Every family has a funny story, oft told to the subject’s chagrin, at gatherings and inopportune moments. One of mine, God knows there are many, is the story of my cousins and me playing in my Uncle Delmar’s front yard.
My parents and two sets of aunts and uncles are gathered, as almost every Sunday of my childhood, chatting and enjoying the afternoon/early evening. Suddenly the calm peaceful atmosphere is bombed by a jarring slam against the huge picture window followed immediately by the blood curdling whales of yours truly.
In panic, all rush to the front porch to witness me standing there humped over, flailing my arms to the wind and sobbing uncontrollably. When I realized I had an audience, I immediately stopped, smiled and said, “Hey.”
“What’s the matter?” the adults demanded.
“We’re playing ‘Statues’.” I grinned. “I’m a weepin’ willow.”
For those unfamiliar with the now probably forgotten yard game, one person acts as the ‘Spinner’ grabbing the arms of the ‘Player’, whipping them around in a circle finally releasing them shouting the subject of the ‘Statue’ they must become upon release. The ‘Spinner’ has to guess what the ‘Statue’ is.
That’s about all I remember with the exception that at every reunion, holiday and in front of every girlfriend I ever had the misfortune of leaving in the same room with a family member that story is retold in every point of view version possible.
It was a childhood game. They misunderstood, so it’s my fault. It’s the anecdote that refused to die. I’m sure it will be on my tombstone…in very, very small print, under my chosen epitaph, which by the way is “If you can read this…get off my grave!”
Maybe that, though, was the point in time I decided I should become an actor. Hey, if I could convince a bunch of adults inside the house from the front yard I was crying to the point they rushed to my side to first console me, then kill me, it must be something I’m good at. In fact, I think it’s the only thing I’ve ever felt good at.
But I no longer do it; act or play ‘Statues’. I miss it, more and more…acting which is in turn an extension of childhood games. Then again, have I really given it up or am I just no longer being paid for it; just paying for it?
I keep trying to pinpoint moments in time, I think coming seriously close to becoming a pillar of salt. I struggle, daily, with finding that one moment in time that led me to where I am today. Actually that’s wrong, not to where I am but why I am.
Positive to the point of insane obsession, that if I can just find that moment of true happiness I can pull it out, hold it up and all the other will just fall away and be no more. The pain will fall to the ground and be gone. The doubt will slip away and no longer exist. The nagging knowledge that I am not good enough and will never be good at anything can just evaporate. I have convinced myself this is how it will be.
Maybe that is the real problem. I have convinced myself of things so expertly, I believe they are real. I have convinced myself that no one knows what I am feeling inside, how black and miserable every moment of every day is. I joke. I smile and am unbelievably witty and wryly sarcastic about just about everything.
Everyone believes me. Everyone knows I struggle, but because of my demeanor believes that I am handling it all so well, that I am strong, content and moving forward. I have convinced myself this is so. This is my insanity, and welcome to it.
I struggle. I fight. I laugh. I smile.
I stand somewhere in the outside watching it all, shaking my head and trying not to give in to just letting it all take over. It’s so hard not to let the temptation just wash over me. That’s what I really want, to just let it take over, soaking every fiber of my being until I shrink into a tiny, tiny puddle.
Icky, stagnant water would make sense. Then maybe someone would come clean it up or the sun would dry it up and I could just go away. My past would have more meaning than something I let go. My being would mean more than an embarrassing tall tale if misunderstanding.
No it wouldn’t. It would just mean I became a mud puddle and I’d be gone. I have to remember that. That is the truth I struggle to hold fast, but it’s slippery and slimy. I can’t get a good, firm grip on it.
Why?
I worked hard and made firm choices to go in other directions; hard, strong, steadfastly prayed upon decisions. I knew that life wouldn’t be as I had imagined. I knew dreams weren’t going to come true, but I tried, was proud of what I had done and let go. Or is that just another aspect of me I convinced myself into believing?
When I left Nashville I remember a man by the name of Steve Kelly telling me that he thought I was leaving too soon. He looked right in my eyes and told me, “You don’t try hard enough.”
Inside, I scoffed at him. What did he mean I didn’t try hard enough? I was making my living as an actor. I had done “Gemini”, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, “Equus”, a number of original plays and musicals. I was a member of an Improv/Comedy company, a founding member as a matter of fact, and I was leaving Nashville because I was having a play I’d written produce at a college and had been hired to be there from first rehearsal through performance. How dare he say I’d not tried hard enough?
My resume was proof of how hard I tried and that it had paid off. Look at it, come on! I graduated high school on Sunday and on Wednesday made my professional debut at the Barter Theatre, the longest, continually running LORT theatre IN THE WORLD! In college, my picture was in my theatre text book, for crying out loud! What did he mean, I didn’t try hard enough?
And now, I work part time for minimum wage at a job going nowhere living in the same house, sleeping in the same bedroom, in the same town I ran screaming from without looking back determined never to return. Maybe he was right, after all I am a weeping willow.
…and the chicken dances on.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
The Heat Beats Faster Act 1 Scene 1
THE HEART BEATS FASTER
ACT ONE
Scene #1
(The elegant home of Celeste and Parker Truehart
As the LIGHTS RISE we hear the Announcer's voice)
ANNOUNCER.
It’s now time for everybody’s favorite daytime drama—The Heart Beats Faster. We now join Parker and Celeste Truehart, Brentwood’s first couple, as they prepare for a small but tasteful party to celebrate Celeste’s recent release from prison.
(LIGHTS TO FULL. CELESTE is pacing the room in a black & white
evening gown. PARKER ENTERS and pours himself a drink.)
PARKER.
Celeste, darling, you seem…nervous.
CELESTE.
I can’t help it, dear. I haven’t seen any of our friends since…well, you know.
PARKER.
Don’t be silly, everyone knows you didn’t see Margot Treadmill…now.
CELESTE.
The world knows what goes on in prisons. It’s more than just riots and hostage situations. People can see through that kind of glamor.
PARKER.
But we’re your friends. We…love you.
CELESTE.
I thought so Parker. Until last night.
PARKER.
I explained that. It’s been a long time.
CELESTE.
And I’ve changed. I’m afraid my thirteen weeks as Prisoner 54387D have scarred me forever.
PARKER.
Just relax. Give it time, Celeste. Things will be the way they used to be.
(DOORBELL)
PARKER.
I’ll get that.
CELESTE.
Thank you Parker. I’m not ready to face anyone yet. I think I’ll check my makeup and change dresses.
(CELESTE MAKES A SWEEPING EXIT as PARKER ANSWERS THE DOOR.
ENTER FELICIA MONTIGUE, professional homewrecker.)
PARKER.
Felecia.
FELECIA.
Parker.
(They lock in a passionate embrace.)
PARKER.
I’ve missed you. My bed is so empty without you.
FELECIA.
Even with that jailbird in it?
PARKER.
She is my wife.
FELECIA.
And I am your lover!
PARKER.
Shhh! She’ll hear you!
FELECIA.
I want her to hear. I can’t stand the thought of that slimy scum sharing your bed, your heart and your bank account.
PARKER.
Celeste is not slimy scum. They found her innocent—finally.
FELECIA.
But are we innocent, Parker. All those hot steamy nights we spent devouring each others bodies while she at stale bread and drank warm water in that hell pit with an open toilet.
PARKER.
Are you telling me it’s over?
FELECIA.
No. I just always wanted to say that.
(ENTER CELESTE.)
FELECIA.
Celeste! Darling! You look wonderful! Solitary confinement obviously agrees with you.
CELESTE.
You’re just saying that.
FELECIA.
I see I’m the first.
CELESTE.
I doubt it.
PARKER.
The others should arrive shortly.
CELESTE.
I’m so excited. I hope someone I really like shows up. I’ve been calling all my friends and telling their maids that I’m home.
PARKER.
Just relax, everyone will be here.
CELESTE.
I have to admit, it’s seems like forever since I participated in a group event that didn’t end in a stabbing and everyone showering together. I think I got in touch with everyone, although I had a little trouble finding Wynette. I do hope she got my message.
FELECIA.
Wynette?
CELESTE.
Yes. Wynette Fargo, my oldest and dearest friend. I have seen her since the concert she gave for the other cons and I at the Randolph Farmer Memorial Prison. She always knew just how to make a girl feel right at home.
FELECIA.
Don’t count on her, honey.
CELESTE.
Why not?
PARKER.
Felecia!
FELECIA.
She should know.
PARKER.
Not now! It’s too soon.
CELESTE.
What’s wrong Parker?
PARKER.
Nothing, dearest, nothing at all.
FELECIA.
Chicken.
CELESTE.
Something is wrong Parker. What is it? Did something happen to Wynette? Tell me. I want to know. I need to know. I can handle it. If this tragedy in my life, our life, has done anything, it’s proven to me that I’m strong. I’m a survivor. I’ve seen the gates of hell and eaten mystery meat from a metal tray and it wasn’t pretty. I can handle anything. So tell me Parker, tell me now! I am not the weak, breakable Celeste Abbot Bauer Horton Hughes Quartermaine Ryan Tyler Truehart I was thirteen weeks ago. Oh no! I am a rock! (Grabbing Parker) Tell about Wynette. Please! I beg of you!
PARKER.
I can’t.
CELESTE.
You can.
PARKER.
No.
CELESTE.
Yes.
PARKER.
No.
CELESTE.
Please.
PARKER.
Sorry.
FELECIA.
I’ll do it.
PARKER.
Okay.
FELECIA.
Sit down.
(FELICIA and CELESTE prepare for a heart to heart
on the sofa.)
PARKER.
Be gentle.
FELECIA.
(To Parker) Of course. (To Celeste) Wynette’s a fruitcake.
CELESTE.
What?
FELECIA.
Wynette was devastated by the events that led up to your conviction.
CELESTE.
Well, of course. Having her oldest and dearest friend take the wrap for bumping off the town tramp must have torn her apart. I wasn’t thrilled about it myself.
FELECIA.
Quite frankly, dear, it was something else that drove her over the edge.
CELESTE.
Her flamingo pink Cadillac with the rhinestone snow tires?
PARKER.
Her guilty conscious.
CELESTE.
What?
FELECIA.
You see, your oldest and dearest friend thought that she had killed Margot Treadmill, but she couldn’t confess to the crime. She had gotten drunk at the Country Music Awards banquet and totally blacked out. All she could remember was that she had purchased the platinum and ostrich feather arrows that Margot was murdered with. She had planned to use them in her new “Wynette Does Opryland” video. She woke up the next day; the arrows were gone and turned up stapling Margot to her new flat screen TV.
CELESTE.
But Wynette didn’t kill Margot. It was Junebug Fleenor, the truck driver she was teaching to read until she discovered he was an undercover mafia kingpin.
PARKER.
But we…and Wynette, didn’t know that until it was all too late.
FELECIA.
Wynette is no longer the chic Country music superstar we’ve grown to tolerate and ignore. She’s a broken woman, living as a bag lady in Centennial Park.
CELESTE.
Oh, no!
PARKER.
She does have a nice bench, though.
FELECIA.
Near the duck pond.
PARKER.
Be strong my darling.
CELESTE.
Oh shut up, Parker. I can’t believe it…I…I…
(Celeste grabs her head in pain.)
PARKER.
Celeste. What’s wrong?
CELESTE.
Nothing. I just suddenly have a terrible headache. Like the one you had last night, only this one’s real.
(DOORBELL)
CELESTE.
That must be the other guests. I can’t face them like this. I must go lie down.
(CELESTE MAKES THE NEXT IN WHAT IS TO BECOME HER TRADEMARK
GRAND EXITS.)
PARKER.
I’m worried about her.
FELECIA.
Yeah, my heart is just breaks for her.
(They rush together in a hot, steamy kiss [literally would
be nice])
(DOORBELL)
PARKER.
I guess I should answer that.
FELECIA.
Go ahead. I’m a patient woman.
(Parker opens the door. ENTER TIMMY TRUEHART, angry, young
stud.)
PARKER.
Timmy.
TIMMY.
You seemed surprised.
PARKER.
I must say I am.
TIMMY.
In spite of everything, she is my mother.
PARKER.
But…
TIMMY.
I know I thought she killed my wife Margot and I planted evidence against her to make her look guilty. I said some disgusting and nasty things about her on the witness stand, one or two which I regret. But that ordeal is over. It’s time to forget all that pain and heartache, well most of it, and move on to a new storyline.
FELECIA.
I’m touched.
TIMMY.
I know. Wash your hands before dinner.
PARKER.
Your mother will be very happy.
TIMMY.
Despite it all, I need her Parker. She’s all I have now. Everything else has been destroyed. I don’t even know where I live.
FELECIA.
That’s awful.
TIMMY.
Tell me about it, what am I going to do with my wardrobe? I know we've have had our differences and I still can’t justify her giving me to that band of gypsies when I was a baby.
PARKER.
Oh, Timmy. Celeste was so young when you were born, and that two month pregnancy was a bitch. She was afraid and confused. She didn’t think she could give you the sort of life you deserved. I'm sure she thought those gypsies were good people at the time. She had no idea they were Soviet based guerillas.
