Words come from the left side of the brain. This or that, the nouns and verbs. I go. You stay. The adjectives, tall or short, large or small. The land of the basics, the facts, the who and the what and the where and the when. But what about the why? The whys and the what ifs and the what thens originate on the right side, the creative side, the opinionated, sensitive feeling side.
There is a spot, an X marks the spot, treasure box, storage chest of a place where the facts from the left side of the brain and the feelings from the right side of the brain intersect. It is a jumble sale of overflowing cartons, baskets of perceptions, ideas, facts and figures, waiting to be sorted into sentences that make sense. That make sense to the rational mind. Of course, we say. Or no, not now, not ever.
Then, there is that one dust covered box in the corner. The box of leftovers. The one with all the pieces lost from all the puzzles on all the card tables all over the world, the one final piece that completes the design. The finishing touch. The final connection. And without it, such unfinished business lingers on the tip of the tongue, a last name to go with a first, the sense of deja vu, the itch waiting to be scratched. The dangling participle looking for a hook up. The why, left unexplained. The why me, unanswered.
Here, here is where the heart takes over for the addled brain. Sorting out the sentences that make no sense, but feel familiar. Hope. Fear. Passion. Whimsy. Heartache. Hysteria. Not seeing but believing faith. Risk taking, chance making, do my eyes deceive me, could it be, maybe it just might, illusionary wonder.
This X on the map, where heart and mind intersect, where left brain meets right, is where the Yard Yetis find their voice. Speak with utter conviction centered in the creative, ephemeral, leftover splendor of the far fetched, for the birds, flim flam, might be spam, rub your eyes, blink, blink, mirage in the mist, magic. The X that is not an X, not a dot, but a circle, an O of wonder that leaves one speechless, digging through the boxes to find the words to capture the awe and the majesty. When, all that is needed, is hand on heart.
The pause. The space. A place. What is left unsaid, is there. A steady and comforting rhythm, while a pinprick of light hovers patiently for hearts to be open, minds to be still, so that the light may enter in.
The woman, the Not Yet A Yeti, seated next to Eunice Everlasting, with eyes closed and hoping for sleep, clutches her flashlight and despite her outward appearance of calm, is easily spooked, fairly fragile and if truth be told, on the brink of being broken or on the ledge of breaking through.
The fact that she is outside, in the dark, alone and still, on a moonless night, is testament to the seriousness of the situation. The last words she thought before the night swallowed her whole, were..."your pity party table for one is ready for seating...follow me". And much like Eunice, before her infamous extraordinary rise, the Not Yet A Yeti, followed the path to her seat in the garden, to the table for one, because her singular defining trait, was her extraordinary skill at following behind. Being led. This, this venture into the dark, into the world of scary thoughts and even scarier unseen creatures, was the very first step on her journey. A right turn. Over. Under. Around and through. A chance to be found. X marks the spot. Her journey to find her way Home.
The Not Yet A Yeti is me. I am the woman reclining in the dark with a flashlight full of dead batteries. I am a city kid at heart and remain skeptical of animals outside of cages. Which makes this whole scenario even more unreal, as I just walked through the high grass in bare feet. I don't do that. Ever. There are snakes. In tall grass. Hissing my name. There are critters leering down from the branches overhead ready to swoop down and peck at my face. Voles and moles scurrying underground, sneaky possums with yellow teeth flashing their beady little eyes behind the bushes, biting, stinging pesky creepy crawlies giving me the creeps. I have lost my mind. I have lost my head. I have lost my common sense, not to mention my sense of humor. Not a tickle, a giggle or a grin.
I am alone. In the dark. Waving. Waving back and forth, my hand in the air. See me over here. Waving and waiting to be seen. Waving while on tiptoe. Just a glimpse. Take a peek. That's me. On the edge of your horizon. The light is dimming. Sun perilously close to the edge, threatening to dip under. Hurry, before the dark swallows me up. My flashlight is out of batteries or I'd hold it up under my chin so you could see me here just waving.
Sigh. I pull my feet up and tuck them under me. I felt something brush against my toes and I do NOT want to know what it was, except that I didn't jump. Or scream. That's not like me. I usually do. Jump. Overreact. Wave my arms a lot. Arch my eyebrows and emote emote emote. Eyes wide open, scanning the horizon, troubleshooting before there's trouble, buzzing, fussing, fretting.
Not now. Now in this place with just me and my eyes closed and on the edge of sleep, it is as though someone plugged in a night light, or left the door slightly ajar, just enough room for a pinprick of light, and I feel foolish as I must be dreaming...and digging through a box of nonsensical thoughts...and hearing my voice singsonging the most ridiculous and suspicious and unexpected assortment of things I would never say...
...I want to be a Yard Yeti. An ET. I want to have Super Powers. I want to wear average apparel, look innocent in Buddy Holly glasses, slide into a phone booth and emerged a caped crusader. I want a cool Yard Yeti name and a costume armed with bravado. Lolita Lalapalooza. Betty Bedlam. I don't need to bend steel with my bare hands, but I would like to banish weeds with my laser beams. I don't need to time travel, but I would love an invisibility cloak, so I could disappear once in awhile and reappear where no one is expecting me to be. Oh, and I would like software, like Photoshop, to soften my appearance, the fine lines. An eraser tool, and a forgiving brush. Oh, and yes, I absolutely must have a pin. My mother left me some fabulous pins. Christmas trees, gaudy bejeweled peacocks and flashy poodles, large, loud, melodramatic accessories.
Perfect for my two way radio receiver and transmitter. I can pin one on my shoulder, lean down and speak into it with authority. THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING.
I will have a vehicle, but since I am rather a dolt when it comes to cars, let's just say it will be blue...with fins...and a siren. I will wear my hair in a massive pompadour with a bizarre blossom perched atop at a skewed angle. My face will be as smooth as porcelain with two dots for eyes and an "O" for a mouth, my signature look of perpetual surprise.
And a bird. On my shoulder.
A parakeet on my shoulder and yellow wellies on my feet.
Something very odd is happening here. I am wearing a towel pinned to my shoulders, standing hip deep in some very tall grass and I am anxious as I am no longer alone.
I smell booze.
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