Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Maybe I should start to panic sometime soon. The kids will be coming to the door in a few hours and I haven’t even got my candy bags filled yet. I’m going to have 4 less bags than I had tricksters last year – hope that will be enough. Oh well, I guess the stragglers can have some loose candy, some peanuts, and a couple slices of bologna.
I didn’t buy a pumpkin to welcome them at the door either but I have a sewing manikin, a gorilla mask, rubber gloves that blow up nicely and a hoodie -- we'll have to see what Hub can come up with for the front step.
If all else fails, Doughee-Dog can welcome them with his wrap-around sunglasses and an old floppy hat. I laugh because the dogs always greet the kids and the younger kids especially often get so involved with playing with the dogs that they don’t want to continue their treat trek.
Bags aren’t going to fill themselves so I gotta run. Halloween is happening!
And I'll be short a whole lot more bags if I don't get them filled before Hub gets up from his nap.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
If you live on an acreage and you have hounds, you can’t have happy hounds if you don’t have a fox. And we have a fox. Normally, I wouldn’t be concerned about that but after two foxes were killed on the road last week, I worried that the remaining fox (although there could be more), would be so sad. He was in my thoughts a lot.
So with a huge bag of dog food that my basset hounds totally disdain, I decided to feed the fox. Of course I worried that if I fed him too much or too frequently he might lose his ability to hunt and that would not be good. So I decided I would only feed him skimpy amounts of food every other day.
The first couple of times I put out the food, I simply cast a bit on the ground at the edge of the field. Always the next day the food was gone, but because the ground leaves were undisturbed I was suspicious about who was dining there. I began to think that a mouse or squirrel or perhaps even a raven was feeding there rather than the fox.
So the next time I put out food I put it in a small cottage cheese container placed inside a large plastic pail. Boy Twin was curious. “Why are you doing that?” he asked.
I explained to him that if a smaller animal like a squirrel or mouse were eating the food they would have to climb into the bigger pail to get it. And although they could get out, hopefully it would take them several rotations in the bigger pail before they would figure that out. And while figuring it out they might be there long enough to leave a few droppings that would tell me they were there. After all, my intention was to feed the fox, not squirrels or mice.
Now before I continue this story, I need to tell you that Hub has a funny little saying whenever I crowd him by the coffeepot, at the table, or on the chesterfield. He always laughs and says, “I’m here!” It sounds funny and cute so I say it as well when he rolls onto my side of the bed or leans over me at the stove to see what’s cooking. I laugh and say, “I’m here!”
So back to my story. The next time I went to check to see who was eating the dog food, the small dish was beside the big pail, rather than in it. Both dishes were upright and again the surrounding ground was undisturbed. But in the small dish was a bold message that read “I’m here!” As neat as you please, without any smears or misses, the fox deposited some poopies in the smaller dish. It was amazing to me how he did that.
Now one of my neighbors explained to me that foxes live in a rather small arena. And in our woods there is no water source, and it hasn’t rained for weeks. So the next time I took food for the fox, I put it on the ground and filled the pail with drinking water. Silly fox. Again he announced, “I’m here.” It was evident he had drank some of the water. But incredibly he had also managed to deposit poopies in that large pail without spilling the water or even tipping the pail. I can’t even imagine how he did that.
Since then I’m satisfied that with a skiff of snow on the ground, he no longer needs water, so now I only toss a few crumbles on the ground. That seems more sanitary. Also I do not want the woods scattered with plastic containers each with its rather disgusting message…“I’m here. Signed: The Fox”
It’s only been a few days since I started doing this but yesterday I walked alone without Hub or the kids and guess what I saw? The hounds were off in another area harassing a squirrel when I saw a bit of orange between the trees. That’s when I saw the little fox trotting parallel to the trail in pace with my own steps.
And then I heard a crashing sound in the woods and feet approaching like the sound of a wild mustang and the crescendo of hounds baying and he was off. The fox and the hounds engaged in that old game as old as time itself.
When the fox and the hounds play this game I smile and laugh. No one is at risk. The hounds haven’t got a hope of catching him. But this game is their rightful inheritance. It offers rediscovery of the meaning of a hound’s existence. And at the same time it is a fun game with grand cardio and aerobic exercise to keep them all in top-notch shape particularly when they’re all eating well.
These are sounds I love to hear and sights I love to see. So much more pleasant without humans with rifles on horseback that used to run interference and spoil the game for players who only wished to play for fun.