FELECIA.
Consider yourself lucky, Timmy. Most children are born, have a life threatening disease that reveals their true parentage and then are put in an upstairs closet until they’re old enough to cause family problems.
PARKER.
And you’ve been winning fan polls and getting neighborhood girls pregnant since your Uncle Grandma rescued you from those guerillas and returned you to us a full grown young man.
TIMMY.
It was thirteen turbulent weeks, that’s for sure. But those days are all behind me now, and the days ahead of me look so bleak and lonely. My Margot, my love, my life is gone.
FELECIA.
The fourth marriage is always the hardest to get over, after that, they're pretty much a snap.
PARKER.
Let me tell you from experience, there will be others. Love will survive.
TIMMY.
I’ll never get over Margot. My heart is just and empty space and I’ll never love again.
(IN BURSTS COLLETTE MCGEE, Celeste's alternate personality, town
bitch, dripping in blonde hair, fur and mystery.)
TIMMY.
I’m in love!
FELECIA.
Collette McGhee! I thought we’d rid ourselves of you once and for all!
COLLETTE.
(With an evil laugh) This town will never be rid of me. It needs me!
PARKER.
You heartless bitch! Hare dare you show up here uninvited!
COLLETTE.
I invited myself, and if you’re real nice, I’ll let you engrave my invitation.
TIMMY.
Who is this vision of ecstasy I see before me?
FELECIA.
Vision of lust is more like it.
PARKER.
Collette McGhee, my stepson, Timmy Waxman.
TIMMY.
That’s Timmy Truehart. You adopted me when I was in that coma after the governor had my gummy bears poisoned.
PARKER.
Sorry, I always forget my moments of weakness. It’s a mental thing. Collette McGhee, my stepson, Timmy Truehart.
TIMMY.
Where have you been all my life?
COLLETTE.
I give up. Where have I been?
PARKER.
Timmy, stay away from her. She’s a no good temptress out to use your body and steal your soul.
TIMMY.
But I love those qualities in a woman.
PARKER.
You and I are a lot alike.
COLLETTE.
Don’t worry, Parker. I won’t hurt your precious stepson.
TIMMY.
Adopted son.
COLLETTE/PARKER.
Whatever.
COLLETTE.
I think I’ll just toy with him a while, get him to do my bidding and then flick him out of my life like a dried up booger.
PARKER.
Oh, well. That’s okay then.
TIMMY.
Thanks, Dad.
PARKER.
Don’t ever call me that again!
TIMMY.
I think I love you.
PARKER/COLLETTE/FELECIA.
Oh, gross!
TIMMY.
Not you, Parker! Her! (Getting on his knees and taking Collette’s hand.) I think I love you.
COLLETTE.
You don’t know what love is.
TIMMY.
Teach me.
COLLETTE.
Shall I use visual aids?
TIMMY.
Will you make me the happiest man on the show for the next thirteen weeks and marry me?
COLLETTE.
Of course not.
TIMMY.
Why not?
COLLETTE.
I just don’t want to.
TIMMY.
Yes you do.
COLLETTE.
No I don’t.
TIMMY.
Yes you do.
COLLETTE.
No.
TIMMY.
Yes.
COLLETTE.
Uh-uh.
TIMMY.
Uh-huh.
FELECIA.
Oh grow up.
COLLETTE.
I have to go.
TIMMY.
Stay. I won’t pressure you, until the writer's get bored or the show needs filler.
COLLETTE.
I can’t, I must go.
TIMMY.
But why?
COLLETTE.
I don’t know. I just have this tremendous headache.
FELECIA.
That seems to be going around.
TIMMY.
Please. When will I see you again?
COLLETTE.
When destiny…and the writers…call.
(COLLETTE VAINSHES)
TIMMY.
I’m shattered! The only woman I have ever loved is gone!
PARKER.
What about Margot?
TIMMY.
Who?
FELECIA.
Don’t worry Timmy. Collette McGee is just like one of those “Elm Street” movies. Just when you think it’s finally over, they make another stupid sequel.
(ENTER CELESTE.)
CELESTE.
Timmy!
TIMMY.
Mother!
PARKER.
Felecia!
FELECIA.
Parker!
CELESTE.
I thought I’d never see you again.
TIMMY.
I heard. I’m so glad it was only hysterical blindness.
PARKER.
Felecia, you’re crying.
FELECIA.
I always cry at reunions and Seventh Day Adventist commercials. It’s my fatal flaw.
CELESTE.
Come to your mother’s bosoms, son!
TIMMY.
Mommie Dearest, I’ve missed you!
(Timmy and Celeste rush to each others arms. ENTER WYNETTER
FARGO, wearing layers of sequined rags & pushing a shopping cart)
CELESTE.
Wynette Fargo! My oldest and dearest friend!
WYNETTE.
Welcome home, Celeste!
(Wynette whips out a machine gun from a shopping bags ad opens
fire. There are silent screams as the entire cast falls to the floor
to the tune of "That's What Friends Are For".)
WYNETTE.
Got any dip?
(BLACK OUT)
ACT ONE
Scene #1
(The elegant home of Celeste and Parker Truehart
As the LIGHTS RISE we hear the Announcer's voice)
ANNOUNCER.
It’s now time for everybody’s favorite daytime drama—The Heart Beats Faster. We now join Parker and Celeste Truehart, Brentwood’s first couple, as they prepare for a small but tasteful party to celebrate Celeste’s recent release from prison.
(LIGHTS TO FULL. CELESTE is pacing the room in a black & white
evening gown. PARKER ENTERS and pours himself a drink.)
PARKER.
Celeste, darling, you seem…nervous.
CELESTE.
I can’t help it, dear. I haven’t seen any of our friends since…well, you know.
PARKER.
Don’t be silly, everyone knows you didn’t see Margot Treadmill…now.
CELESTE.
The world knows what goes on in prisons. It’s more than just riots and hostage situations. People can see through that kind of glamor.
PARKER.
But we’re your friends. We…love you.
CELESTE.
I thought so Parker. Until last night.
PARKER.
I explained that. It’s been a long time.
CELESTE.
And I’ve changed. I’m afraid my thirteen weeks as Prisoner 54387D have scarred me forever.
PARKER.
Just relax. Give it time, Celeste. Things will be the way they used to be.
(DOORBELL)
PARKER.
I’ll get that.
CELESTE.
Thank you Parker. I’m not ready to face anyone yet. I think I’ll check my makeup and change dresses.
(CELESTE MAKES A SWEEPING EXIT as PARKER ANSWERS THE DOOR.
ENTER FELICIA MONTIGUE, professional homewrecker.)
PARKER.
Felecia.
FELECIA.
Parker.
(They lock in a passionate embrace.)
PARKER.
I’ve missed you. My bed is so empty without you.
FELECIA.
Even with that jailbird in it?
PARKER.
She is my wife.
FELECIA.
And I am your lover!
PARKER.
Shhh! She’ll hear you!
FELECIA.
I want her to hear. I can’t stand the thought of that slimy scum sharing your bed, your heart and your bank account.
PARKER.
Celeste is not slimy scum. They found her innocent—finally.
FELECIA.
But are we innocent, Parker. All those hot steamy nights we spent devouring each others bodies while she at stale bread and drank warm water in that hell pit with an open toilet.
PARKER.
Are you telling me it’s over?
FELECIA.
No. I just always wanted to say that.
(ENTER CELESTE.)
FELECIA.
Celeste! Darling! You look wonderful! Solitary confinement obviously agrees with you.
CELESTE.
You’re just saying that.
FELECIA.
I see I’m the first.
CELESTE.
I doubt it.
PARKER.
The others should arrive shortly.
CELESTE.
I’m so excited. I hope someone I really like shows up. I’ve been calling all my friends and telling their maids that I’m home.
PARKER.
Just relax, everyone will be here.
CELESTE.
I have to admit, it’s seems like forever since I participated in a group event that didn’t end in a stabbing and everyone showering together. I think I got in touch with everyone, although I had a little trouble finding Wynette. I do hope she got my message.
FELECIA.
Wynette?
CELESTE.
Yes. Wynette Fargo, my oldest and dearest friend. I have seen her since the concert she gave for the other cons and I at the Randolph Farmer Memorial Prison. She always knew just how to make a girl feel right at home.
FELECIA.
Don’t count on her, honey.
CELESTE.
Why not?
PARKER.
Felecia!
FELECIA.
She should know.
PARKER.
Not now! It’s too soon.
CELESTE.
What’s wrong Parker?
PARKER.
Nothing, dearest, nothing at all.
FELECIA.
Chicken.
CELESTE.
Something is wrong Parker. What is it? Did something happen to Wynette? Tell me. I want to know. I need to know. I can handle it. If this tragedy in my life, our life, has done anything, it’s proven to me that I’m strong. I’m a survivor. I’ve seen the gates of hell and eaten mystery meat from a metal tray and it wasn’t pretty. I can handle anything. So tell me Parker, tell me now! I am not the weak, breakable Celeste Abbot Bauer Horton Hughes Quartermaine Ryan Tyler Truehart I was thirteen weeks ago. Oh no! I am a rock! (Grabbing Parker) Tell about Wynette. Please! I beg of you!
PARKER.
I can’t.
CELESTE.
You can.
PARKER.
No.
CELESTE.
Yes.
PARKER.
No.
CELESTE.
Please.
PARKER.
Sorry.
FELECIA.
I’ll do it.
PARKER.
Okay.
FELECIA.
Sit down.
(FELICIA and CELESTE prepare for a heart to heart
on the sofa.)
PARKER.
Be gentle.
FELECIA.
(To Parker) Of course. (To Celeste) Wynette’s a fruitcake.
CELESTE.
What?
FELECIA.
Wynette was devastated by the events that led up to your conviction.
CELESTE.
Well, of course. Having her oldest and dearest friend take the wrap for bumping off the town tramp must have torn her apart. I wasn’t thrilled about it myself.
FELECIA.
Quite frankly, dear, it was something else that drove her over the edge.
CELESTE.
Her flamingo pink Cadillac with the rhinestone snow tires?
PARKER.
Her guilty conscious.
CELESTE.
What?
FELECIA.
You see, your oldest and dearest friend thought that she had killed Margot Treadmill, but she couldn’t confess to the crime. She had gotten drunk at the Country Music Awards banquet and totally blacked out. All she could remember was that she had purchased the platinum and ostrich feather arrows that Margot was murdered with. She had planned to use them in her new “Wynette Does Opryland” video. She woke up the next day; the arrows were gone and turned up stapling Margot to her new flat screen TV.
CELESTE.
But Wynette didn’t kill Margot. It was Junebug Fleenor, the truck driver she was teaching to read until she discovered he was an undercover mafia kingpin.
PARKER.
But we…and Wynette, didn’t know that until it was all too late.
FELECIA.
Wynette is no longer the chic Country music superstar we’ve grown to tolerate and ignore. She’s a broken woman, living as a bag lady in Centennial Park.
CELESTE.
Oh, no!
PARKER.
She does have a nice bench, though.
FELECIA.
Near the duck pond.
PARKER.
Be strong my darling.
CELESTE.
Oh shut up, Parker. I can’t believe it…I…I…
(Celeste grabs her head in pain.)
PARKER.
Celeste. What’s wrong?
CELESTE.
Nothing. I just suddenly have a terrible headache. Like the one you had last night, only this one’s real.
(DOORBELL)
CELESTE.
That must be the other guests. I can’t face them like this. I must go lie down.
(CELESTE MAKES THE NEXT IN WHAT IS TO BECOME HER TRADEMARK
GRAND EXITS.)
PARKER.
I’m worried about her.
FELECIA.
Yeah, my heart is just breaks for her.
(They rush together in a hot, steamy kiss [literally would
be nice])
(DOORBELL)
PARKER.
I guess I should answer that.
FELECIA.
Go ahead. I’m a patient woman.
(Parker opens the door. ENTER TIMMY TRUEHART, angry, young
stud.)
PARKER.
Timmy.
TIMMY.
You seemed surprised.
PARKER.
I must say I am.
TIMMY.
In spite of everything, she is my mother.
PARKER.
But…
TIMMY.
I know I thought she killed my wife Margot and I planted evidence against her to make her look guilty. I said some disgusting and nasty things about her on the witness stand, one or two which I regret. But that ordeal is over. It’s time to forget all that pain and heartache, well most of it, and move on to a new storyline.
FELECIA.
I’m touched.
TIMMY.
I know. Wash your hands before dinner.
PARKER.
Your mother will be very happy.
TIMMY.
Despite it all, I need her Parker. She’s all I have now. Everything else has been destroyed. I don’t even know where I live.
FELECIA.
That’s awful.
TIMMY.
Tell me about it, what am I going to do with my wardrobe? I know we've have had our differences and I still can’t justify her giving me to that band of gypsies when I was a baby.
PARKER.
Oh, Timmy. Celeste was so young when you were born, and that two month pregnancy was a bitch. She was afraid and confused. She didn’t think she could give you the sort of life you deserved. I'm sure she thought those gypsies were good people at the time. She had no idea they were Soviet based guerillas.
FELECIA.
