1/22/11
I was just looking at my dry erase board filled with clues and impressions, names and numbers… timelines and deadlines- the one Charley likes to call my black board with magnets.
Let me explain.
When I was just at the beginning of this- chronicling the first blush of revelations from Charley, he would often redirect. Phoenix was one such redirect. This was another. One day during a session with R he redirected to ask a personal question.
“I’m sorry… he’s redirecting. He wants to know why you don’t like your black board?”
“What black board?”
“The one with the magnets?”
“The one with what?” I asked.
“He is showing me magnets. Do you not like them?”
She drew a large square in the air. “Do you understand, black board?
“Yes… I understand black board. Who doesn’t understand black board?” I drawled. “But my black board? I don’t have a…”
“Yes… your black board. You haven’t put it up. Why?”
Suddenly I realized what he was referring to. It was a monstrous dry erase board my husband had bought for me at Office Depot 3 weeks earlier that I had simply abandoned and left still in its cryovaced cocoon hidden in my dining room- debating its demise.
“The magnets?” I stalled.
“Yes…he’s showing me magnets” she reiterated.
“Well…” I explained the purchase. “And, well… we thought the silver trim on the darn thing was metal. So my husband bought me magnets to go with it. His bad… because it turned out it was only plastic. So the magnets don’t really stick to it, see? The fridge, yes… the board no.” I answered and was ready to move on.
“He’s still obsessing about the magnets. But wants to know why you haven’t put the board up?”
You must understand one thing. A year and a half ago, I would have literally been a bit freaked out about a disembodied entity grilling me about my bedroom accoutrements. But since Charley seems insistent on entering anywhere at any time… and truth be told… it is my fault that he does. You see… Charley’s 8×10 sits on my writing desk and he is a part of my daily reflections and heartfelt conversations. My writing desk is tucked inside an alcove of my bedroom. The area where my husband wanted this monstrous thing to go- was just to the right of that on a wall that at the time held an oil painting.
“He’s waiting…” R smiled.
“Fine!” I blurted. “I cannot believe that I need to explain to… him… why I will, or will not put something up on my bedroom wall. But here goes…”
She nodded, smiled and waited.
“Ok… because I don’t like it-that’s why. My office is in my bedroom. It’s where I write. I have a beautiful writing desk that I slaved 6 months for at a crappy job- it cost $499.00 when I was 17. It’s gorgeous- made of wood, carved…just gorgeous. It reminds me everyday of what I am aspiring to be and it has traveled with me wherever and whoever I have been since then. I am 52 and that’s a lot of reminding, traveling and whatevering. I have wooden bedroom furniture- I have oil paintings in wooden frames on every conceivable inch of wall space and while it was a thoughtful present- it does not go with the rest of my décor! There! See? It’s simple! I simply cannot- no! Will not… accessorize with plastic! There. I’ve said it… happy?” I managed to squeak at the end of my diatribe; all the while cognizant that in the eternal scheme of things Charley most likely could have cared less really why. He was merely making ethereal small talk.
Her lips gave way to a grin that gave birth to a smirk and in between those thinned lips that held back a well deserved chuckle, she managed to squeak back… “He was just curious…let’s redirect.”
Embarrassed that I had felt so defensive, explaining my irrational response to a man who shares my life and apparently my bedroom too…I laughed.
It’s like that old black and white show on TV- Topper. If you are old enough to remember that… then welcome my dear, dear antiquated friend!
Now, can you understand why he has become my best buddy? Because friends will call you on the carpet, when you make little sense and applaud you when you do! They delight in your idiosyncratic behaviors in the same fashion that they share empathically in your angst. Friends will prod you into moving on or letting go when you have tarried too long in a space too small for who you are. Friends want to know what you’re thinking- even about the most mundane of things. Things like plastic dry erase boards and while they may never understand your irrational explanations- they still smile at your ridiculousness and then… as my psychic medium says…they redirect you to get back on track.
Sooooooo my dear friend, Charley…
Let’s redirect.
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