My basset hounds have a keen sense of smell that is amazing but at the same time the speed of the pursuit is handicapped by their short crooked legs. But still the hounds smile, the fox grins, and I laugh. Pleased by something that spurs my imagination into thinking that I am treading the woods and grounds of some notorious ancient estate.
The neighbors even laugh when they see the fox cross their yard, and fifteen minutes later my two hounds appear on the exact same route baying loudly with wild excitement and running as fast as their short crooked legs will carry them.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
A Mother-Load of Lies
So as I told you in my intro, Hub only knew me as this congenial, laughable, light-hearted, devoted girl. But that was for the first year or two. And I never thought for a minute that any of that which I presented was devious or a lie. But it was.
The truth came out later. The truth that at three o’clock in the afternoon, I like shuffling around looking the same as when I first rolled out of bed – in faded housecoat, with medusa hair, and mismatched socks. That I want my own way or I pout. That I even throw things (not any more, but I did for a time). That I can be hateful and mean and completely unreasonable.
And as for pressing jeans, ironing shirts, polishing shoes? I don’t think so. Won’t be happening around here. Not routinely, anyway.
So you see what I gave Hub to believe about me so long ago was an absolute lie! This marriage, that I was so smugly convinced was based on honesty, really started out with a mother-load of lies.
Now you know and I know what they all say. “You can’t deal with a liar” and “you can’t build a relationship on a lie.” And that is true except in this case there was a bit of a twist.
While I was lying to him he was also lying to me. What he led me to believe about his exceptional patience and long-suffering demeanor was as much of a stretch as my stint at the ironing board, my good humor, and my fixation with flawless grooming.
And another thought. I think we all readily assume that whoever authored the lyrics of that little chant… “Liar, liar. Pants on fire,” was simply writing a nonsense rhyme for juveniles. But perhaps that isn’t true. Turns out the phrase is a shrewd description (and discernment) of the dynamics of the lies that I told.
So now, with an expectation of doing better, I feel compelled to tell you how red-faced ashamed I am. I’m ashamed of all my lies and devious acts. And if I were to offer an excuse it would be this. ‘Lovers, through no fault of their own are inadvertently cast into a highly emotional state that cannot separate right from wrong.’ But that won’t do either because, for liars, there are NO excuses.
So I must live with my shame, confess my shame, apologize for my shame and promise never to do it again. I’m willing to do all that, but in the end there is an evil piece in my soul that I cannot purge. What is lurking there in a dark corner is a desperate marauder that longs for the good old days when Hub and I lived each new and glorious day with such wickedness and complete disregard for truth.
So in conclusion, there you have it. And even though I’ve apologized and humbled myself to the level of a ground crawler, I still can’t find a way to feel the teeniest, tiniest bit of remorse.
Friday, October 26, 2007
The Posture of Truth
I have always prided myself on being honest, so finding out so late in life what a liar I am is downright upsetting.
I certainly can’t blame my dishonesty on my upbringing. My Dad was so honest that it was sometimes to his detriment. I remember how his face beamed with relief, and release, the day he shook hands with his neighborhood financier because the loan for the house was finally paid off.
But upon reviewing the figures, he realized the mistake. And in a flash, those twinkling eyes clouded over. And so I watched him get into his truck and drive to the lender’s place to expose the error. The loan was not fully repaid as originally concluded. At the time I was only a child but I couldn’t help thinking what a stupid thing for my father to do.
But as I grew older, deeper in my soul, I had to admire such moral perfection. And I longed to be like that.
I determined to match that standard and ultimately thought I had. Didn’t I take the boss aside one day when my supervisor was harshly disciplined for a careless mistake? Didn’t I boldly inform him that I was equally responsible and should also be punished? That it was my mistake initially? That my supervisor was only guilty of signing off my error without noticing?
The boss listened to my ‘wholesome’ confession then just shook his head and said, “Roberta, I have never known an employee quite like you.”
I took it as a complement. And then he told me it was up to him, rather than me, to determine who should be disciplined and he wanted no more discussion about it. Of course, I now suspect that at the time I had an ulterior motive – mind expansion for a boss that consistently hid all his screw-ups in the hope that they would never be discovered.
But I am talking about my own determinations here and more specifically I am talking about the day I had to face the realization that without knowing it, or realizing it, or understanding it, I lied and lied and lied some more.
You see when I met Hub, I deceitfully hid the real me. I only allowed him to see that part of me that I felt he would find attractive. A girl, light at heart, flexible about plans, highly attentive to his needs. A girl that smiled through pain and laughed through disappointment. A girl always carefully groomed. In those days I even accepted criticism as a positive thing – a way for me to know how I could readjust to be more pleasing.