Consider yourself lucky, Timmy. Most children are born, have a life threatening disease that reveals their true parentage and then are put in an upstairs closet until they’re old enough to cause family problems.
PARKER.
And you’ve been winning fan polls and getting neighborhood girls pregnant since your Uncle Grandma rescued you from those guerillas and returned you to us a full grown young man.
TIMMY.
It was thirteen turbulent weeks, that’s for sure. But those days are all behind me now, and the days ahead of me look so bleak and lonely. My Margot, my love, my life is gone.
FELECIA.
The fourth marriage is always the hardest to get over, after that, they're pretty much a snap.
PARKER.
Let me tell you from experience, there will be others. Love will survive.
TIMMY.
I’ll never get over Margot. My heart is just and empty space and I’ll never love again.
(IN BURSTS COLLETTE MCGEE, Celeste's alternate personality, town
bitch, dripping in blonde hair, fur and mystery.)
TIMMY.
I’m in love!
FELECIA.
Collette McGhee! I thought we’d rid ourselves of you once and for all!
COLLETTE.
(With an evil laugh) This town will never be rid of me. It needs me!
PARKER.
You heartless bitch! Hare dare you show up here uninvited!
COLLETTE.
I invited myself, and if you’re real nice, I’ll let you engrave my invitation.
TIMMY.
Who is this vision of ecstasy I see before me?
FELECIA.
Vision of lust is more like it.
PARKER.
Collette McGhee, my stepson, Timmy Waxman.
TIMMY.
That’s Timmy Truehart. You adopted me when I was in that coma after the governor had my gummy bears poisoned.
PARKER.
Sorry, I always forget my moments of weakness. It’s a mental thing. Collette McGhee, my stepson, Timmy Truehart.
TIMMY.
Where have you been all my life?
COLLETTE.
I give up. Where have I been?
PARKER.
Timmy, stay away from her. She’s a no good temptress out to use your body and steal your soul.
TIMMY.
But I love those qualities in a woman.
PARKER.
You and I are a lot alike.
COLLETTE.
Don’t worry, Parker. I won’t hurt your precious stepson.
TIMMY.
Adopted son.
COLLETTE/PARKER.
Whatever.
COLLETTE.
I think I’ll just toy with him a while, get him to do my bidding and then flick him out of my life like a dried up booger.
PARKER.
Oh, well. That’s okay then.
TIMMY.
Thanks, Dad.
PARKER.
Don’t ever call me that again!
TIMMY.
I think I love you.
PARKER/COLLETTE/FELECIA.
Oh, gross!
TIMMY.
Not you, Parker! Her! (Getting on his knees and taking Collette’s hand.) I think I love you.
COLLETTE.
You don’t know what love is.
TIMMY.
Teach me.
COLLETTE.
Shall I use visual aids?
TIMMY.
Will you make me the happiest man on the show for the next thirteen weeks and marry me?
COLLETTE.
Of course not.
TIMMY.
Why not?
COLLETTE.
I just don’t want to.
TIMMY.
Yes you do.
COLLETTE.
No I don’t.
TIMMY.
Yes you do.
COLLETTE.
No.
TIMMY.
Yes.
COLLETTE.
Uh-uh.
TIMMY.
Uh-huh.
FELECIA.
Oh grow up.
COLLETTE.
I have to go.
TIMMY.
Stay. I won’t pressure you, until the writer's get bored or the show needs filler.
COLLETTE.
I can’t, I must go.
TIMMY.
But why?
COLLETTE.
I don’t know. I just have this tremendous headache.
FELECIA.
That seems to be going around.
TIMMY.
Please. When will I see you again?
COLLETTE.
When destiny…and the writers…call.
(COLLETTE VAINSHES)
TIMMY.
I’m shattered! The only woman I have ever loved is gone!
PARKER.
What about Margot?
TIMMY.
Who?
FELECIA.
Don’t worry Timmy. Collette McGee is just like one of those “Elm Street” movies. Just when you think it’s finally over, they make another stupid sequel.
(ENTER CELESTE.)
CELESTE.
Timmy!
TIMMY.
Mother!
PARKER.
Felecia!
FELECIA.
Parker!
CELESTE.
I thought I’d never see you again.
TIMMY.
I heard. I’m so glad it was only hysterical blindness.
PARKER.
Felecia, you’re crying.
FELECIA.
I always cry at reunions and Seventh Day Adventist commercials. It’s my fatal flaw.
CELESTE.
Come to your mother’s bosoms, son!
TIMMY.
Mommie Dearest, I’ve missed you!
(Timmy and Celeste rush to each others arms. ENTER WYNETTER
FARGO, wearing layers of sequined rags & pushing a shopping cart)
CELESTE.
Wynette Fargo! My oldest and dearest friend!
WYNETTE.
Welcome home, Celeste!
(Wynette whips out a machine gun from a shopping bags ad opens
fire. There are silent screams as the entire cast falls to the floor
to the tune of "That's What Friends Are For".)
WYNETTE.
Got any dip?
(BLACK OUT)
Monday, January 30, 2012
Dear Logan,
It is perfectly fine to be single. There is no crime and/or shame in being unattached. It is a perfectly respectful state to be in, as opposed to say perpetual terror or Delaware.
In fact, Biblically, people who remain single are to be revered above others. Although I’m sure Westboro Baptist Church would disagree. But hey, should they intervene, your name would be on Fox News so your visibility and popularity among sane people would increase. So that would be a plus, wouldn’t it?
And then there’s Newt Gingrich’s take which is “Married? Single? Who cares? Do her! Now let’s run for President!” However, dear young man, I know you well enough to know you have higher moral standards than anyone running for public office, as well as a much lower annual income. Let’s just move along, shall we?
Upon his marriage to Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt was asked what he felt was the biggest difference between being married and being single. His answer? “When you are married you can fart and eat crackers in bed and not have to worry.” Hmm…wonder how Angelina feels about that?
Now I am not knocking marriage. I am sure it is a perfectly wonderful state. I know many happy people who are married. I also know of many happy people who have been married many, many times.
I’ve never been married myself, almost three times but never actually got to the whole legal schlemiel. Had I gone through with them, I’m sure I would still be very happy and relatively well adjusted. Of course after three marriages I would probably be running for public office or, more than likely, standing by the road side dressed in a barrel holding up a sign that says “Will work for alimony”.
I am sure, Young Grasshopper, should you really, really not want to be single the time will come when you will not be. Don’t obsess about it. There are so many other important things to obsess over, like having on matching socks, making sure you don’t put the frozen turkey on top of the bread in the grocery bag again and whether or not “General Hospital” is getting cancelled.
When the time is right, I have no doubt that this unattached state you worry over will take care of itself. Someday, a lucky young lady will decide you are the one and that will be that. Before you can say “Brad Pitt” she will grab you by the Coast Guard, drag you to the nearest church and slam your head against the altar until you scream “I do” for mercy.
However, since I have never been wed, I cannot speak of that which I do not know. (I am not running for President) Therefore, I can only speak of being single, the pros and cons, the ins and outs and the random manic depressive obsessive compulsive glories of single life.
First of all, disregard Mr. Pitts quote. When you are single, you sleep alone (most of the time) so no one will care if you fart and eat crackers in bed. I have to tell you this is NEVER a problem.
Now I am obviously single, but I don’t sleep alone. I sleep with a dog. This is not a sexist slur against anyone I am dating. I actually sleep with a dog…literally…the four legged furry kind. While she doesn’t particularly care for it when I fart in bed, she does, however, love it when I eat crackers. In turn, I don’t have to sleep in the crumbs, just something to think about.
Of course, sleeping with a dog does lead to a few minor negatives. There’s the whole lay down with dogs, get up with fleas thing. I just keep Pixie clean and innocently chalk up any stray itching to dry skin.
Being single does add a certain ideal freedom to one’s life and as a young man you may take full advantage of these. Most importantly there are a number of questions you never have to answer. Examples being “Where are you going?”, “Can we afford that?” and “You're not really going to wear that, are you?” For the record, “Does this make my butt look big?” will always, always haunt us.
There is one question you will have to deal with constantly and the longer you are single the more you will hear it. Yes, my friend, the dreaded question, “Why are you still single?” Face it, it’s a rude, stupid question asked by rude, stupid however well-meaning people. Prepare for it.
There are many, many variations to this question; “Why haven’t you ever married?”, “Still looking for the right woman?”, “Not finished sewing the wild oats yet?”, “Would you like to meet my brother?” All in all, each of these variations on a single theme boil down to one thing.
If you aren’t a married man by a certain age, many in society assume there is a deep character flaw within you that has caused members of the opposite sex to run screaming for Delaware every time you walk in a room. They simply cannot stand knowing what it is, and think you will be caught off guard enough by the question to answer it.
The obvious answer is the wrong one. Be warned. Never, ever answer the “Why aren’t you married” question with “There’s nothing wrong with being single”. This will only lead to argumentative conversation.
“Why aren’t you married?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being single.”
“Yes there is.”
“No there’s not.”
“Most serial killers are single.”
“Statistically, most serial killers are divorced.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
…See where that got you?
The best answer to the dreaded, rude question in my many years of experience is “If I knew the answer to that question, I’d be married now wouldn’t I?” With that answer you have properly deflected the rudeness by forcing them to have to answer the unanswerable question themselves. These people think of themselves as polite and PC, and would never ever admit what they think your character flaws are (to your face). Of course, they will forever wonder what is so wrong with you that no one will marry you, but they’ll at least stop asking you what it is.
There is also the dreaded “So, are you seeing anybody question?” Once again, the initial response is the incorrect one. If you say “No”, they will immediately begin fixing you up. Oh, the empty wallets and nights of sheer terror that will lead to, unless of course, you are in to that sort of thing. The proper answer to that question is precarious, so tread lightly.
“So, are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Oh? Whom?”
See why treading lightly is important here? For years I told people I was dating Ellen Degeneres. It made sense for awhile. It explained why they never saw us together, that I went out of town a lot and why I was always broke. Then the “Time” came and now most of my rude friends from that era think I never married because I turn the women I date into lesbians.
I have learned, over time, that the proper answer to the question is, “Yes, and I think this may be the one. It’s all new and I don’t want to jinx it.” Obviously, you say, doesn’t that give them the option to ask the question later?
Yes, Logan. Yes it does. Then your answer becomes, “We broke up and I’m still very upset. Please (add lip quiver here—they LOVE that) let’s not talk about it.” From there you can keep the questions in perfect circle.
See? Learn from my experience.
Now, you will get a few who will try and stage an intervention. Not married interventions are the reason that many single people choose to carry weapons. There are no easy outs with these “people”. Just deal with them on a one by one basis, and carry a permit in your wallet or weapon of choice holder.
I remember, when I was a few years older than you, mid-twenties at the latest, a woman a few years older than I, right here in Johnson County, decided to step in an attempt a coup. Her younger, inbred sister was my age and also unmarried. I answered all the questions correctly and unfortunately this was before Ellen came out, so I had no tragic flaw back up.
She insisted I just get over myself and get married. It was expected at my age. I argued that I was waiting for the right woman, and was sure that love in full 3D Cinemascope was just around the corner. She was having none of it. I was told that when she was my age, she just found a single man, got married and now had a happy normal life with three children and one on the way.
I finally just told her I wasn’t interested. She snorted and gave me that “Well, obviously you’re gay” look (You’ll know it when you see it, get used to it) and moved on. Three days later her husband tried to French kiss me. So you see how well THAT philosophy works out.
I now see both of them once a week buying groceries…separately. She doesn’t speak to me and gives me a silent “I’m still better than you” glare then miserably opens a box of cookies to eat and not pay for. He seems very happy with his partner, although I do continue to insist I have no interest in meeting his brother.
That brings us to the financial expense of being single. This is the one negative you’ll just have to deal with. The truth is that being single, it will cost you the same amount to live as a family of three. There is no way around this.
They don’t make utility bills and rent for one, like Campbell’s soup and frozen entrees. And just like Soup for One and frozen entrees they suck and are cheaper to buy in bulk to freeze for later. Even though the Bible says differently, society, especially Church groups, Utility boards and Landlords will always treat single people as “Special Needs Children”. (Oh, they are so sweet but thank God there’s not one in my family!)
Just stop worrying about being single. You’re gonna be just fine. If the right girl doesn’t come along you have two options we’ve already covered. You can meet someone’s brother or you can get a dog, fart and eat crackers in bed happily ever after.
You can live happily until the day you die an unmarried man. Smile my friend, knowing that your obituary will read:
“So and so, who never married, passed away. We now know what was wrong with him.”
And the chicken dances on…
In fact, Biblically, people who remain single are to be revered above others. Although I’m sure Westboro Baptist Church would disagree. But hey, should they intervene, your name would be on Fox News so your visibility and popularity among sane people would increase. So that would be a plus, wouldn’t it?
And then there’s Newt Gingrich’s take which is “Married? Single? Who cares? Do her! Now let’s run for President!” However, dear young man, I know you well enough to know you have higher moral standards than anyone running for public office, as well as a much lower annual income. Let’s just move along, shall we?
