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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, partyboots.
My Wild Rocker Days 01-Feb-2005 12.22 a.m.
Have I mentioned how much I love my Shop Vac? If I haven't, I probably should. I went around this place earlier and just sucked up everything in sight with that wonderful fucker. We don't have carpet but we do have cats, and despite my best efforts to groom those little beauties daily, there are cat hair tumbleweeds in every corner of this place, and it seems I am just the Shop Vac-wielding madwoman to annihilate them. You know those restaurants with bits of shaved wood strewn about the floor? I've often wondered if I could start a similar residential fad with cat hair. I could always just empty the Shop Vac and stuff pillows with the contents if that doesn't work out.
I had so much anxiety earlier I tore the shirt I was wearing right off my body. And now that shirt is retired from shirthood. So, I might frame it. Or dust with it. I'll decide later. I'm going back to hypnotherapy on Wednesday, so that's good.
It's hard to think of what to bloody write all the time. My life is not all that exciting at this point. I should take more bus rides or something. I wish I had past adventures to share, like my trek through the Andes wearing only a fright wig and a toga, or that time I taught an entire village in Africa the song "I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing," but I haven't any stories like that to tell. I guess I'll just tell you about my days as a rocker.
If you've been keeping up with my posts, you have more than likely come to the conclusion that I am a bit of a nut. And you're right, I am a nut. I have always been a dreamer, and I have always had a certain degree of anxiety. I have never felt I fit in anywhere except in my own mind, where I can be anything I dream of being. So, knowing that, it makes sense that I would have spent my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood rocking out like one crazy, rocking motherfucker, right?
The rocking began as bouncing when I was a really little kid, and would take place only in the car when we were out and about. It didn't matter whether there was music playing from the radio or not—I had music in my head. I made up songs and stared out the window, dreaming, bouncing back and forth against the upholstery. My parents claim there were times I bounced with such fervor the car sort of rocked forward and back. (I never do anything half-assed: it's against my nature.) People would often stare in amazement: Look at that crazy, rocking girl! Watch out for that crazy, rocking car!
I was about 10 or 11 years old when the rocking moved its way into the house. I was feeling quiet and pensive one afternoon, and longed to be alone. So, I hung out in my bedroom and listened to the radio, which was sort of odd because normally I'd be out playing or watching television. I enjoyed my time alone with the music so much that it became a daily ritual whenever I had time to spare. I'm not sure exactly when I got the idea to sit on the floor and sway side to side to the music while looking at my reflection in the mirrored closet door, all I know is it was heaven. I would sing along with the songs I knew and imagine I was onstage, where everyone would love me no matter what.
Soon it was time to take my hobby into another part of the house. We had a Lazee-Boy Rocking Recliner in the living room, and man, can a girl rock out in one of those beauties. I rocked until the cows came home, and then rocked some more. That's what we called it: rocking. I would fire up the old massive Grundig Hi-Fi to whatever station was playing a good tune and settle in for some high-quality daydreaming. When the sound of the Hi-Fi started to drive everyone nuts, I enlisted the services of a radio/cassette player with headphones. And there I rocked. My family members went about their days, sometimes acknowledging me as they passed, sometimes not. When we had company, I would resort to swaying in my room. Rocking, swaying—it was all the same to me.
You know, a funny thing happens when you rock in a serious fashion long enough on carpet in a La-Z-Boy Rocker Recliner: the fucker starts to glide. After some months, you could see two grooves or ditches—whatever you want to call them—in the carpet made by the incessant and forceful back and forth movement of the chair. After more time, those grooves became longer and longer, so that the chair would move back a foot or more, and I'd have to slide it forward again and resume my rocking session. I'm sure you can imagine how that would cut into my enjoyment considerably. My mom complained that her carpet was being destroyed. A throw rug was brought in and placed beneath the chair. It too eventually developed grooves.
My family pretty much accepted my hobby. Mom didn't love it—probably feared for her carpet and my sanity—but she allowed me my time in the chair with my music without censure. She said a few things here and there like, "I wish you wouldn't rock so much" or "Why don't you [insert other activity here] instead?" but she didn't reprimand. It was just something I did, like painting or hockey.
"Where's your sister?"
"Rocking."
I started out on a gold rocker and moved on to a maroon one, which was placed on the other side of the living room in front of the big screen television. My mom thought the move would prevent further rocking. Never underestimate a girl and her rocking chair addiction. New grooves were introduced to a different patch of carpet, and again a throw rug got involved. Gliding ensued. A series of squeaks and other various sounds developed in the much-used chair. I don't think those rocking recliners are meant for pious rockers. My mom and sister would be seated on the couch watching television while I rocked out to whatever was playing through my headphones. They suffered through the squeaks and thumping sound of my back and head hitting the chair. If my attention was needed, one of them would reach over and touch my arm or shoulder.
My hair would end up in knots, and I had breakage from the damage caused by rocking. I didn't care, and you wouldn't either if you could see the things that went on in my head: wild, wonderful things. Sometimes I had magic powers; sometimes I was healer or a Broadway starlet—always I was incredibly beautiful, famous, and adored. It's hard to give that up when what you think you have is so much less colourful. In the real world I felt awkward and out of place.
In high school, I turned down several (but certainly not all) invitations to go here and there in favour of staying home to rock. And, like all good rockers, I have a most cherished rocking memory.
Most Cherished Rocking Memory:
One evening my mom and sister had gone shopping and my dad was out in the garage at his worktable, tinkering with something that probably needed fixing. I had the whole glorious house to myself, which I kept completely dark. Oh darkness, you beautiful vixen, how you make for such fine imaginings. I probably had two solid hours of this magic, and I remember it fondly. I must have heard "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang at least five times in those couple of hours.
I rocked until I was about 21 years old. It got me through some tough times in my life, because often I would work out problems by imagining possible solutions. It also soothed me when I felt unhappy or anxious. (And if you tell a living soul about this, I'll deny it, you hear me?)
Well, I'm off to soak away some pain in the tub and hopefully get some good, restful sleep (not in the tub). Oh, I almost forgot to mention this one last thing. Some years back when I was riding in a car, I glanced over at the car next to us and saw a young boy bouncing happily against the back seat. I smiled hugely at him, remembering my wild rocker days. He smiled back, shyly, and I like to think we connected on some secret, rocking level. We are from the same planet, that kid and I.
Thanks for reading.
Linda
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