I creased Hub’s jeans and polished his shoes. I pressed his shirts with sweat dripping from my brow I slaved over the ironing board while thinking to myself…“What delight in doing this special thing for someone I love”.
And I suppose right now, my dear reader, you are beginning to feel skeptical. Well, don’t. These are the things I did!
(to be continued…) Part II – A Mother-Load of Lies.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
I was cranky yesterday but I’m not cranky anymore.
Last night I made a fresh banana crème pie. (No whipped cream – whipped cream not necessary). And before it was properly chilled Hub and I ate it all.
Hub said “It was perfect. The best crust, the best filling and I know ‘cause I’m a pie expert!”
“How could you be?” I said. “You've never baked a pie, rolled a crust, or even looked at a recipe?”
His response, “I know cause I EAT pies.”
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The media looks with sneering dismay at Putin, Russia’s Prime Minister, taking the time and effort to meet with Iran’s leader. What is surprising to me is that no one in North America would ever think this might be a new twist in the old game of Diplomacy.
It would seem to me one can get more accurate information about any situation through diplomatic infiltration (or befriending the enemy) than one can gain by hiding out in one’s Great White House and uttering war threats. Mr. Putin may be a whole lot smarter than we think.
And about “Planet in Peril”…
So there he is, Anderson Cooper, flying over an Amazon jungle and so dismayed at scattered patches of forest being cleared and burned. Isn’t it a shame? Yes, it is a shame.
But excuse me, the last time I flew over the American continent, although I saw far-reaching crops and cultivated fields, at the same time in this great huge far-reaching expanse I saw no “virgin” land. Yes, there are a few National Parks that pretend to be virgin forest. But they’re not really. Even here there are engineered modifications and clearings done in proprietary ways to make the parks more financially sustainable.
Even farmland is becoming so compressed that within a few years I may have to grow and grind my own wheat. So who are we to get in this kind of self-righteous snit?
I live in the back country and even here the coyote, the wolf, the fox, and the deer are so squeezed they cannot find enough space for safety or food resources.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
I can never forget the day I realized the chain was broken. The day I suddenly became, without warning, the link at the end of the chain.
My mom and dad passed away within a year of each other. And when that happened, I felt such an emotional instability when I realized I was no longer solidly connected to my parents on one side and my own offspring on the other. It was devastating to realize the chain of life was broken and I was now the last link at the end of the chain.
It was a raw feeling. It drew me back to the place of my birth but rather than finding comfort there I found my desolation magnified 30X. The old house, vacant for only a few years was burned down by an arsonist, and when I saw the charred remains, the full reallity hit me of broken chains and lives in ashes. As if they had never been.
As if the games had never been played, the songs had never been sung, and the laughter had never rang in that place. That’s the day I felt an overwhelming conviction to write.
Perhaps through writing, I could re-establish connection. Perhaps I could replace the missing link of my parents with another chain-link of sorts to avoid the isolation of disconnection and to make life meaningful. It wasn’t the best solution, but it was all I could hope to do to reconcile the heartbreak of broken chains and vanishing points.
That was many years ago and now I find myself at a similar aperture. But this time what isolates me, and retraces the pain I just told you about, is my moral and mental disconnect from the stream of the progressive thinking of modern life. Once my perceptions of life and philosophy comfortably tied with the mandate of the society I lived within. But no more. Once again I’ve become a disconnected link. Unity severed by my lack of understanding of what is happening around me.
The link on the left of me began to weaken with stupid stuff. The shocking business of rugged men dressed in pink polka-dotted shorts followed by girls in pant-garb that made plumber’s pants look like high-risers. And the mutation of romance stories from prose that misted the eyes and stirred the heart into nothing more than graphic descriptions of physical connections between individuals, that left the heart cold and stirred only the groin. The rapid transition of religion from that initial solid belief in God to a Godless reverence for nature, and ultimately to self-Gods or celebrity gods.
When truth, that thing that so many honored, and paid homage to, turned aside from forthrightness to blatant denial. Denial, with such fervor, that eventually falseness morphed into truth and suspicions were forgotten. When humility and contriteness were put to rest in a place of decay with empathy and diplomacy. When language became either so vulgar or so ornately scripted that any and all meaning could come out of its convoluted form.
Now I see the anarchy of Political Correctness marching across the land engaged in genocide of language terms. But its domination is nothing more than a mask – a façade to hide the evil in men’s breasts. It is really no more of a cure than a sugar pill.