Upon his marriage to Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt was asked what he felt was the biggest difference between being married and being single. His answer? “When you are married you can fart and eat crackers in bed and not have to worry.” Hmm…wonder how Angelina feels about that?
Now I am not knocking marriage. I am sure it is a perfectly wonderful state. I know many happy people who are married. I also know of many happy people who have been married many, many times.
I’ve never been married myself, almost three times but never actually got to the whole legal schlemiel. Had I gone through with them, I’m sure I would still be very happy and relatively well adjusted. Of course after three marriages I would probably be running for public office or, more than likely, standing by the road side dressed in a barrel holding up a sign that says “Will work for alimony”.
I am sure, Young Grasshopper, should you really, really not want to be single the time will come when you will not be. Don’t obsess about it. There are so many other important things to obsess over, like having on matching socks, making sure you don’t put the frozen turkey on top of the bread in the grocery bag again and whether or not “General Hospital” is getting cancelled.
When the time is right, I have no doubt that this unattached state you worry over will take care of itself. Someday, a lucky young lady will decide you are the one and that will be that. Before you can say “Brad Pitt” she will grab you by the Coast Guard, drag you to the nearest church and slam your head against the altar until you scream “I do” for mercy.
However, since I have never been wed, I cannot speak of that which I do not know. (I am not running for President) Therefore, I can only speak of being single, the pros and cons, the ins and outs and the random manic depressive obsessive compulsive glories of single life.
First of all, disregard Mr. Pitts quote. When you are single, you sleep alone (most of the time) so no one will care if you fart and eat crackers in bed. I have to tell you this is NEVER a problem.
Now I am obviously single, but I don’t sleep alone. I sleep with a dog. This is not a sexist slur against anyone I am dating. I actually sleep with a dog…literally…the four legged furry kind. While she doesn’t particularly care for it when I fart in bed, she does, however, love it when I eat crackers. In turn, I don’t have to sleep in the crumbs, just something to think about.
Of course, sleeping with a dog does lead to a few minor negatives. There’s the whole lay down with dogs, get up with fleas thing. I just keep Pixie clean and innocently chalk up any stray itching to dry skin.
Being single does add a certain ideal freedom to one’s life and as a young man you may take full advantage of these. Most importantly there are a number of questions you never have to answer. Examples being “Where are you going?”, “Can we afford that?” and “You're not really going to wear that, are you?” For the record, “Does this make my butt look big?” will always, always haunt us.
There is one question you will have to deal with constantly and the longer you are single the more you will hear it. Yes, my friend, the dreaded question, “Why are you still single?” Face it, it’s a rude, stupid question asked by rude, stupid however well-meaning people. Prepare for it.
There are many, many variations to this question; “Why haven’t you ever married?”, “Still looking for the right woman?”, “Not finished sewing the wild oats yet?”, “Would you like to meet my brother?” All in all, each of these variations on a single theme boil down to one thing.
If you aren’t a married man by a certain age, many in society assume there is a deep character flaw within you that has caused members of the opposite sex to run screaming for Delaware every time you walk in a room. They simply cannot stand knowing what it is, and think you will be caught off guard enough by the question to answer it.
The obvious answer is the wrong one. Be warned. Never, ever answer the “Why aren’t you married” question with “There’s nothing wrong with being single”. This will only lead to argumentative conversation.
“Why aren’t you married?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being single.”
“Yes there is.”
“No there’s not.”
“Most serial killers are single.”
“Statistically, most serial killers are divorced.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
…See where that got you?
The best answer to the dreaded, rude question in my many years of experience is “If I knew the answer to that question, I’d be married now wouldn’t I?” With that answer you have properly deflected the rudeness by forcing them to have to answer the unanswerable question themselves. These people think of themselves as polite and PC, and would never ever admit what they think your character flaws are (to your face). Of course, they will forever wonder what is so wrong with you that no one will marry you, but they’ll at least stop asking you what it is.
There is also the dreaded “So, are you seeing anybody question?” Once again, the initial response is the incorrect one. If you say “No”, they will immediately begin fixing you up. Oh, the empty wallets and nights of sheer terror that will lead to, unless of course, you are in to that sort of thing. The proper answer to that question is precarious, so tread lightly.
“So, are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Oh? Whom?”
See why treading lightly is important here? For years I told people I was dating Ellen Degeneres. It made sense for awhile. It explained why they never saw us together, that I went out of town a lot and why I was always broke. Then the “Time” came and now most of my rude friends from that era think I never married because I turn the women I date into lesbians.
I have learned, over time, that the proper answer to the question is, “Yes, and I think this may be the one. It’s all new and I don’t want to jinx it.” Obviously, you say, doesn’t that give them the option to ask the question later?
Yes, Logan. Yes it does. Then your answer becomes, “We broke up and I’m still very upset. Please (add lip quiver here—they LOVE that) let’s not talk about it.” From there you can keep the questions in perfect circle.
See? Learn from my experience.
Now, you will get a few who will try and stage an intervention. Not married interventions are the reason that many single people choose to carry weapons. There are no easy outs with these “people”. Just deal with them on a one by one basis, and carry a permit in your wallet or weapon of choice holder.
I remember, when I was a few years older than you, mid-twenties at the latest, a woman a few years older than I, right here in Johnson County, decided to step in an attempt a coup. Her younger, inbred sister was my age and also unmarried. I answered all the questions correctly and unfortunately this was before Ellen came out, so I had no tragic flaw back up.
She insisted I just get over myself and get married. It was expected at my age. I argued that I was waiting for the right woman, and was sure that love in full 3D Cinemascope was just around the corner. She was having none of it. I was told that when she was my age, she just found a single man, got married and now had a happy normal life with three children and one on the way.
I finally just told her I wasn’t interested. She snorted and gave me that “Well, obviously you’re gay” look (You’ll know it when you see it, get used to it) and moved on. Three days later her husband tried to French kiss me. So you see how well THAT philosophy works out.
I now see both of them once a week buying groceries…separately. She doesn’t speak to me and gives me a silent “I’m still better than you” glare then miserably opens a box of cookies to eat and not pay for. He seems very happy with his partner, although I do continue to insist I have no interest in meeting his brother.
That brings us to the financial expense of being single. This is the one negative you’ll just have to deal with. The truth is that being single, it will cost you the same amount to live as a family of three. There is no way around this.
They don’t make utility bills and rent for one, like Campbell’s soup and frozen entrees. And just like Soup for One and frozen entrees they suck and are cheaper to buy in bulk to freeze for later. Even though the Bible says differently, society, especially Church groups, Utility boards and Landlords will always treat single people as “Special Needs Children”. (Oh, they are so sweet but thank God there’s not one in my family!)
Just stop worrying about being single. You’re gonna be just fine. If the right girl doesn’t come along you have two options we’ve already covered. You can meet someone’s brother or you can get a dog, fart and eat crackers in bed happily ever after.
You can live happily until the day you die an unmarried man. Smile my friend, knowing that your obituary will read:
“So and so, who never married, passed away. We now know what was wrong with him.”
And the chicken dances on…
Monday, January 16, 2012
My Silent, Yet Deadly Visual Shame
Do my socks really have to match? Am I violating some unwritten rule I was never made clearly aware of if I cover my feet with two not quite the same colors? Has this deviation set me up for heartache and disaster?
Will the butterfly effect cause wars to start and children to starve? Is this simple over sight setting me up to fail? Has the improper attention to my lower extremities been the reasoning behind my lack of measurable success in the eyes of the world?
Was it correctable in the morning after my shower as I reached into the sock drawer? Or could the problem only have been resolved before I shoved them in there? Perhaps, it all began somewhere in the wash cycle? Must I think back all the way to the moment before I put them in the dirty clothes hamper or is this something much deeper and darker, going all the way back to my delicate formative years?
Could my lack of detail be the reasoning behind my crippling battle with depression? Does the one black crew neck and one not as black French cut explain my three failed engagements? (One claimed it was part of my quirky charm, the lying bitch.) Did the difference in sock textures actually cause my car accident in 2002, or did it merely make it worse?
Should I take immediate action to correct this egregious character flaw? Must I leave Post It notes with color charts on my underwear as a defense measurement? Is there a support group and/or twelve step program I need to seek out with some sense of urgency?
What if I fail? Again? What are the consequences? Could the perilous United States economy hinge on my ankles being covered in the same exact fabric, color and cut? Would the Senate, the House and the Executive Administrator finally be able to stop fighting over the blue shovel in the sand box with the simple act of pulling the exact same pair out of my top drawer? Do I actually have the power within my bleary eyed morning grasp to send gas prices spiraling in the opposite direction, the Real Estate market to unstagnate and the Unemployment Rate to plunge to miraculously record low levels?
And is it really such a big deal? One really shouldn’t see my mismatched socks if I were dressed properly. Then again, if I were dressed properly would I have on mismatched socks? And shouldn't you only be offended at my socks if I squatted or sat down? Frankly, if I squatted I would hope you had something better to gander at than my ankles.
Truthfully, I haven’t got a sculpture ready behind. It wouldn’t exactly stop traffic if I bent over to pick up a quarter on the sidewalk, but I think I’ve got a nice butt. Then again, at 53, it is kind of drooling closer to the floor, although I swear getting shorter is the major cause of that. Yet, surely my saggy rear is much nicer to gaze at than my ankles.
I have to admit, and I am usually very astute about these things, my ankles are one of my least attractive features. They are boney and the hair on my legs comes to a very clear, definitive line at my ankles. They also tend to be dry and itchy, especially during seasonal changes. Yes, along with my shoulder, my ankles serve as a barometer. If you want to know whether or not it’s too early to plant your potatoes, just ask me if my ankles have started itching come Spring.
Said ankles are rather strange and ugly to begin with. My cousins called me “Monkey Feet” growing up, but then I guess that’s more about my feet than my ankles. In the positive column, I am able to pick up pencils with my toes, and soap in the shower which is a talent that would be handy should I ever be incarcerated which I am not planning on happening unless, of course, there is a law about mismatched socks that I am also unaware of.
Perhaps all of life's misfortunes do come to fruition simply because I am wearing mismatched socks. But it’s not like I wear one black and one white, or even one navy blue and one black. I only own black socks. Well, there are a couple of white socks but I keep them in a totally separate drawer so not to be caught unconscious after an accident wearing one black and one white. When I buy them I only purchase Gold Toe socks, but sometimes, as gifts, I have received other brands.
Does it behoove me to refuse gifts? Is it rude to politely tell well-meaning gift givers that they are altering the effects of the universe negatively by buying the wrong brand of sock? Perhaps Congress should simply outlaw all brands but the correct one? I’m sure that after spending billions of dollars on research and adding several additional million dollars in codicils for tax hikes, legal wire tappings and funding for road improvement on highways that don’t exist they should all be able to get together, agree and quickly pass something so important by at least the Tri-centennial.
Maybe people should just stop buying socks as gifts for single men over thirty for whom they have no idea what to buy. Barnes & Noble gift cards are nice, and chocolate is sublime, both much better and more appreciated as gifts. Of course, if the gift buyer thinks underwear is a good gift, then by all means purchase socks, Gold Toe Black socks.
I digress.
Am I reading far too much into this? Are my mismatched socks truly a sign of unchecked psychosis and rushed potty training? Is this horrendous offense to society, the environment and universal balance not a mental disorder at all?
Obviously. It has nothing to do with Freud, Rohrshach and Fox Network News or surely some nice Southern Conservative lady would have kindly alerted the media to correct the problem quickly and efficiently. This is all simply a fear gotten slightly out of control. Mismatched socks are obviously not a mental disorder, a sign of impending brain stem malfunction nor a lifestyle of choice which is a relief to my family who feared protests at my funeral from members of Westboro Baptist Church.
Perhaps this is all simply physical, maybe dietary. Am I not getting the correct amount of vitamins, minerals and trans-fatty acids in my food intake? I admit that I don’t eat peas or anything purple. Purple food is just unnatural and I can’t bring myself to do it. As for peas, well chalk that up to Manley Workman flipping a big booger into Bonnie Cully’s forkful at lunchtime. A pea cannot come within a plate of my lips without bringing back the trauma of lunch time tables of third graders barfing all over the pink and black tiles of Maywood Elementary School’s cafeteria.
Maybe I should scan television commercials more closely. Have a missed a supplement I could add to my daily regimen? Is the stigmatic embarrassment of this physical disorder keeping me from an active, normal life via a tiny blue capsule that could rid me of this horror?
That’s it. This is all only fear. I am not a fearful person. I have been through so much, but I have done it all bravely and come out the better for it. Surely I can speak, in confidence of course, to my General Practitioner. I am just one of many living with this silent yet deadly visual shame.
Help is available. All I need do is admit that I have a problem. I am in need. After a quiet, confidential chat with my doctor this could all be amended. After coughing up several hundred dollars for a 30 day supply, I could be living life like the rest of modern society, confidently walking in public wearing two identical socks and keeping a close eye on minor side effects possibilities including liver damage, thoughts of suicide and erections that last more than five hours.
I would be cured but what if…what if…what if it is neither mental nor physical?
