~flashback music~~~~~~~~

My junior year of high school English class, we had to choose a song we loved and interpret it using our poetry lessons. I chose two songs...."The Final Cut" and "The Night Chicago Died" (which, for those who don't know it, is a really light, late 60's early 70's song akin to something the Monkees would do). We got to play the songs and explain why we chose them, and interpret them in our own way.

I talked about "The Final Cut" as being about a soul who was in pain, lost and looking for salvation. He was determined to kill himself because of all the thoughts he had about his significant other, the darkness he was surrounded with and so on. Then, did "The Night Chicago Died", where I referenced all the organized crime knowledge I had because of my dad and my own love for all things Chicago gangster.

A few class periods later, I received a slip from the principle's office. I went, not knowing what it was about. The school counselor met me there and asked to talk about the song I chose. She turned me in because she thought it was a cry for help!

Being in my very anti-authoritarian phase, I was so angry, bitching about how kids our age weren't allowed to express anything regarding deep emotions and pain, which we all felt at one time or the other, without someone wanting to throw our asses into counseling. Everyone was so conserned with the song I chose (but thought NOTHING of the other song....what if I wanted to get into a life of organized crime?! They would have let me slip RIGHT through their fingers, eh?). I learned on that day the power of music and the words we chose.

That is all.

A.M. Voices

So I woke up yesterday morning at 8:05 because I heard someone say "Tory Leigh" in a voice that demanded attention but at the same time was pleading and loving. It was the voice of my mom. I sat up, completely prepared to see her at the foot of the bed about to tell me something.

Of course, she wasn't there.

But there are moments when those voices hit....moments when there is some reason I need to hear my name said in a loving voice. And I realized, it was 8:05. A week after Mamaw died. A week and two hours after she died.. Down to the minute.

Memories strong enough to wake me from sleep? Something vivid enough to make me sit up from a deep sleep and know I was needed? Physical action burned into my mind?

I don't know. I just don't know. And maybe I never will. And maybe that's okay. I guess it will have to be, at least for now.

The one certainty

From the moment we are born, there is only one thing that is absolutely certain, one thing that none of us can avoid. At some point, we all must die. Some die heroic deaths, saving others. Some die in their beds after a long life, quietly. Some die far too young in some tragedy. Some die long after they want to. But we all do it. That is the one thing we share with both the rich and poor, the famous and the unknown. We all die.

Logically, I have known this for a very long time. In the back of my mind I have known this. But there are some moments when it is far more real, far too close to the front of my mind.

But we all do it. We all pass on to another dimension, whatever it may be. One day we will be nothing but memories in the hearts of those that loved us and we loved.

*sigh*

So much has happened and changed over the last week or so. So much is different. In so many ways.

Mamaw died. I am so conflicted with this. I am trying so hard to let myself feel what I need to feel to be over it and done. But it's more than just her death. It's Pap. He is so intricately tied into this whole situation. The house where he lived will be gone. The walls and ceiling he last saw as he died will be gone. Memories tied into every little thing in that house will be gone. Things that weren't that important, like the dishes he ate off of, the glasses he drank out of. All of those things that we didn't take because, well, she needed them. We have his watch. His pocket knives. His fishing lures. Things that were him completely.

But those other little things will be gone soon. That is the thing that is the hardest for me to get over. For me to deal with. And it's all wrapped around her death. I don't know that I have grieved for her, per se, so much as I grieved for the loss of Pappy all over again. After seven years, that pain has not gone away. Of course, it's not as strong and stinging as it was seven years ago. It's not as brutal and debilitating as it was back then. But it's back nonetheless. And it stings in its own new way.

I don't quite know what to do. There are so many things I want to do. I want to organize this house from top to bottom, finding places for everything and, if it doesn't have a place, pitch it. Get rid of things again, as I did with Mike. At least with Mike, I had a drive, a running goal: I had to deal with it. School was starting up that next week, Shakes was on the horizon and I refused to let his selfish act, as painful as it was, destroy school or my theatre.

But her dying wasn't a selfish act. In fact, it was one of the few selfless things she has done. She was ready to go and went. She didn't hold on after she was tired. She let go.

I'm feeling like I'm going to be in this abyss for awhile. There are still things hanging over our heads that need to be done. The house needs to be cleaned and fixed. The furniture needs to be sold. Auctions need to be held. The house needs to sell. All of these things are still standing over us. And will for awhile. So this can't be completely put to rest until these things happen.

Maybe once all of these things are done we can be still again. Maybe there will be a moment of quiet. Maybe we can exhale for once.