But we had a cure as good as Bantam and Best before this. Evil was contained through an active conscience and a mandate given to every child in their formative years that one must treat others the way they hoped to be treated. But now, even the meaning of that old adage has been skewed by adopting a new educated, yet ignoble, way of handling bullies that too often boomerangs into greater violence and more confusion.
It’s all too much. You see how the link of my relevance to life on this planet is breaking. And without relevance how do I participate? How do I integrate? How do I postulate? Or even capitulate?
I swear it’s like a new strain of Attention Deficit Behavior that I wasn’t born with but was cast on me by modern strain to see how well I would fare. A super bug or a staph-infection passed on by society rather than a medical facility. My mind is anxious, my thoughts disruptive, and I am unable to focus.
Society had no right to do this to me. They are bullying acts. And how dare they, within the sweet tolerance of a politically correct society, continue to still refer to me in terms so demeaning? ‘Old and feeble’, ‘Mentally Unstable’, ‘Confused’ or ‘Obsolete and Antiquated’?
It’s lonely here. Being, once again, at the end of a chain, without any connectivity to unite my existence with others. But that’s okay. I will use my writing and my imagination to reconnect the chain. I will fashion a link of an uncommon alloy that will return my strength.
I’ve done it before. I can do it again.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
When I have no inspiration
And I can find no calibration
For stylus, writ and imagination
Still I write.
This is, for me, a forced conscription
It’s who I am. It’s my conviction
Still I write
So still I write, I’m writing still
Though prose is sick; and poetry ill,
Wit is ailing, plot is failing
Still I write.
Perhaps I should lay down me pen
And never take it up again.
Roll it in a winding-sheet;
Prepare a spot in the mossy peat.
Then with dignity, I can mourn my loss
By a gargoyle-stone sarcophagus.
Wipe your tears, unbend your knees
I only wrote this poem to tease.
And you should perhaps take extra measure
To wipe away that look of pleasure…
Still I’ll write!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I returned to the old place. They said I would find the landscape much altered, but nothing had really changed. Steep paths, though less visible, still descended to the ocean sand.
I recalled the plunge down those same paths. Paths so steeply vamped that it took such courage for a child to descend. But I did it. Rushing with monster steps and flying feet, in order not too plunge or tumble.
Faith was important as well. Believing I could run. Believing I could fly. Only one fleeting moment of doubt or hesitation and I would tumble end over end down steep cliffs, over sharp rocks, and into the briars.
I think about how enviable I could have become if gravity could be slightly skewed so that my feet could fly with the same rapidity on a flat track.
And perhaps if the gravity in the human mind could be skewed in a similar manner, we could likewise make unbelievable strides. Strides large enough to accomplish all we ever hope or dream. As long as we don’t hesitate and begin that self-perpetuating tumble – down, down, down. End over end over end.
It is surprising to me that this old haunt offers such philosophical and academic import. Study notes, as it were, promoting an understanding of how the character of the soul can find agility through a memory that cements the belief that ‘I can fly’.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Common sense is as refreshing as a gentle rain. I say that because this year, along with family members, our Bush Man Friend (BMF), spent Thanksgiving at our house. After dinner we engaged in conversation.
Now before I continue, I need to tell you that I knew BMF since childhood. We went to the same tiny country school, but BMF had such difficulty in school that he quit long before quitting time and since then, despite so much solitary time in the bush, he has gained an enviable and most interesting education.
BMF’s tales of solitary bush life are both fascinating and original. I challenge the busiest of socialites to tell me stories about their busy lives half as fascinating as the escapades that he has to tell.
Part of the appeal of what he speaks is his jargon. He tells stories in a lovely new gendre of literary prose, refreshing and innocent. And because of this, it is quite impossible for me to retell with authenticity or titillation the stories in like-manner as they were told to me.
Whether written or spoken, he has always treated language in his own unique way. That was the problem in school. He was way too offended that ‘cow’ was not spelled ‘kow’. Being always a simple philosopher of common sense, he could not be satisfied with the feeble academic explanation the teacher attempted for such stupidity. “Why isn’t it spelled with a ‘k’?” he asked, and even yet wonders why.
And although, too often among classmates, he was a source of ridicule, it seems like the unfair criticism of how he spelled ‘cow’ cut his gentle soul the deepest. I say that because he still mentions it so often and when he does his face clouds and his lips quiver.