My only true fear, other than forced pea puking or blacking out in a WalMart and purchasing a Justin Bieber CD, is the fear of what really happens to the sock that disappears in the dryer. Why is it always just one, and how dare that sock force someone into a lifetime of one naked ankle?
It’s not talked about, but there is a widely circulated belief that not all socks are actually socks. Undocumented, but whispered about in hushed conclaves of government offices (*COUGH* Tea Party *COUGH*), is the proof that some socks are actually visitors from another planet trapped here on Earth. Those that disappear have managed to find transportation via the combination of fabric softener, dryer vents and static cling to return to their home planet.
Shocking, but this does happen. However, like lost puppies returned to the children they were separated from, E.T. phoning home and “Work It” being cancelled after two episodes this is a good thing. We should not worry about this. This is to be celebrated, not feared. We are not in danger.
Unless of course, one of those escaping Gold Toe disguised Other Worlders, while attempting to transport home, meets up with and, God forbid, procreates with one of the grapes I constantly find rolling across the grocery store floor far from the plastic bag we trap them in. While I would sympathize with a poor Sock-Grape Alien child, the consequences would spell disaster for the human race. A new diabolic subculture could rise to power.
It is too evil to think about and I am not free to discuss the details here. They are watching me, tracking my every move, documenting my thoughts, feelings and lack of color co-ordination. They are watching us all.
Beware! Beware! They want to take over! They want to force us all to break spaghetti in half before we boil it and listen to Elvis Presley sing “Blue Christmas” non-stop at Holiday time. They want is to wear discolored Martian children on our feet and marry a Kardashian for 72 days and THINK it’s a good thing!
It’s not! It’s not a good thing! We must demand freedom! We must demand an end to it all! This is worse than anyone realizes! They’ve polluted our air! They’ve dumped trash in our rivers! They freakin’ cancelled “One Life To Life” for cryin’ out loud! Life as we know it is coming to an end!
This is worse than anyone could image. It worse than if Brian Frons and Michelle Bachman had a baby and named it The Situation! These Rayon Fruit Babies have paved paradise and put up a Drive-thru Chicken and Beer Joint. It’s made out of kudzu and Andrew Dice Clay chest hair! God help us all!
So does it really matter that my socks don’t match?
I don’t think so.
The chicken dances on…
Will the butterfly effect cause wars to start and children to starve? Is this simple over sight setting me up to fail? Has the improper attention to my lower extremities been the reasoning behind my lack of measurable success in the eyes of the world?
Was it correctable in the morning after my shower as I reached into the sock drawer? Or could the problem only have been resolved before I shoved them in there? Perhaps, it all began somewhere in the wash cycle? Must I think back all the way to the moment before I put them in the dirty clothes hamper or is this something much deeper and darker, going all the way back to my delicate formative years?
Could my lack of detail be the reasoning behind my crippling battle with depression? Does the one black crew neck and one not as black French cut explain my three failed engagements? (One claimed it was part of my quirky charm, the lying bitch.) Did the difference in sock textures actually cause my car accident in 2002, or did it merely make it worse?
Should I take immediate action to correct this egregious character flaw? Must I leave Post It notes with color charts on my underwear as a defense measurement? Is there a support group and/or twelve step program I need to seek out with some sense of urgency?
What if I fail? Again? What are the consequences? Could the perilous United States economy hinge on my ankles being covered in the same exact fabric, color and cut? Would the Senate, the House and the Executive Administrator finally be able to stop fighting over the blue shovel in the sand box with the simple act of pulling the exact same pair out of my top drawer? Do I actually have the power within my bleary eyed morning grasp to send gas prices spiraling in the opposite direction, the Real Estate market to unstagnate and the Unemployment Rate to plunge to miraculously record low levels?
And is it really such a big deal? One really shouldn’t see my mismatched socks if I were dressed properly. Then again, if I were dressed properly would I have on mismatched socks? And shouldn't you only be offended at my socks if I squatted or sat down? Frankly, if I squatted I would hope you had something better to gander at than my ankles.
Truthfully, I haven’t got a sculpture ready behind. It wouldn’t exactly stop traffic if I bent over to pick up a quarter on the sidewalk, but I think I’ve got a nice butt. Then again, at 53, it is kind of drooling closer to the floor, although I swear getting shorter is the major cause of that. Yet, surely my saggy rear is much nicer to gaze at than my ankles.
I have to admit, and I am usually very astute about these things, my ankles are one of my least attractive features. They are boney and the hair on my legs comes to a very clear, definitive line at my ankles. They also tend to be dry and itchy, especially during seasonal changes. Yes, along with my shoulder, my ankles serve as a barometer. If you want to know whether or not it’s too early to plant your potatoes, just ask me if my ankles have started itching come Spring.
Said ankles are rather strange and ugly to begin with. My cousins called me “Monkey Feet” growing up, but then I guess that’s more about my feet than my ankles. In the positive column, I am able to pick up pencils with my toes, and soap in the shower which is a talent that would be handy should I ever be incarcerated which I am not planning on happening unless, of course, there is a law about mismatched socks that I am also unaware of.
Perhaps all of life's misfortunes do come to fruition simply because I am wearing mismatched socks. But it’s not like I wear one black and one white, or even one navy blue and one black. I only own black socks. Well, there are a couple of white socks but I keep them in a totally separate drawer so not to be caught unconscious after an accident wearing one black and one white. When I buy them I only purchase Gold Toe socks, but sometimes, as gifts, I have received other brands.
Does it behoove me to refuse gifts? Is it rude to politely tell well-meaning gift givers that they are altering the effects of the universe negatively by buying the wrong brand of sock? Perhaps Congress should simply outlaw all brands but the correct one? I’m sure that after spending billions of dollars on research and adding several additional million dollars in codicils for tax hikes, legal wire tappings and funding for road improvement on highways that don’t exist they should all be able to get together, agree and quickly pass something so important by at least the Tri-centennial.
Maybe people should just stop buying socks as gifts for single men over thirty for whom they have no idea what to buy. Barnes & Noble gift cards are nice, and chocolate is sublime, both much better and more appreciated as gifts. Of course, if the gift buyer thinks underwear is a good gift, then by all means purchase socks, Gold Toe Black socks.
I digress.
Am I reading far too much into this? Are my mismatched socks truly a sign of unchecked psychosis and rushed potty training? Is this horrendous offense to society, the environment and universal balance not a mental disorder at all?
Obviously. It has nothing to do with Freud, Rohrshach and Fox Network News or surely some nice Southern Conservative lady would have kindly alerted the media to correct the problem quickly and efficiently. This is all simply a fear gotten slightly out of control. Mismatched socks are obviously not a mental disorder, a sign of impending brain stem malfunction nor a lifestyle of choice which is a relief to my family who feared protests at my funeral from members of Westboro Baptist Church.
Perhaps this is all simply physical, maybe dietary. Am I not getting the correct amount of vitamins, minerals and trans-fatty acids in my food intake? I admit that I don’t eat peas or anything purple. Purple food is just unnatural and I can’t bring myself to do it. As for peas, well chalk that up to Manley Workman flipping a big booger into Bonnie Cully’s forkful at lunchtime. A pea cannot come within a plate of my lips without bringing back the trauma of lunch time tables of third graders barfing all over the pink and black tiles of Maywood Elementary School’s cafeteria.
Maybe I should scan television commercials more closely. Have a missed a supplement I could add to my daily regimen? Is the stigmatic embarrassment of this physical disorder keeping me from an active, normal life via a tiny blue capsule that could rid me of this horror?
That’s it. This is all only fear. I am not a fearful person. I have been through so much, but I have done it all bravely and come out the better for it. Surely I can speak, in confidence of course, to my General Practitioner. I am just one of many living with this silent yet deadly visual shame.
Help is available. All I need do is admit that I have a problem. I am in need. After a quiet, confidential chat with my doctor this could all be amended. After coughing up several hundred dollars for a 30 day supply, I could be living life like the rest of modern society, confidently walking in public wearing two identical socks and keeping a close eye on minor side effects possibilities including liver damage, thoughts of suicide and erections that last more than five hours.
I would be cured but what if…what if…what if it is neither mental nor physical?
My only true fear, other than forced pea puking or blacking out in a WalMart and purchasing a Justin Bieber CD, is the fear of what really happens to the sock that disappears in the dryer. Why is it always just one, and how dare that sock force someone into a lifetime of one naked ankle?
It’s not talked about, but there is a widely circulated belief that not all socks are actually socks. Undocumented, but whispered about in hushed conclaves of government offices (*COUGH* Tea Party *COUGH*), is the proof that some socks are actually visitors from another planet trapped here on Earth. Those that disappear have managed to find transportation via the combination of fabric softener, dryer vents and static cling to return to their home planet.
Shocking, but this does happen. However, like lost puppies returned to the children they were separated from, E.T. phoning home and “Work It” being cancelled after two episodes this is a good thing. We should not worry about this. This is to be celebrated, not feared. We are not in danger.
Unless of course, one of those escaping Gold Toe disguised Other Worlders, while attempting to transport home, meets up with and, God forbid, procreates with one of the grapes I constantly find rolling across the grocery store floor far from the plastic bag we trap them in. While I would sympathize with a poor Sock-Grape Alien child, the consequences would spell disaster for the human race. A new diabolic subculture could rise to power.
It is too evil to think about and I am not free to discuss the details here. They are watching me, tracking my every move, documenting my thoughts, feelings and lack of color co-ordination. They are watching us all.
Beware! Beware! They want to take over! They want to force us all to break spaghetti in half before we boil it and listen to Elvis Presley sing “Blue Christmas” non-stop at Holiday time. They want is to wear discolored Martian children on our feet and marry a Kardashian for 72 days and THINK it’s a good thing!
It’s not! It’s not a good thing! We must demand freedom! We must demand an end to it all! This is worse than anyone realizes! They’ve polluted our air! They’ve dumped trash in our rivers! They freakin’ cancelled “One Life To Life” for cryin’ out loud! Life as we know it is coming to an end!
This is worse than anyone could image. It worse than if Brian Frons and Michelle Bachman had a baby and named it The Situation! These Rayon Fruit Babies have paved paradise and put up a Drive-thru Chicken and Beer Joint. It’s made out of kudzu and Andrew Dice Clay chest hair! God help us all!
So does it really matter that my socks don’t match?
I don’t think so.
The chicken dances on…
Thursday, February 17, 2011
A Spot For Me
It’s very hard not to think spring when temperatures here in Tennessee are averaging ten degrees higher than normal. This is what my Grandmother would call a False Spring. No doubt before the end of March we’ll get whomped with chilly temps and at least one more snow.
Although, I look forward to it, the last few springs have been difficult. This time last year, I never would have imagined that I’d be ensconced in the house of my teen years in Mountain City, Tennessee. In fact, if had asked I’d have told you this would be the last place I’d be. Looks like the last place turns out to have been at the head of the line the whole time.
I’m trying very hard to concentrate on the possibilities this year and not the fear of slipping further behind in life. At this point there’s not a lot further back that I can slip so why not look ahead, find several points of possibilities to focus on and start working those muscles.
My Grandmother hated the fall. She said it reminded her of death, but I always found the fall season stimulating, with winter being the time of relaxing reward. Spring to me is preparation for summer, a time of enthusiasm and work.
So as winter winds down and spring begins to bloom, I plan. Foremost in my head is the focal point most easily attainable. I find myself in the mountains amidst what’s left of the Melungeon farmers, so I plant. Or rather plan to plant.
We no longer have a garden. Growing up, we always had a huge garden, using the fruits of that labor to feed ourselves. This used to be tobacco country, so this time of year we’d begin that laborious grind to pretty much little gain.
I always hated gardening. Much of it I think now stemming from the fruitless acreage of burley. It seemed to me a waste of time and energy. As a project in school one year, I recorded every man hour we spent growing the tobacco and used the crop financial yield to discover we made less than one penny an hour.
Of course, the government pays you not to grow tobacco now, and the years of growing that crop changed the rich hardy soil into mere mediocre dirt. Crops here in Johnson County aren't as hardy and plentiful as they once were and as a family, seemingly world wide, most of our gardens are now the local grocery store.
Dad still grows tomatoes and peppers, the back porch covered with plants. I’ve already taken him to Boone to get his staples. Near the French doors in the dining room he has little seedlings stretching toward the Sun, avoiding the terror of frost until they can be transplanted around the back porch, away from Jackson’s paws and urine.
As for me, I avoided gardening like the plague just as I did Nicholas Cage movies and shoving firecrackers into my eyes. I kept my yards neat, trimmed and green. Unless someone gave me something potted there were no plants. Even the pots would find a spot on the porch until they died from lack of intentional inattention.
It was February of the early ‘90s when I moved into to my wonderful little apartment in Rising Sun, Maryland. It was the bottom half of a two level building literally in downtown. I was across the street from the pharmacy and from my front porch I could see the main red light of old downtown.
The yard was tiny. It actually took me longer to clean up from mowing than mowing. It remained for the first two years plant less, with the exception of a rosebush in the corner Uncle Horace’s son had planted and a few stray tulips my cousin Linda hand planted when she lived there. Those tulips I happily mowed down rather than bother mowing around.
