Reliving the Past

I love coloring. There is something about it that is just so soothing and relaxing. It reminds me of being a child and life was much simpler.

When Teach and I were cleaning out one of our closets this summer, I came across 5 (five!) Dover Coloring Books. Now, if you have never colored a Dover coloring book, you haven’t colored. I had completely forgotten that I had ordered these books several years before. In fact, they were still in the original mailing envelope. Imagine my delight when I discovered I had the “Mythical Beasts” coloring book (one that I devoured as a child), 3 (three!) geometrical/3-d/optical illusions coloring books and a Celtic Design coloring book (obviously ordered waaaaaay before I decided to convert to Judaism).

These books have been sitting in the closet for years waiting for me to find them and I made them sit for another month. Yes, I had my colored pencils (never crayons and never markers) and I had my books, but I hadn’t colored in such a long time that I was afraid I’d screw it up.

Then Ernesto knocked out our power Saturday night.

Once I realized that the power wasn’t coming back on (and I wasn’t going to be able to finish the laundry) and I wasn’t going to be able to vacuum, balance my check book, or help Teach with computer work, I flashed back to another power outage twelve years ago.

I was living in the ‘burg, in my fabulous apartment on Warwick Lane (damn, I miss that apartment), and a big snow storm was heading our way. It was a Friday afternoon and we were let off work early. Thinking that I’d probably be housebound for the rest of the weekend (if the storm was as powerful as they said it was going to be) I decided that I needed to find something to keep myself occupied. So, my ’79 Toyota Corolla and I braved the snow that was already fallen and headed out to John Simmons in the Boonesboro shopping center where I bought myself 3 (three!) Dover coloring books – two optical illusions and one 3-d. I barely made it home, parked the car on the main street so I wouldn’t get stuck down the hill (but did manage to get myself plowed in) and headed home with my treasures.

The next morning, I woke to discover lots of snow and ice and not a whit of electricity. Fortunately, my apartment had a lot of windows and I settled myself in my snug breakfast room with my coloring books and colored pencils. I spent the entire day there. And in the evening, I went next door to my neighbor’s house (with a working fire) and spent the evening with my neighbor’s two young boys coloring away by firelight.

So, when Ernesto knocked out our power Saturday night, I did the only thing I could. I spent the evening coloring by candlelight.

Walking and Thinking and Questioning

Sometimes I wonder why I even have this blog since I never post. It’s not because I don’t have things to say, it’s just that I never seem to have anything to say when I’m actually sitting in front of the computer at home. I can’t really blog at work, which is when I’d prefer to do it since I’m often bored.

I actually think of lots of stuff to post, but I never remember it. I do a lot of walking (thanks to the commute to Manhattan) and I do a lot of thinking while I’m trekking to and from the train station. Sometimes I think I should have a tape recorder so I could just record my stream-of-consciousness thoughts.

I remember when I tried Ecstasy the one and only time. I was working on E. 40th & Lex and rehearsing for a show on W. 56th & 8th. There was no great way to get to the theatre by public transportation and, since I’m perpetually in debt, I didn’t have the money anyway. So, I walked. For about two weeks after the weekend I did X, walking made me furious. The thoughts in my head just pissed me off and there was no way to shut them down (hence the reason I’ve only taken X once).

It’s interesting, ever since then, I’ve noticed that I often get angry when I’m walking. I expect it’s because my mind is just wandering and things I usually keep tucked down out of sight just float up to the surface.

Of course, I can’t think of any of those things now.

This morning, I tried to make a conscious effort to remember what I was thinking. I attempted to compose an entry and I began to wonder who I’m actually writing for (no offense intended, Pobble!). If I am writing solely for me, then what does it matter when or what I post? If I’m writing for the masses, (snort), I’m sure they’ve found better places to go. I’m generally a guarded person. I’ve had more than one friend complain that I don’t open up. Yogi said she never knew what I was thinking or what I felt or what was really going on inside. I’ve spilled my guts to a few journals (and good Lord, I’m even embarrassed by what I wrote on occasion. And saddened, too. Sometimes I think a psychiatrist would have a field day with some of my journals.) But this isn’t really a journal because anyone can read it and if I can’t tell my best friend some ogly-googly details of my life, how can I tell the world?

If I were a clever writer (see Pobble, Waiter, Barmaid, etc.) then I’d write an entry about how an event in my life made me introspective and what I learned from it, all wrapped up in an entertaining and enthralling package.

But I’m not. And this is all I’ve got.