The other thing I need to tell you about our BMF, is his sense of graciousness. If graciousness is class, he has more class than anyone I know. When he spends time with us, we generally receive within a few days, a note of gratefulness. Written with thought and care. Each word spelled out, not as grammar dictates, but with common sense and his own phonetic interpretation. An encrypted message but easily understood, sincere, and touching to the depth of my soul.
So when BMF brings up the subject of the frustrations he has with language, as a lover of language, I tend to listen closely. This weekend he shared his own unique perspective on the standard usage of the phrase, ‘back and forth’. And, I have to say, as always, common sense ruled his thinking.
“Why do people say ‘back and forth’?” he asks, with that sweet innocence that makes all that he speaks so endearing.
“It makes no sense at all. To first go back? One can go forth and back, forth and back, forth and back. But it is impossible to go back if one has not yet gone forth!”
As a final note, BMF is too often taken advantage of because he is a dogged worker and of such a good nature.
This weekend he told us a story about compensation promised but never delivered. As it turns out, after he graciously and repeatedly asked for payment for his work, he eventually concluded that the promised payment would never be forthcoming.
But didn’t BMF tell that former employee? Yes, he did. Not with rage, or anger, or with retribution in mind. Later, much later, at a large gathering, when his former employer greeted him like an old friend, BMF looked him straight in the eye and gave him something to think about in one simple cutting statement:
“You don’t have enough man in you to make a small boy!”
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Thanksgiving is over. The monstrous turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce are all gone and the houseguests have left. Now its oft been said that turkey produces sleepiness and that feel good byproduct called serotonin. But there is more to turkey-lurky than just that. There are other things turkey does, that I am now more aware of as an ‘old fart’.
I worked hard last Friday. Baking and tidying up everything for the Thanksgiving event. I washed all the floors, but that was downright silly. I should have washed the chandeliers and ceilings instead.
Cause yesterday was a day of levitation. Even the puppies, after eating all those turkey scraps, hovered over the lawn instead of resting on it when I looked out the window. Hub jokingly asked this morning if it was finally safe to cut the mooring lines that kept us from floating near the ceiling.
Of course by now you’ve figured out that the reason we were all levitating is because turkey-gas is lighter than air. Exactly like helium, it would seem to me except for one small difference. Helium is odorless.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
I never did understand it. But I am older now so closer to a state of understanding (maybe?). The most obvious thing I can put my finger on is a perception of a change in identity that none of us welcome with open arms. A feeling of deteriorating physical beauty – wrinkled skin, gray hair, a limp, or a much slowed walking pace – and thus a wish to escape before the changes are too obvious. The only way to preserve the identity of what we once were is to get away before any one really notices.
But as for me, I’m staying. I find that an amazing number of people older than I still remember how lively and curious I was as a child. Others remember when I worked here and when I worked there. Others (a mighty few), remember even more unique things – a conversation we once had, a meal we once shared, a laugh, or a cup of tea. Some remember better than me how I looked when I had rich brown hair and a long ponytail. Hub certainly does. And of course some remember the mistakes I made, but I remember them a whole lot better.
That’s comforting. But what is even more comforting about my home community is the loyalty my neighbors have always shown me and still do. It’s as sweet as mothering comfort to know how readily they will come to my aid, if aid is needed.
Sure I hate to hear the things I hear now. Remarks like, “Roberta is looking pretty peaked, don’t you think?” “She’s certainly aging fast.” I would like to be smug enough to say I don’t take these things into account, but I do. But instead of packing up and dashing away to parts unknown, I just disassociate more. Stay more out of sight. And so I only make the dreaded trip to town on odd, and sparse days, when I am particularly well rested and feeling a little more energetic than usual. Pleasant days, that for a brief moment, allow my wrinkled skin to look reasonably ruddy, and a day when sunshine casts sky-lights on my gray hair so that it looks like enviable[?] silver gloss.
Old, but vain, you might say. I prefer to think ‘not’ but at the same time maybe I am wrong. Maybe it is vanity that applies in indirect ways to all of us – whether we stay, or whether we leave.
Bottom line for me is I am going to stay, if for no other reason, because of the great fun and amusement Hub and I find in the company of kids. Particularly in the close companionship of the twins next door and the pleasant thrill my grandchildren get from sleeping in the same room, playing in the same yard, eating in the same kitchen, as Mom did when she was little. These kids love everything about this place and they make us laugh and that would be the sad thing missing if we moved to a distant or modern villa for retirees.
Who can deny that the gaiety of children is certainly the most effective anti-dote for the drudgery and disparity of old age? The ‘Comedy Channel’ is so often nothing more than remakes of the same old joke. With children every hilarious antic is fresh and new and original. It doesn’t get any better than that.