My upstairs neighbor was a wonderful old lady we called Miss Grace. I think she was the first and only tenant in the upstairs apartment since Horace converted what at one time was the family home. I adored her; a character that one day will turn up in something I write that no one will read.
After two years there Miss Grace’s health began to fail her. It became difficult, then impossible for her to maneuver the stairs. At one point I offered to change apartments with her, but she refused. I visited her every day, usually shortly after I got off work.
Sometimes she’d give me a call and ask me to come up and just sit with her. We’d watch TV while she chain smoked and we’d drink hot tea. She got to the point where even maneuvering around the apartment became difficult. She’d managed to sit at her kitchen table and look out the window into our tiny yard and enjoy her days watching the world use the sidewalk.
I asked her that fall if there was anything she wanted or needed that I could do for her. She took a drag off her cigarette and gazed out that window with this hopeful smile and said, “Yes.” She motioned to share her view and pointed. “Could you plant me some flowers out there on our side of the sidewalk? Something pretty with lots of colors that I can enjoy from here.”
How could I say no to that? So I borrowed a few flower cataloges from my cousin Debbie and let Miss Grace choose what she wanted, grumbling the entire time I planted a couple of dozen bulbs. I also gave her a brochure I got in the mail with an offer of six rose bushes, of which I allowed her to choose and grumbled planting the things knowing my back was to her but she could see me put them in the ground.
It made her so happy. In the spring and summer she would have “God’s color”, as she called our tiny row of tulips, roses and Canna, to look at from her little space in the window. I just smiled, knowing the work was done, and figuring a 3’ by 6” space of weeds wouldn’t kill me.
Miss Grace never got to look at her flowers. She passed away that winter. To be honest I’d forgotten all about her “God’s Colors” until they sprouted that spring. After I bawled like a baby for a few hours when the first tulip burst up, I decided to take special care of that little bed in her honor, knowing full well she’d being seeing those colors sitting at the window of heaven with God himself.
From there my garden was born. It kept expanding and expanding, until I could practically mow the yard with a pair of scissors. The roses, tulips and Canna became home to a bounty of unique and beautiful lisianthus, dianthus, edelweiss and a host of perennials that were gifts from friends or cuttings literally from friends all over the country, thanks to My Space.
It was my refuge. I was always looking for something new and a new spot to put it in. When I was stressed from work, yanking the weeds and pruning calmed me down. When I was depressed watering and just breathing in the scent lifted me. When I was happy, finding a way to nurse a poorly bloom into health made me joyous. I loved my garden so.
Then things changed. I moved and my garden of Grace and God’s color was quickly yanked up and mowed down. One plant was transplanted into my Aunt Irene’s yard, a cutting from my Aunt Mag’s “snowball bush” which was planted by my great great grandmother. It’s still there, finally blooming again last year for the first time since the transplant.
Now I’m here. My parents have their own flower habitat, which other than watering I have no privy to. I contented myself last year by weed eating and keeping the creek banks trimmed and neat, but there was one bed by the garage that my Mother never could get anything to grow in.
Mom is a Zinnia and Petunia sort of gal, as opposed to my being a Chinese Magnolia and Lantana guy. We both agreed this little bed was an eyesore, but it’s in front of where we park the cars so she was content to let it look bedraggled with a lone scrawny not quite a weed something growing there.
Then I found some dianthus on the cheap and tossed them in there without permission, just to keep from having to look at the dirt. To Mom’s shock, not mine, before long we had this incredible burst of color consuming that ugly space. We kept looking for more unique colors and by fall we had this breathtaking mound where ugly used to be.
Because of its placement in the house we actually had that lovely color up through the second, I repeat the second snow. Those little dianthus just refused to admit that it was winter. Even now, the blooms are all gone, but I’ll be darned if those babies aren’t still a beautiful green and so perky even Jackson can’t smash them down.
To my pleasure, Mom and Dad have consented to letting me have my own little space for Grace and God’s colors. I’m thrilled that after a long dry spell, I’ll have a little “piece of Earth” to quote the musical “The Secret Garden”. I’m even more thrilled at the spot that has been chosen for me.
In the back portion of the yard there are two trees, several hundred years old where the branch splits making a little island at the foot of the trees. Knowing many may not understand the term, a “branch” is what we Southerners refer to when talking about a steady trickle of water that empties into the creek.
This land, our part a little under an acre of what used to be my Grandparents 86 acre farm, is full of natural mountain springs, most beneath the ground. They tend to bubble up and run off creating what we call branches making natural divides in the land. This little spot, an oval shape of maybe fifteen square foot, is made by a hill causing the “branch” of the runoff to split before meeting again two hundred feet before it empties into the creek.
The split begins just before the two old trees, travels on both sides around them and then meets again creating this little mound that hasn’t really been taken care of since I was little. Oh the times my cousins and I had on that little mound. We climbed the trees, fought imaginary Indians, caught lightning bugs and at least one of us broke an arm climbing the trees. To warm my heart even further, it’s a little mound my mother and her seven siblings did the same thing on.
When we built the house on this little tract in 1972, on the exact spot Mom’s Grandparents house stood, my Aunt Faye gave her four Wisteria vines from her garden as a house warming gift. Mom planted them between the two trees. Time past.
Mom and Dad sold the house and moved in with Granddad when my Grandmother died. That didn’t work so well and they ended up at a wonderful spot on top of a mountain. We all loved it, but as they aged they were unable to care for five and a half acres of grass that needed to be mowed and a small orchard. Then the house we built on a little piece of family land came back on the market and we all have returned.
So much had changed. Granddad, too, passed away. The “family home” on top of the hill now belongs to a wonderful “hippie” couple with a three legged boxer and a potbelly pig. The chickens and cattle are gone, but the barn I actually helped build still stands.
Soon, very soon, those wisteria vines my mother planted between the trees forty years ago will bloom, always the first blossoms of the year. They are one of the few things untouched in all this time. They have grown and twisted and become part of every branch of those two century old trees. Before they bud out and give us our first taste of leaves, they will first explode in purple blue blossoms engulfing the majesty of those two maples.
And this year, at their feet I will have my own little spot. Oh there will be a number of things, but I will be placing my own little mark there. Some things that can just be left there for as long as some one can sit at the window and enjoy them. It will be my own little spin on Grace and God’s colors in a spot that will catch the corner of your eye as you drive the highway until it curves around the mountain and out of sight.
With strength, purpose and happy tears, I have been sent home to be given control over the tiny little spot where my imagination was born, my mother played and somewhere along the way a legacy of spectacular visual candy is born annually.
I hope, no, I know that not only my ancestors will be pleased, but Miss Grace will be looking out her window with God at my shoulders as I work the soil, and tend the blooms with a smile of contentment on her face. As will I.
Although, I look forward to it, the last few springs have been difficult. This time last year, I never would have imagined that I’d be ensconced in the house of my teen years in Mountain City, Tennessee. In fact, if had asked I’d have told you this would be the last place I’d be. Looks like the last place turns out to have been at the head of the line the whole time.
I’m trying very hard to concentrate on the possibilities this year and not the fear of slipping further behind in life. At this point there’s not a lot further back that I can slip so why not look ahead, find several points of possibilities to focus on and start working those muscles.
My Grandmother hated the fall. She said it reminded her of death, but I always found the fall season stimulating, with winter being the time of relaxing reward. Spring to me is preparation for summer, a time of enthusiasm and work.
So as winter winds down and spring begins to bloom, I plan. Foremost in my head is the focal point most easily attainable. I find myself in the mountains amidst what’s left of the Melungeon farmers, so I plant. Or rather plan to plant.
We no longer have a garden. Growing up, we always had a huge garden, using the fruits of that labor to feed ourselves. This used to be tobacco country, so this time of year we’d begin that laborious grind to pretty much little gain.
I always hated gardening. Much of it I think now stemming from the fruitless acreage of burley. It seemed to me a waste of time and energy. As a project in school one year, I recorded every man hour we spent growing the tobacco and used the crop financial yield to discover we made less than one penny an hour.
Of course, the government pays you not to grow tobacco now, and the years of growing that crop changed the rich hardy soil into mere mediocre dirt. Crops here in Johnson County aren't as hardy and plentiful as they once were and as a family, seemingly world wide, most of our gardens are now the local grocery store.
Dad still grows tomatoes and peppers, the back porch covered with plants. I’ve already taken him to Boone to get his staples. Near the French doors in the dining room he has little seedlings stretching toward the Sun, avoiding the terror of frost until they can be transplanted around the back porch, away from Jackson’s paws and urine.
As for me, I avoided gardening like the plague just as I did Nicholas Cage movies and shoving firecrackers into my eyes. I kept my yards neat, trimmed and green. Unless someone gave me something potted there were no plants. Even the pots would find a spot on the porch until they died from lack of intentional inattention.
It was February of the early ‘90s when I moved into to my wonderful little apartment in Rising Sun, Maryland. It was the bottom half of a two level building literally in downtown. I was across the street from the pharmacy and from my front porch I could see the main red light of old downtown.
The yard was tiny. It actually took me longer to clean up from mowing than mowing. It remained for the first two years plant less, with the exception of a rosebush in the corner Uncle Horace’s son had planted and a few stray tulips my cousin Linda hand planted when she lived there. Those tulips I happily mowed down rather than bother mowing around.
My upstairs neighbor was a wonderful old lady we called Miss Grace. I think she was the first and only tenant in the upstairs apartment since Horace converted what at one time was the family home. I adored her; a character that one day will turn up in something I write that no one will read.
After two years there Miss Grace’s health began to fail her. It became difficult, then impossible for her to maneuver the stairs. At one point I offered to change apartments with her, but she refused. I visited her every day, usually shortly after I got off work.
Sometimes she’d give me a call and ask me to come up and just sit with her. We’d watch TV while she chain smoked and we’d drink hot tea. She got to the point where even maneuvering around the apartment became difficult. She’d managed to sit at her kitchen table and look out the window into our tiny yard and enjoy her days watching the world use the sidewalk.
I asked her that fall if there was anything she wanted or needed that I could do for her. She took a drag off her cigarette and gazed out that window with this hopeful smile and said, “Yes.” She motioned to share her view and pointed. “Could you plant me some flowers out there on our side of the sidewalk? Something pretty with lots of colors that I can enjoy from here.”
How could I say no to that? So I borrowed a few flower cataloges from my cousin Debbie and let Miss Grace choose what she wanted, grumbling the entire time I planted a couple of dozen bulbs. I also gave her a brochure I got in the mail with an offer of six rose bushes, of which I allowed her to choose and grumbled planting the things knowing my back was to her but she could see me put them in the ground.
It made her so happy. In the spring and summer she would have “God’s color”, as she called our tiny row of tulips, roses and Canna, to look at from her little space in the window. I just smiled, knowing the work was done, and figuring a 3’ by 6” space of weeds wouldn’t kill me.
Miss Grace never got to look at her flowers. She passed away that winter. To be honest I’d forgotten all about her “God’s Colors” until they sprouted that spring. After I bawled like a baby for a few hours when the first tulip burst up, I decided to take special care of that little bed in her honor, knowing full well she’d being seeing those colors sitting at the window of heaven with God himself.
From there my garden was born. It kept expanding and expanding, until I could practically mow the yard with a pair of scissors. The roses, tulips and Canna became home to a bounty of unique and beautiful lisianthus, dianthus, edelweiss and a host of perennials that were gifts from friends or cuttings literally from friends all over the country, thanks to My Space.
It was my refuge. I was always looking for something new and a new spot to put it in. When I was stressed from work, yanking the weeds and pruning calmed me down. When I was depressed watering and just breathing in the scent lifted me. When I was happy, finding a way to nurse a poorly bloom into health made me joyous. I loved my garden so.
Then things changed. I moved and my garden of Grace and God’s color was quickly yanked up and mowed down. One plant was transplanted into my Aunt Irene’s yard, a cutting from my Aunt Mag’s “snowball bush” which was planted by my great great grandmother. It’s still there, finally blooming again last year for the first time since the transplant.
Now I’m here. My parents have their own flower habitat, which other than watering I have no privy to. I contented myself last year by weed eating and keeping the creek banks trimmed and neat, but there was one bed by the garage that my Mother never could get anything to grow in.
Mom is a Zinnia and Petunia sort of gal, as opposed to my being a Chinese Magnolia and Lantana guy. We both agreed this little bed was an eyesore, but it’s in front of where we park the cars so she was content to let it look bedraggled with a lone scrawny not quite a weed something growing there.
Then I found some dianthus on the cheap and tossed them in there without permission, just to keep from having to look at the dirt. To Mom’s shock, not mine, before long we had this incredible burst of color consuming that ugly space. We kept looking for more unique colors and by fall we had this breathtaking mound where ugly used to be.
Because of its placement in the house we actually had that lovely color up through the second, I repeat the second snow. Those little dianthus just refused to admit that it was winter. Even now, the blooms are all gone, but I’ll be darned if those babies aren’t still a beautiful green and so perky even Jackson can’t smash them down.
