Digging In The Dirt

Last night’s episode of Crossing Jordan left me jittery and unable to fall asleep. I missed the first part and started watching after Dr. Macy was already chained up in the basement of a deranged homeowner, where he finds a young boy who had been kidnapped some time before. In an attempt to prevent puberty, the man wants Dr. Macy to assist him in castrating the boy, so he can “remain pure”. I don’t usually have this high an emotional response to shows like this; after all, the show takes place in a morgue. There is an expectation of seeing the worst human behavior, the things that one person can do to another or themselves. But when the cruelty of one human being to another involves a child, the bile rises in my throat and my stomach lurches. Yet, I was unable to turn to another channel. The story had the outcome I wanted: the crazy bastard kidnapper ended up dead and the child was returned to his parents. Somehow this wasn’t enough, as I knew that was not the end of the story for the child.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve always been fascinated by man’s inhumanity to man…I can’t count the number of documentaries I’ve watched on Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, serial killers, cannibalism, satanic cults, etc. I’m still no closer to understanding how the mind of a person who does terrible things makes it reasonable to act this way.

Last night I had a dream about my mother. I find it fascinating that I never dream about my abuse or the rape, but I often dream of her. The dreams always start out benign, taking place in a place known to me, usually the house I grew up in or my grandmother’s house. The family is eating dinner or watching TV, when suddenly I am filled with fear and everything turns dark. She always wore red lipstick (but no other make-up), and in my dreams her dark lips are huge as she screams and rages at me.

I spoke to her on the phone recently, I know this is why she’s in my subconscious. We have an understanding, finally reached after many years of struggle, that there is a limit to the amount of contact I can have with her. By speaking with her twice in the last month, I’ve obviously exceeded my limit. I am so sad that it has to be this way, but I need to trust myself, and that rock-hard lump in the pit of my stomach.

There are three wooden whiskey barrels next to the front deck that are waiting for me. I am generally an immediate gratification kind of person, so when it comes to gardening I will pay the extra money and buy plants that are already flowering. I changed my thought process this year and bought seeds for the first time. I’ll be mixing together Bachelor's buttons (Blue Boy & Cyanus double mixed colors), zinnia, Shasta daisies and delicate white baby's breath seeds; hopefully I will end up with something resembling a French wildflower garden. If nothing else I will have planted a seed, and that's got to count for something.

Peter Gabriel -- Digging In The Dirt mp3
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Photo credits: Me
Claude Monet's estate, Giverney, in Normandy, France