I didn’t get a picture yesterday but I certainly wish I had. Girl Twin asks Hub, “What do you want me to do?” Hub replies “Follow the Yellow Brick Road, follow the Yellow Brick road.” And with that cue to start, Hub and Girl Twin skip down a trail of solidly blanketed golden leaves singing loudly “We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz”.
Hub is too funny leaping with such wildly exaggerated steps, arms loosely raised, and flipping his head of sparse hair while singing in a simulated high-pitched, yet child-like, squeaky operatic voice. Ditto for Girl Twin. And here comes Twin Boy and I behind singing as loud as we can in falsetto, “Because, because, because, because – Because of the wonderful things he does!" All our troop barely able to sing for laughing.
So, as I’ve already said, Hub and I wish to stay put, but if anyone had seen us, for certain, we would have been packed up in short order by some charitable-minded community citizen or physician and moved to some other locale.
So, it goes without saying, if we intend to stay put, maybe we need to be just a bit more careful. Old people, despite allowances for their eccentricities and peculiarities, are nonetheless expected to be slightly more demure, and a bit more mature, than we tend to be.
To sum this all up, the nicest part of it all is later, after dinner, Hub and I sit in the livingroom and relax. The old hip is aching, the stomach is unsettled, the back spasm is still there, the heartburn is back, feet are swollen, but still we smile and smile because it was such a funny day. Hub asks with a grin, “What are you grinning about?” and I don’t even answer. We just laugh some more.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
More than once I’ve come across articles that suggest that people with spiritual convictions live longer than those that don’t, but I never gave it much thought. After all it is a hard thing to prove and not all theories, though intensively researched and polled and counted hold water for long. Biases of the researchers sneak in. Politics lends a hand. And of course society can adopt crazy notions when ‘flock mentality’ rather than ‘independent thinking’ kicks in.
But as to the longevity theory that connects to spiritual beliefs, it seems to make sense. Obviously when people are of a positive mind, that is good.
Now the reason I mention this is because yesterday I wrote a blog. The subject was so difficult. So layered. So hard to bring to surface.
I spent hours manipulating phrases and words to find easily understood clarity. But what kept happening, in my frustration, was notions stealthily coupled on paper when my intent was for them to resist, and showed opposition when I wanted them to fuse. Hours later, exhausted from my attempts to deal with words that were acting like a throng of misbehaving kids, I felt I was finally making headway.
And then, without warning, my screen froze up. But this old lap top is usually pretty dependable though it has its quirks. I pushed ‘ctrl’ and ‘delete’ and shut down my computer. I again started it up and it did what it always does, with such prompt surety. When I went back to my text program, the words I had written came up on the screen as if nothing had happened.
A quick review of what I had written and immediately I was again so embroiled in the subject matter that it never occurred to me to hit ‘Save’. So more work, more struggle. Now the thing is really taking shape. But then, it happened once again. The screen froze up. So nothing for it but to again repeat the routine of shutting down the computer and restarting it.
But “whoa”, what in bloody ---- goes on here? Nothing came up. And no where could be found those weird files in my documents with a foreign name that oftentimes turn up to be the lost document. Nothing. Zilch.
I was horrified. I wanted to cry. I wanted to throw things and smash my laptop. I wanted to talk to someone who lost everything in a house fire so they would have some kind of real and sincere empathy for how I was feeling.
I wanted to go to the bridge and jump off. I wanted to rip out my hair and slash my wrists. I wanted to take words, adjectives, phrases, even thin helpless little pronouns to the garage and smash them on Hub’s anvil with his sledge hammer. I wanted to burn dictionaries.
I wanted to escape to a primitive world, to a time where we only communicated with grunts and yips. That kind of simplicity might offer me a hope of remembering what I had written. But what I had written had too much complexity and recalling it, with my current weakened state of recall, was quite out of the question. But amidst all this irrational thinking and heartbreaking frustration, peace and calm quickly descended.
Thankfully, I have this spiritual element. And so, with that, I was immediately convinced that there was a reason that this happened. That the God of my belief decided that it was not time for me to reveal what I so ardently wished to reveal. That the God of my belief had a problem with the articulation of what I had written. So I accepted that was how it was to be.
So yes, I think those with God beliefs live longer. I am one and I have far less stress with my spiritual crutch that prevents me from being, or doing desperate things that are completely rash and irrational.
So even the simplest of pronouns get to live another day -- "I", "she", "me"...