To my pleasure, Mom and Dad have consented to letting me have my own little space for Grace and God’s colors. I’m thrilled that after a long dry spell, I’ll have a little “piece of Earth” to quote the musical “The Secret Garden”. I’m even more thrilled at the spot that has been chosen for me.
In the back portion of the yard there are two trees, several hundred years old where the branch splits making a little island at the foot of the trees. Knowing many may not understand the term, a “branch” is what we Southerners refer to when talking about a steady trickle of water that empties into the creek.
This land, our part a little under an acre of what used to be my Grandparents 86 acre farm, is full of natural mountain springs, most beneath the ground. They tend to bubble up and run off creating what we call branches making natural divides in the land. This little spot, an oval shape of maybe fifteen square foot, is made by a hill causing the “branch” of the runoff to split before meeting again two hundred feet before it empties into the creek.
The split begins just before the two old trees, travels on both sides around them and then meets again creating this little mound that hasn’t really been taken care of since I was little. Oh the times my cousins and I had on that little mound. We climbed the trees, fought imaginary Indians, caught lightning bugs and at least one of us broke an arm climbing the trees. To warm my heart even further, it’s a little mound my mother and her seven siblings did the same thing on.
When we built the house on this little tract in 1972, on the exact spot Mom’s Grandparents house stood, my Aunt Faye gave her four Wisteria vines from her garden as a house warming gift. Mom planted them between the two trees. Time past.
Mom and Dad sold the house and moved in with Granddad when my Grandmother died. That didn’t work so well and they ended up at a wonderful spot on top of a mountain. We all loved it, but as they aged they were unable to care for five and a half acres of grass that needed to be mowed and a small orchard. Then the house we built on a little piece of family land came back on the market and we all have returned.
So much had changed. Granddad, too, passed away. The “family home” on top of the hill now belongs to a wonderful “hippie” couple with a three legged boxer and a potbelly pig. The chickens and cattle are gone, but the barn I actually helped build still stands.
Soon, very soon, those wisteria vines my mother planted between the trees forty years ago will bloom, always the first blossoms of the year. They are one of the few things untouched in all this time. They have grown and twisted and become part of every branch of those two century old trees. Before they bud out and give us our first taste of leaves, they will first explode in purple blue blossoms engulfing the majesty of those two maples.
And this year, at their feet I will have my own little spot. Oh there will be a number of things, but I will be placing my own little mark there. Some things that can just be left there for as long as some one can sit at the window and enjoy them. It will be my own little spin on Grace and God’s colors in a spot that will catch the corner of your eye as you drive the highway until it curves around the mountain and out of sight.
With strength, purpose and happy tears, I have been sent home to be given control over the tiny little spot where my imagination was born, my mother played and somewhere along the way a legacy of spectacular visual candy is born annually.
I hope, no, I know that not only my ancestors will be pleased, but Miss Grace will be looking out her window with God at my shoulders as I work the soil, and tend the blooms with a smile of contentment on her face. As will I.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Road That Used To Be
Sometimes in darkness it only takes a small ray of light to fill up the room. I awoke before the family and sat on the front porch, watching the squirrels play in the snow, and the birds torture the squirrels playing in the snow. The world was still and serene, beautiful in its plainness.
It struck me like a Mac Davis song. Remember him? He had this art of taking the average and painting it, as it is, magically ordinary. The songs weren’t hard for the simple Joe to sing, any one could and the listener couldn’t help but hum along. They were all memorably spectacular, but complexly simple.
Maybe I’m just finally getting the reins on things, but like listening to “I Believe In Music”, “Forever Lovers” or “A Little Less Conversation” I find myself sighing in contentment, dazzled with the ordinary routine of life. I’m finding basic comfort in basic comfort, sometimes to the point of getting annoyed when the slightest hair is out of place.
Hopefully the scope of my vision is widening. I don’t find myself dwelling in the anger and pain of the past. I’m not quite focused yet, but I don’t seem to be spinning my wheels as much in the snow banks. It’s melting away in the middling 48 degree sunshine.
I took a brief drive this morning, as I oft do on a Saturday, veering off my usual path down a portion of a road I used to be forced to travel. There was a time when Old Forge Creek Road was the only one leading to town. It was treacherously curvy and dangerously narrow, following babble by babble the creek that leads to somewhere I’ve never really known.
There’s not a lot left of that old road that used to be. Now only two small sections exist, the smaller one I live on, used only by the five families that live on either end, and the bigger section still heavily traveled and still following every pebble of the creek. That old portion hasn’t changed much but now leads to nowhere.
I recall the bike wrecks, the spills in the creek and the dogs chasing the old Ford Granddad used to drive, nipping stupidly at the tires. I used to think it was so beautiful, but that beauty is now gone. The older folks and the poor folk that still live there haven’t taken care of it. It’s weedy, neglected and stereotypical Appalachian.
Many years ago, I remember trying to cross the creek in a spot other than the bridge, as children will typically find a way to do. I remember slipping off one of the jagged stones and landing painfully on several others.
In tears, cut, bloody and wet, I remember bawling, literally bawling, to my Aunt Mag who was dabbing my scrapes and asking “Why God puts such odd rocks across the river”, as I thought it was.
In wonderful Southern drawl my Aunt Mag smiled as she rubbed Rosebud Salve into my little wounds. “Danny, God has to put odd rocks in the river.” When I cried more and told her it wasn’t fair to make people slip and fall, she of course had the perfect answer.
“There’s odd rocks across the river so the next time you step you know you’re footing is sure.” That answer has rung through my head the rest of my life.
As I find myself at a resting spot, please God let it be just a resting spot, I am learning the joys of the magically ordinary. I work when they allow me. I clean house and make dinner for Mom and Dad. I get a kick out of Dad getting a kick out of me being able to walk in the room look at the TV and immediately know what movie he’s watching.
I’ve found quiet joy in the one day this week Mom slept late, not getting out of her robe and nightgown, just sitting by the fireplace and working on a crossword puzzle well into the night. I find peace in the hyperkinetics of my dog, Jackson, as he sniffs out and digs to China looking for a mole. I get a belly laugh spying the neighbors feeding their pet pig the junk mail, Roscoe snacking away dressed in a bright green sweater she made for him.
There’s also this odd peaceful addiction to Twitter. I truly enjoy reading the Tweets, and unlike most, I read them all. I follow over a hundred people. Like most of America I have this creepy fetish of wondering what ‘celebrities’ are up to. I prefer to follow the ones who Tweet realism, rather than networking.
Kurt Warner tweets about his kids. Yesterday stating where each one was, the seven year old being “in Tupperware”. That cracked me up, having visions of a tot in time out in a big plastic microwave safe container. I realize he didn’t mean in that way, but I went there. But that’s the sort of thing I enjoy reading, the normality of those whose choice of paths have made them anything but.
I like knowing that Kristin Chenoweth is a chronic insomniac, one more thing we have in common…hint hint. I like the fact that Allison Sweeney’s young son last week “was hungrier than a two tummied giant”. I like it that Russell Tovey makes fun of his own ears and James Cameron thinks Kim Kardasian is already in “3D”.
And I’ve been writing. Sometimes its good, sometimes its bad, but I’ve gotten myself back in the routine of writing a minimum of an hour a day, that doesn’t include blogging, another story totally. I’m still not convinced that anything will ever come of my writing. It’s just something I just do, like breathing.
To be honest, I really wouldn’t know how to go about doing something with my writing. That’s why I blog, tri-blog actually. Just to put it out there past my own nose. It’s a long shot, but I know that once a bolt of lightning hit Ben Franklin’s key.
Over hearing a bit of silly conversation a few weeks ago during the snow storm at work lead me to writing a piece I ended up titling “The Hapka of Our Lives” concerning the brouhaha surrounding the departure of an actor from “Days of Our Lives”. It was a good piece; funny, tight and structured to perfectly fit the framework I set up for that blog.
On a silly lark, I tweeted a link to it to the actor himself. Untypically he apparently actually read it and retweeted it to a couple of other actors from the show, saying, “I almost died laughing”. I was very shocked and pleasantly surprised. That led to my little blog going bonkers for a few days.
It was a nice little kick to the ego. I didn’t get any new ‘followers’ from it and numbers dropped down to normal for the next two episodes I posted, which is fine. Sometimes you have to use your increments of “Fifteen Minutes” in small chunks to really be able to savor it. I have to admit, I don’t think the two posts after the “big” blog were very good.
In hindsight, I think I tried to imitate the “Hapka” blog getting silly and not really carrying the story along. That’s important in my writing, as a matter of fact, in my life. It’s fine to veer off in several directions as long as when they pull together they stay focused on the task at hand.
But all of this has led my to be more comfortable with my “average-ness”. Sometimes, I think we get so caught up in being better, in being excellent, in not settling for anything as long as its more than everyone else, we forget that in order to be the best there have to be a lot of people that are not.
That’s okay. A squirrel never wants to be anything more than a squirrel. Dreaming of something other than what we are is the one trait that makes us human. Our biggest problem only rears it’s ugliness when we only dream of something more and not set about any form of action to achieve it.
This is where I have spun my wheels lately. There’s not a whole lot left on my bucket list. I have been so, so lucky ticking them off one by one. Had a play produced. Check. Performed to a standing ovation. Check. Met a childhood hero. Check (Uhm…I recommend not doing that one, better to let them remain a hero than become human.) Been to Africa. Check. Check. Check.
Now I’ve never had that one great love, but I’ve loved and been loved. I’ve never had wealth, but I’ve taken care of myself and given back as much as I could when I could. I’ve never been blessed and cursed with children, but God knows what he’s doing. And I don’t feel I’ve fulfilled my purpose, but I’ve had a blast spending 52 two years fingering all around it knowing someday I’ll hit the right spot.
I’d still like to be on a game show. I’d still like to write for a soap opera (better hurry on that one, unfortunately the dinosaurs seem to be smoking their last cigarettes.) and I’d like to be published. I don’t really know how to go about achieving those, but I’ll figure it out.
And even at my age, I hold out hope for that one great love. An early mentor of mine, Owen Phillips, a man whom I also came to know as a dear friend, didn’t find that one great love until he was well past retirement age. He and his sweet wife married for the first time in their late sixties, spending their last years being able to do nothing but be in love.
That’s my image of true love. Thank you Owen for being the example of that possibility, and bless both you and your wife’s souls. The image of you both holding hands, walking down the sidewalks at dusk is an image that always brings a sigh to my heart. I miss you both every day.
As for the now, I walk a little more confident, a little less battered and a little more hopeful. Not that I still don’t get smacked constantly by the Blue Wham, but every moment I realize it’s okay to be content with normal, as long as I don’t stop focusing on just a little more, it doesn’t seem to be able to take hold.
I just can’t get bogged down on the old road that used to be. It’s fine to drive down it and remember occasionally, as tomorrow is guided by today’s worth of yesterday. I just can’t idle there, fretting over the odd rock in the river and never getting to the other side.
I understand I am an average, ordinary guy with a bucket still full of dreams. There’s nothing wrong with that at all. Maybe I’m just your average dreamer and just maybe I’m taking a few scoots toward remembering who am I and finding out who I want to be.
It struck me like a Mac Davis song. Remember him? He had this art of taking the average and painting it, as it is, magically ordinary. The songs weren’t hard for the simple Joe to sing, any one could and the listener couldn’t help but hum along. They were all memorably spectacular, but complexly simple.
Maybe I’m just finally getting the reins on things, but like listening to “I Believe In Music”, “Forever Lovers” or “A Little Less Conversation” I find myself sighing in contentment, dazzled with the ordinary routine of life. I’m finding basic comfort in basic comfort, sometimes to the point of getting annoyed when the slightest hair is out of place.
Hopefully the scope of my vision is widening. I don’t find myself dwelling in the anger and pain of the past. I’m not quite focused yet, but I don’t seem to be spinning my wheels as much in the snow banks. It’s melting away in the middling 48 degree sunshine.
I took a brief drive this morning, as I oft do on a Saturday, veering off my usual path down a portion of a road I used to be forced to travel. There was a time when Old Forge Creek Road was the only one leading to town. It was treacherously curvy and dangerously narrow, following babble by babble the creek that leads to somewhere I’ve never really known.
There’s not a lot left of that old road that used to be. Now only two small sections exist, the smaller one I live on, used only by the five families that live on either end, and the bigger section still heavily traveled and still following every pebble of the creek. That old portion hasn’t changed much but now leads to nowhere.
I recall the bike wrecks, the spills in the creek and the dogs chasing the old Ford Granddad used to drive, nipping stupidly at the tires. I used to think it was so beautiful, but that beauty is now gone. The older folks and the poor folk that still live there haven’t taken care of it. It’s weedy, neglected and stereotypical Appalachian.
Many years ago, I remember trying to cross the creek in a spot other than the bridge, as children will typically find a way to do. I remember slipping off one of the jagged stones and landing painfully on several others.
In tears, cut, bloody and wet, I remember bawling, literally bawling, to my Aunt Mag who was dabbing my scrapes and asking “Why God puts such odd rocks across the river”, as I thought it was.
