Like the other day when I acted like a friggin' bitch at enterprise rent-a-car. I called the night before to reserve a hybrid and was assured by the pleasant-sounding customer service rep that someone would be at my door at 7:30 AM to pick me up. I had to be in Sacramento by 10 for an important meeting, and the drive on I-80 on a good day is an hour and 15 minutes. By the time 8:15 rolled around I was panicking. I called the local office and the management trainee who picked up the phone dropped it, and hung up on me. Hell, no! I re-dialed the number and the minute I heard a voice, I growled, "Did you know you hung up on me? Where's my pick up?" As you can guess, it went downhill from there. Though extremely few and very far between, I "treat" spiritually to bypass these unbridled and misguided moments of perimenopausal bitchery. It's morbidly embarrassing to self and grossly unfair to others. Sometimes I'm much too human.
Some things I forget that I'd like to remember...
Like my password to this or that website or account. Like someone's phone number, birthday or anniversary. Or like the time Becky Taylor played dirty with me but when I ran into her at City Center months later, I hugged her with love like nothing nasty had transpired between us. Truth was, in my mind, nothing had happened because I don't hold on to a grudge.
Some things fall between the chasm of remembrance and forgetfulness...
By sheer serendipity I ran into my music teacher from a decade ago. At first he was just a vague memory. Little by little, factoids and fragments of images started dripping into place like Dali's surreal faces of time falling into form. Michael*. Jazz. Taurus on the cusp. A figure emerging from figment to fullness. Not half-bad. Where do I draw the bright red line to delineate my memory and my projection-delusion?
As for his part -- total amnesia. Michael has no recollection of our previous incarnation. His mind is my canvas.
(*Michael's true name withheld to respect his wish and protect his innocence.)