The Tapes Inside my Head

There are tapes playing inside my head.  But they don’t play music, nor do they play informative lectures, nor do they play any pleasant conversation from a quaint New Hampshire-like town hall talk.  No, these tapes play the sounds and images of painful memories, contentiousness, the frightful ripping to shreds, like jackals fighting over a helpless gosling.  I don’t like these tapes--I wish I could erase them, I wish I could find the stop button.  I wish I could, somehow, remove the machine.  Seems it is state of the art, though, resistant to little pink pills and salty tears, built with skilled hands in the unsettled land of obsessive rumination. 

So I put a poster on my door.  The poster is white with big black letters.  It reads, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”  I like that saying; it is simple, yet it is also deep in meaning.  Maybe if I read it every day, think about it, chew on it over and over, well, then maybe I can turn off the tapes.  Maybe I can get the tape player out of my head.  Maybe, just maybe.

Well, I awoke today, rubbed my eyes, and looked at the poster, right there on my bedroom door.  I didn’t have my glasses, but the letters were big enough.  Eleven simple words, all one syllable--almost.  And so, today was here, the first day of what remains of my life!  That’s worth celebrating, right?  I didn't hear any tapes.  Not yet, anyway.

I eased myself out of bed, felt the soft blue area rug on my bare feet, and touched the poster with two fingers.  I liked the feel of the paper; it had a plastic-like texture.  And the letters were much clearer.  Since this was my “first day,” I was resolved to make it a good one.  I don’t know why, but upon leaving the bedroom for parts known, I rubbed the poster with the palm of my hand, a clumsy parting high-five if you will.  I felt I had to.

O the day proceeded both normally and abnormally, and tapes played without my permission.  I thought of last night, of unkind words, of behaviors on the edge, of tongues undisciplined and silences and stares.  Tapes demanded my attention; they had no qualms about turning up the volume, or adding extra color to enforce their intrusive image.  So it was with this reminding machine, the rut that is dug deep in the gray matter, the habit that controls without even asking--but wait, I think perhaps I have something to say about this.  It was my first day after all, and there remained those eleven words which contain more than a modicum of wisdom.  I thought I would shut off those tapes, and just live for the day.  I thought of the poster, recalling it’s fine feel.

What of tomorrow, or next week, of next year--what of the rest of my life?  I have added Scotch Tape to the poster, even thumb tacks to insure its permanence on my door.  But what of the permanence of living for today, which is really the crux of what that poster means.  I cannot ever remove the tape player, but I can control it.  The poster is a kind of focusing lens, whereby it lets me know that the power is mine, and I need not let the past, however brutal and cutting and poisonous it may have been, control me.  Granted, it can be hard, and at times it can appear impossible, a struggle that constantly robs me of energy and will.  But I have another poster in the garage, left there by my father, with ten simple words, and these are all one syllable.  These words are, “If it is to be, it is up to me.”  So I know I have the choice, and when any unpleasant tapes begin to play, it is up to me to press stop, for I have the power.  Each new day, each "first day," is a day worth living.


686 Words
Writer’s Cramp
4-14-13