thanks for nothing, martha washington
The outside running season has officially begun. It is so refreshing to sweep away some mileage outside, rather than worrying about when the next time that the rotating fan will hit me with its sweetness while working out at the gym. I admit it, today wasn’t the sunniest day on the books, nor the warmest. But that is how Spring is here, I imagine. Well, it’s not even that I imagine really. I just haven’t been back for such a long time. My Dad tells me that the last few years winter has seemed to just end up in Summer. Not that I mind the gloomy days at all.
Today was an interesting day, however. I went a little bit earlier than the last few days (7:30am), just as everyone was leaving for work. But don’t imagine the picture perfect work-goers, pleasantly spilling into their cars and rolling delicately around the block, adjusting coffee sips between half smiles from Christian radio talk shows. Oh No. These are the just-out-of-college work-goers, peeling their little Fords like rusty go-carts around the pot-hole ridden cracks in the residential streets, honking for no apparent reason at me, running on the sidewalk, Starbucks double shot espresso induced head bobbing madly to some neo punk goth band – all to get to work in twenty minutes, in Cleveland, which is forty-five minutes away in rush hour morning traffic.
As soon as the weather gets nicer, nin and I are going to start riding on Towpath on off days. It’s beautiful in the morning down there, especially in the early summer before everyone else shows up on the trails early in the morning. Anyway, nin has this fascination with the gigantic valley bridges, so it should be pleasurable for the both of us, looking and watching.
I don’t like the trains though. A few nights ago I was laying on the futon in the living room. I couldn’t sleep and thought that maybe if I laid out there in the darkness and coolness of the big room I would get tired and doze. BAD IDEA. I use to not be able to be in a room that was completely dark. I went from kids nightlight to this nightlight of the Virgin Mary – as my “joke” cover for still needing a kids nightlight. One of the reasons was certain predisposition to hallucinations, but in general I just didn’t like seeming visible in that space. Anyway one of the things that scared boatloads of life out of me were the valley and lumber trains that I could hear in my bedroom all those miles away. Actually more than anything those train whistles scared me, more than my imagination, more than delusions, more than the scariest of possibilities.
I’ve tried to dissect this phobia over the years. I haven’t been that successful in finding a big following of other people that share this phobia – I mean it’s not like something that you have to go to “group” for – the whistle fear. But I think that I’ve come to the conclusion that it stems back from a lesser trauma I suffered during my first visit to Williamsburg as a child. My parents bought us those wooden whistles, the ones that made the train noises, among other historical presents like – old bullets from the civil war – you know, innocent stuff like that. It was a very hot weekend, I remember, and I was super cranky. Anyway, I took my whistle out of my bag and was smelling and smelling it. Instead of breathing the fresh air, I just inhaled the air from the whistle, almost all day long till I nearly got sick from the wood fumes. It smelled good, actually, I still remember it very clearly. But then it happened. We saw “Martha Washington” walking down the street. She had her big fluffy white dress on, her white ostentatious bonnet. And she gave me a sinister look, I remember, like “you don’t belong here, little girl,” and kept walking. I mean I imagine it that way, but it probably wasn’t even the Martha Washington impersonator lady, it was probably just some idiot tourist wearing all white with a ridiculous white hat, which is traumatizing in its own right. Still, the sensory memory of the smelling, and the hotness, and my brother playing with the Civil War bullets, and me wanting to be quiet under the giant willows, and Martha Washington outwardly dissing me in front of everyone….
…thus my fear of the train whistle.
Today was an interesting day, however. I went a little bit earlier than the last few days (7:30am), just as everyone was leaving for work. But don’t imagine the picture perfect work-goers, pleasantly spilling into their cars and rolling delicately around the block, adjusting coffee sips between half smiles from Christian radio talk shows. Oh No. These are the just-out-of-college work-goers, peeling their little Fords like rusty go-carts around the pot-hole ridden cracks in the residential streets, honking for no apparent reason at me, running on the sidewalk, Starbucks double shot espresso induced head bobbing madly to some neo punk goth band – all to get to work in twenty minutes, in Cleveland, which is forty-five minutes away in rush hour morning traffic.
As soon as the weather gets nicer, nin and I are going to start riding on Towpath on off days. It’s beautiful in the morning down there, especially in the early summer before everyone else shows up on the trails early in the morning. Anyway, nin has this fascination with the gigantic valley bridges, so it should be pleasurable for the both of us, looking and watching.
I don’t like the trains though. A few nights ago I was laying on the futon in the living room. I couldn’t sleep and thought that maybe if I laid out there in the darkness and coolness of the big room I would get tired and doze. BAD IDEA. I use to not be able to be in a room that was completely dark. I went from kids nightlight to this nightlight of the Virgin Mary – as my “joke” cover for still needing a kids nightlight. One of the reasons was certain predisposition to hallucinations, but in general I just didn’t like seeming visible in that space. Anyway one of the things that scared boatloads of life out of me were the valley and lumber trains that I could hear in my bedroom all those miles away. Actually more than anything those train whistles scared me, more than my imagination, more than delusions, more than the scariest of possibilities.
I’ve tried to dissect this phobia over the years. I haven’t been that successful in finding a big following of other people that share this phobia – I mean it’s not like something that you have to go to “group” for – the whistle fear. But I think that I’ve come to the conclusion that it stems back from a lesser trauma I suffered during my first visit to Williamsburg as a child. My parents bought us those wooden whistles, the ones that made the train noises, among other historical presents like – old bullets from the civil war – you know, innocent stuff like that. It was a very hot weekend, I remember, and I was super cranky. Anyway, I took my whistle out of my bag and was smelling and smelling it. Instead of breathing the fresh air, I just inhaled the air from the whistle, almost all day long till I nearly got sick from the wood fumes. It smelled good, actually, I still remember it very clearly. But then it happened. We saw “Martha Washington” walking down the street. She had her big fluffy white dress on, her white ostentatious bonnet. And she gave me a sinister look, I remember, like “you don’t belong here, little girl,” and kept walking. I mean I imagine it that way, but it probably wasn’t even the Martha Washington impersonator lady, it was probably just some idiot tourist wearing all white with a ridiculous white hat, which is traumatizing in its own right. Still, the sensory memory of the smelling, and the hotness, and my brother playing with the Civil War bullets, and me wanting to be quiet under the giant willows, and Martha Washington outwardly dissing me in front of everyone….
…thus my fear of the train whistle.
posted by jessica at 1:01 PM
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