In wonderful Southern drawl my Aunt Mag smiled as she rubbed Rosebud Salve into my little wounds. “Danny, God has to put odd rocks in the river.” When I cried more and told her it wasn’t fair to make people slip and fall, she of course had the perfect answer.
“There’s odd rocks across the river so the next time you step you know you’re footing is sure.” That answer has rung through my head the rest of my life.
As I find myself at a resting spot, please God let it be just a resting spot, I am learning the joys of the magically ordinary. I work when they allow me. I clean house and make dinner for Mom and Dad. I get a kick out of Dad getting a kick out of me being able to walk in the room look at the TV and immediately know what movie he’s watching.
I’ve found quiet joy in the one day this week Mom slept late, not getting out of her robe and nightgown, just sitting by the fireplace and working on a crossword puzzle well into the night. I find peace in the hyperkinetics of my dog, Jackson, as he sniffs out and digs to China looking for a mole. I get a belly laugh spying the neighbors feeding their pet pig the junk mail, Roscoe snacking away dressed in a bright green sweater she made for him.
There’s also this odd peaceful addiction to Twitter. I truly enjoy reading the Tweets, and unlike most, I read them all. I follow over a hundred people. Like most of America I have this creepy fetish of wondering what ‘celebrities’ are up to. I prefer to follow the ones who Tweet realism, rather than networking.
Kurt Warner tweets about his kids. Yesterday stating where each one was, the seven year old being “in Tupperware”. That cracked me up, having visions of a tot in time out in a big plastic microwave safe container. I realize he didn’t mean in that way, but I went there. But that’s the sort of thing I enjoy reading, the normality of those whose choice of paths have made them anything but.
I like knowing that Kristin Chenoweth is a chronic insomniac, one more thing we have in common…hint hint. I like the fact that Allison Sweeney’s young son last week “was hungrier than a two tummied giant”. I like it that Russell Tovey makes fun of his own ears and James Cameron thinks Kim Kardasian is already in “3D”.
And I’ve been writing. Sometimes its good, sometimes its bad, but I’ve gotten myself back in the routine of writing a minimum of an hour a day, that doesn’t include blogging, another story totally. I’m still not convinced that anything will ever come of my writing. It’s just something I just do, like breathing.
To be honest, I really wouldn’t know how to go about doing something with my writing. That’s why I blog, tri-blog actually. Just to put it out there past my own nose. It’s a long shot, but I know that once a bolt of lightning hit Ben Franklin’s key.
Over hearing a bit of silly conversation a few weeks ago during the snow storm at work lead me to writing a piece I ended up titling “The Hapka of Our Lives” concerning the brouhaha surrounding the departure of an actor from “Days of Our Lives”. It was a good piece; funny, tight and structured to perfectly fit the framework I set up for that blog.
On a silly lark, I tweeted a link to it to the actor himself. Untypically he apparently actually read it and retweeted it to a couple of other actors from the show, saying, “I almost died laughing”. I was very shocked and pleasantly surprised. That led to my little blog going bonkers for a few days.
It was a nice little kick to the ego. I didn’t get any new ‘followers’ from it and numbers dropped down to normal for the next two episodes I posted, which is fine. Sometimes you have to use your increments of “Fifteen Minutes” in small chunks to really be able to savor it. I have to admit, I don’t think the two posts after the “big” blog were very good.
In hindsight, I think I tried to imitate the “Hapka” blog getting silly and not really carrying the story along. That’s important in my writing, as a matter of fact, in my life. It’s fine to veer off in several directions as long as when they pull together they stay focused on the task at hand.
But all of this has led my to be more comfortable with my “average-ness”. Sometimes, I think we get so caught up in being better, in being excellent, in not settling for anything as long as its more than everyone else, we forget that in order to be the best there have to be a lot of people that are not.
That’s okay. A squirrel never wants to be anything more than a squirrel. Dreaming of something other than what we are is the one trait that makes us human. Our biggest problem only rears it’s ugliness when we only dream of something more and not set about any form of action to achieve it.
This is where I have spun my wheels lately. There’s not a whole lot left on my bucket list. I have been so, so lucky ticking them off one by one. Had a play produced. Check. Performed to a standing ovation. Check. Met a childhood hero. Check (Uhm…I recommend not doing that one, better to let them remain a hero than become human.) Been to Africa. Check. Check. Check.
Now I’ve never had that one great love, but I’ve loved and been loved. I’ve never had wealth, but I’ve taken care of myself and given back as much as I could when I could. I’ve never been blessed and cursed with children, but God knows what he’s doing. And I don’t feel I’ve fulfilled my purpose, but I’ve had a blast spending 52 two years fingering all around it knowing someday I’ll hit the right spot.
I’d still like to be on a game show. I’d still like to write for a soap opera (better hurry on that one, unfortunately the dinosaurs seem to be smoking their last cigarettes.) and I’d like to be published. I don’t really know how to go about achieving those, but I’ll figure it out.
And even at my age, I hold out hope for that one great love. An early mentor of mine, Owen Phillips, a man whom I also came to know as a dear friend, didn’t find that one great love until he was well past retirement age. He and his sweet wife married for the first time in their late sixties, spending their last years being able to do nothing but be in love.
That’s my image of true love. Thank you Owen for being the example of that possibility, and bless both you and your wife’s souls. The image of you both holding hands, walking down the sidewalks at dusk is an image that always brings a sigh to my heart. I miss you both every day.
As for the now, I walk a little more confident, a little less battered and a little more hopeful. Not that I still don’t get smacked constantly by the Blue Wham, but every moment I realize it’s okay to be content with normal, as long as I don’t stop focusing on just a little more, it doesn’t seem to be able to take hold.
I just can’t get bogged down on the old road that used to be. It’s fine to drive down it and remember occasionally, as tomorrow is guided by today’s worth of yesterday. I just can’t idle there, fretting over the odd rock in the river and never getting to the other side.
I understand I am an average, ordinary guy with a bucket still full of dreams. There’s nothing wrong with that at all. Maybe I’m just your average dreamer and just maybe I’m taking a few scoots toward remembering who am I and finding out who I want to be.
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Blue Wham
Wham! It just gets you right between the eyes. Everything is fine. You inhale but somehow before you exhale the blue just seeps over everything and makes the last half of that breath so heavy you can’t do it.
I’ve been doing so well, or at least faking it well. Then today that heavy blue, like wet corduroy making every nuance a task, is all over everything. I don’t seem to be able to control it. I don’t seem to be able to recognize the switch that sets it off. All I can do is struggle under the soggy pressure and act like it neither effects or affects me.
The holidays are blessedly over. I knew they would be painful. Ironically the new job working from 8 PM to 4:30 AM helped. I spent most of the time just trying to figure out what day it was, making the depression seem palatable. It was there, but it was like a pained animal lurking in the bushes of my life, regaining its energy to strike.
It doesn’t make sense, the uncontrollable surge. It has no place in my life. Yet there it is constantly feeding me despair and hopelessness like Twinkies and Hot Tea. I try to resist, but when I least expect it, it is the temptation I cannot resist.
Things were going so well. I alluded myself into thinking I had it under control. I know it’s a problem that is going to be there for a while longer, but I think I’ve worked it out so no one knows it’s a part of every breath I take.
I’m usually only on the floor when the store is open for less than an hour, which has been good. Faking being normal in public is so exhausting. Most of the time, I work in one aisle by myself, so I don’t have to invent being inventive at conversation. I’ll be there chugging right along and suddenly find myself staring at a jar of Ragu and wondering what the point is.
The times I’ve desperately wanted to smash one of those jars with all the anger of my existence I’ve lost count. The energy it has taken to resist slicing open so much more than the box cartons would power Epcot Center. The imagined kicks to my own skull after a brief conversation with a coworker screaming “You’re letting them get too close” are more consistent than the snow here.
But I’ve been good. I’ve fought it. I haven’t curled up in a little ball like a hamster too sick to find its wheel as much and every time I’ve managed to stave it off from anyone who would notice or care.
I’ve smiled. I’ve laughed. I’ve been thoroughly human when that is actually the very last possible emotion I could really feel. I’ve resigned to it. This is how it is and it’s the best thing.
I can’t let it just take over. I cannot let the blue be the only stimulation of my world. It’s an acting chore, like the wonderful Swoosie Kurtz once said, “You just imagine it in your head and do it, eventually it will become real”.
That’s what I’m doing. Imagining being a human, hoping eventually it will become real. I was once. I will be again. I have to be again. I refuse to become a casualty in my own war.
Yesterday was such a great day. I slept late, wasn’t groggy or cranky getting up. Went to work, in public and enjoyed the craziness that is “there is snow on the ground so we’ll never ever be able to buy food again”. I laughed and smiled and was helpful.
I came home, ate a snack and played on the Internet until the Tylenol PM finally engulfed me. I even got a compliment via Twitter from a writer. It was a good day. I went to sleep faking happy so well it was almost real.
Then today, the wham of blue attacked from the corner it was hiding in. There is no pill, no counseling, no emotion, no action that can shake it. For lack of a better image, it’s a debilitating chigger always there until it finally dies and falls off.
Maybe there is something to cover the effects, but there’s nothing to make it go away and never ever come back. Yes, yes there is. There is something inside me that does this. There is something triggering this off, stronger each time but thankfully with longer periods of being able to fake it not being there in between.
All I have to do is find it. All I have to do is stop the trigger or recognize it enough to switch it back off. All I have to do is trust that some how, some way, some day this will all be in the past, carcass in the little box with all the other nightmares I’ve slain.
I’d ask for help. I get on my knees scratching my bloody eyes screaming for help if there was anything anyone could do. This is something only I can do.
I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll get past all this. I will be human again, as normal as it can be in the eye of the beholder. But I’ll never ever love the blue.
I’ve been doing so well, or at least faking it well. Then today that heavy blue, like wet corduroy making every nuance a task, is all over everything. I don’t seem to be able to control it. I don’t seem to be able to recognize the switch that sets it off. All I can do is struggle under the soggy pressure and act like it neither effects or affects me.
The holidays are blessedly over. I knew they would be painful. Ironically the new job working from 8 PM to 4:30 AM helped. I spent most of the time just trying to figure out what day it was, making the depression seem palatable. It was there, but it was like a pained animal lurking in the bushes of my life, regaining its energy to strike.
It doesn’t make sense, the uncontrollable surge. It has no place in my life. Yet there it is constantly feeding me despair and hopelessness like Twinkies and Hot Tea. I try to resist, but when I least expect it, it is the temptation I cannot resist.
Things were going so well. I alluded myself into thinking I had it under control. I know it’s a problem that is going to be there for a while longer, but I think I’ve worked it out so no one knows it’s a part of every breath I take.
I’m usually only on the floor when the store is open for less than an hour, which has been good. Faking being normal in public is so exhausting. Most of the time, I work in one aisle by myself, so I don’t have to invent being inventive at conversation. I’ll be there chugging right along and suddenly find myself staring at a jar of Ragu and wondering what the point is.
The times I’ve desperately wanted to smash one of those jars with all the anger of my existence I’ve lost count. The energy it has taken to resist slicing open so much more than the box cartons would power Epcot Center. The imagined kicks to my own skull after a brief conversation with a coworker screaming “You’re letting them get too close” are more consistent than the snow here.
But I’ve been good. I’ve fought it. I haven’t curled up in a little ball like a hamster too sick to find its wheel as much and every time I’ve managed to stave it off from anyone who would notice or care.
I’ve smiled. I’ve laughed. I’ve been thoroughly human when that is actually the very last possible emotion I could really feel. I’ve resigned to it. This is how it is and it’s the best thing.
I can’t let it just take over. I cannot let the blue be the only stimulation of my world. It’s an acting chore, like the wonderful Swoosie Kurtz once said, “You just imagine it in your head and do it, eventually it will become real”.
That’s what I’m doing. Imagining being a human, hoping eventually it will become real. I was once. I will be again. I have to be again. I refuse to become a casualty in my own war.
Yesterday was such a great day. I slept late, wasn’t groggy or cranky getting up. Went to work, in public and enjoyed the craziness that is “there is snow on the ground so we’ll never ever be able to buy food again”. I laughed and smiled and was helpful.
I came home, ate a snack and played on the Internet until the Tylenol PM finally engulfed me. I even got a compliment via Twitter from a writer. It was a good day. I went to sleep faking happy so well it was almost real.
Then today, the wham of blue attacked from the corner it was hiding in. There is no pill, no counseling, no emotion, no action that can shake it. For lack of a better image, it’s a debilitating chigger always there until it finally dies and falls off.
Maybe there is something to cover the effects, but there’s nothing to make it go away and never ever come back. Yes, yes there is. There is something inside me that does this. There is something triggering this off, stronger each time but thankfully with longer periods of being able to fake it not being there in between.
All I have to do is find it. All I have to do is stop the trigger or recognize it enough to switch it back off. All I have to do is trust that some how, some way, some day this will all be in the past, carcass in the little box with all the other nightmares I’ve slain.
I’d ask for help. I get on my knees scratching my bloody eyes screaming for help if there was anything anyone could do. This is something only I can do.
I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll get past all this. I will be human again, as normal as it can be in the eye of the beholder. But I’ll never ever love the blue.
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