Strange Brew
A third family joined the barbecue yesterday. These two boys lost their Canadian father in a skiing accident last year. Their mother toughed it out in Canada for a while but recently moved back to the sub-tropics to be nearer to family support. Their grandfather is the adult who carried them to the McDonald's where they met Big Bro and Big Sis after one of Big Bro's basketball games. The four children hit it off well enough that the two grandfather's found one another and a healing good time was had by all. The two men traded contact info but didnae ever get around to using it. Some uncounted weeks or months later, we encountered this stumbling trio again at a park outing with the entire family plus Big Bro's friend, W. Certainty unimportant, but I believe it possible that it was adding my voice to Hubby's, along with more detailed contact info, which gave B the confidence to call for an impromptu visit to our farm. The stumbling trio had had time to acclamate a bit by the time W's family returned with Big Bro and hearty appetites.
The evening remains a blurry buzz in my head this morning. Nothing new there. Same ol' social anxiety, different crowd. Yaddah blah, blah yaddah. . . What was that that just came out of my fool mouth this time? Was I speaking the same language and/or dialect?
Plying therapy tools to calm that buzz rather than analyze. . .
I amnae certain, but I believe that might have been our house-warming party. Farm warming? It be the first purely social event I have participated in here at the farm since I built that first month-long survey camp in the old farmhouse in 2013.
Again I leave the mood icon on the rapid cycling median. I think I am holding steady but the coffee smells different this morning. The Cream song, "Strange Brew" began providing the soundtrack for my head noise since I was flipping the ribs and chicken on the grill. When I checked my lyric quote, I discovered that it was another case of mishearing the lyrics all these decades. Strictly personal, Eric, but I like what I was hearing better than what you were singing. Go ahead and sue me.
Strange brew. Do you know which side you are on?
Replies
Good morning arfie.
It sounds like the farm warming went well. Warming soil takes better to rooting for the Grands.
Taking the role of grill master is a good option for social anxiety by keeping conversations small for you. You have the option of stepping back to tend the food at your convenience. I do that when taking photos for events.
Hugs.
J
Also went to the lyrics of strange brew...not impressed, I'm sure yours are better.
Yea, I believe my lyrics are better, but I wouldn't change a note of the tune. I haven't caught up with him in a goodly while, but I bet the boy can still rock a real guitar gooder than I can rock an air guitar.
That is absotively why I like the grill master/camp cook role, Jewells. Hot coals and kitchen tools make first rate ammunition, too.
My PTSD brain long ago trained itself all on its own to sort through my PTSD-jumbled feelings to boil them down to how I felt by playing a soundtrack in the background that serves as a clue to interpreting my emotions usefully in the moment, arfie. I kid you not. I've got this DJ in my head that does my therapist's work as to "how does that make you feel?" by playing a song to give me a hint. No idea how it happened but I gratefully take heed. Sounds like you've got one of those DJ's, too huh?
There is considerable room to argue that music is my first language, Muji. Some even called me, "An Idiot Savant." The old world music therapy that helped me overcome my stutter far enough to join human conversations during my preadolescence argues that it is possible that I **still** process speech through the music centers of my brain. Yea, there might be a DJ or three in my subliminal orchestra. Donae waste your breath trying to convince me life is not a musical. I'll offer you ear cleaning products. Open your heart and listen, my friend.
The PTSD brain theories are part of where the newly specialized PTSD crowd lost me, at least for now. Who knows what the morrow may bring? Maybe those theories will make more sense to me down the road.
Farm warming sounds like an enjoyable time was had by all. Over analytical social anxiety or not, it all sounds like a wonderful success.
I never noticed those lyrics. Nah, change them to yours.