Around the house and garden this morning:
Unrelatedly, today marks 6 months since I quit smoking. To celebrate, I shall stop and inhale the scent of flowers deeply today, my nasal passages untainted by nicotine residue for perhaps the first time in my entire adult life. Yowza.
I know, I know, I've been being kind of cryptic around these here parts of late. And not having comments open probably hasn't helped. I apologize, most sincerely I do.
But you see, a couple of times a year -- like grim clockwork, and usually around the time of a change of seasons -- things in my brain take a sharp turn for the worse. The best possible description I've been able to come up with is that it's like the world is set on a dimmer switch, and during these episodes the brightness level of everything around me slowly dials down to black. It's a process: I don't just wake up one day wholly mired in a La Brea Tar Pit of depression and crazy. It kind of creeps up on me. And the whole "creeping" part of it is mighty disturbing, might I add. At times it feels something like what I imagine watching yourself drown or be buried alive would be like, being fully conscious yet unable to stop or escape the dark thing swallowing you up.
Oh the depressive melodrama. I'm sorry. You deserve better. Perhaps a little ditty by Poe instead, hmm? gurgle.
Long time readers have been here and back with me before. In the case of those of you with a particularly strong masochistic streak, here and back several times over. And I thank you for putting up with my mercurial bullshit, dear gentle, tolerant readers. Soon I'll be right as rain and posting delightfully lighthearted dog photos again, I promise! Your dancing monkey will return with new dances! PREPARE TO BE DAZZLED... AT SOME INDEFINITE POINT IN THE NOT-SO-DISTANT FUTURE... OR SOMETHING.
For the time being though, I don't have much to offer that isn't painted black, beyond that I was asked by the Baltimore Sun to submit a list for the Mother's Day edition of the paper of 5 tangible things I'd like to have (calls for "World Peace" and "more time" need not apply -- we're talking concrete consumer goods and services, people). Absent my own responses, which I have to withhold for use by the good people at the Sun, I ask all ye mamas: What 5 tangible things would YOU like for Mother's Day? (were money and the bounds of bland reality no object.)
C'mon, humor me why doncha. Lord knows I could use humoring right about now.
. . . . .
Though it may be a dark night of my soul, I'm blinded by his brillance:
Thank god the good old man is back.
Do not think. Do. Thinking is self-indulgence you cannot afford. Doing will keep your mind elsewhere and away from the gathering dark.
Paint your toenails pink. The lightest, shiniest pink you can find.
Plant flowers. Dig your fingers into the earth. Feel the sun beat your neck raw. Let the day escape you.
Keep your head down. Steady as she goes, captain, steady as she goes.
Walk, and keep walking. Walk, though there is nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Locomotion means life, stasis signals death. Do not stop for death, Miss Dickinson.
Write it down though you feel your voice waning, your sense of self escaping you, your fingers -- much like your poor brain -- stiff and cramping. Make concrete whatever you can, and make language a lens by which to see what is real in this thick fog of boggling nonsense.
Sing in the shower. Or cry. Or, better still, do both.
It's true that no one can truly know another's pain. Do not expect others to understand, but do not allow yourself to rest in that separateness either.
At her bedtime, tickle your daughter so that she laughs her truest laugh -- a laugh of pure abandon stripped wholly of self-consciousness, glowing warm with joy. This and perhaps this alone will hold at bay the monsters beginning to surround you, their claws softly drumming your windows in the fading light.
I don't like bees.
What? No no no, bees are good! They pollinate all the fruits and vegetables and grains we grow that get made into the food we eat. Without bees we'd be in big trouble!
Bees scare me.
Honey, you're scared of yellowjackets. Those aren't like bumblebees.
Yellowjackets aren't bees?
Well, no, they aren't bumblebees. They're different. Like how different breeds of dogs aren't all the same.
Some dogs say "woof!" and some say "yip!"
Exactly. And things like that depend on their biological makeup, and that makeup determines lots of things about how they look and act. Yellowjackets are more aggressive than bumblebees, for example.
Mom?
Hmm?
Can I tell you something?
Sure. What?
Dogs don't wear makeup.
. . . . .
5-year-olds: 1, Biological Determinism: 0
What is it with men and money?
To be more specific, is there something imprinted on their DNA that loosely translates to: Money is the salve for all ills, and the favored medium of communication with all other humans? Allow me explain why I ask.
After I picked M up from preschool yesterday we headed over to our local market to grab a few items for dinner that evening. In a fit of uncharacteristic optimism I allowed M to fully commandeer our grocery cart for the first time, which thrilled her to no end. You'd think I'd just solemnly bequeathed upon her the keys to the Space Shuttle, asking only that she not burn up on re-entry, such was her earth-transcending joy. Trailing slightly behind me as we weaved our way through the aisles, she swerved drunkenly left and right and back and forth, bellowing merrily "look at how good I am with the cart, Mommy! I'm so good!!!", and then, inevitably,"OOPS! IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, MOMMY!" when she plowed headlong into mid-aisle pyramid displays or the shins of unlucky fellow shoppers. Whenever I paused to inspect a grocery item I had to stretch my arm out rigidly behind me, palm flat, to stop her from ramming me with her, ahem, abundant enthusiasm.
This went on for a while. Then, about mid-way into winding our way through the rodent maze of products, an eldery gentleman approached us. "WELL, AREN'T YOU A GOOD LITTLE GIRL!" he screamed in that oblivious way people who are hard of hearing do. "YOU'RE SUCH A GOOD HELPER!"
M's entire face morphed into a question mark, and she glanced furtively from side to side, checking to make sure she was the only good little girl within a reasonable radius. Assured that he was, in fact, addressing her, she shouted back merrily "I'M DRIVING THE CART!!!!"
"WELL THEN, HERE --" he pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and thrust it toward her. "FOR BEING SUCH A GREAT HELP TO YOUR MOM!" he nodded toward me and winked.
"Ohhh, no no..." I protested weakly, but of course it was too late. M had snatched the bill, and was oggling it lustily. For a moment I thought she might actually lick it.
"Thank you" I sighed, not really knowing what else to do. The man smiled, patted M on the head, and disappeared down the far end of the aisle.
"Can I get something with A DOLLAR? Something I would like to play with for A DOLLAR? Or some candy with A DOLLAR?" Each time she said "A DOLLAR" the words sounded like the definition of disbelief. How was it that she, a mere girl of five, had been given the fabulous gift of A DOLLAR, OMG?!?!
Meanwhile, I was of course reeling from the uncomfortable mash-up of feelings that experience produced. Why did he have to give her money? Why was it necessary to turn that into a transaction, to make praise and appreciation seem like insufficient tender? I tried to shake it off.
As we were checking out, M chatted enthusiastically with our cashier -- a middle-aged African American gentleman who I often imagined must've been something of a cassanova back in his day, what with his smooth "Hey baby!" greetings and easy, charming banter. Using my debit card to pay, I'd selected to get $20.00 back, and as Mister Smooooth extended his hand toward us with the money I heard M GASP. LOUDLY. I looked at her, and could see in her eyes the astonishment: YET ANOTHER MAN WAS GIVING HER MONEY! WTF?!?
The cashier chuckled, "No, baby, that's for your Mommy!", and the man in line behind me laughed, interjected something along the lines of "Oh man, I wish people were just handing out money too!" I turned to M to explain to her the circumstances and why this money was being given to me, but her face stopped me. It was red. Beet red. She was blushing, and I'd never seen her blush before, ever. "I want to get out of here now, Mommy" she whispered in a voice audibly strained against near-erupting sobs. "Okay, let's go" I whispered back, turning to thank our cashier, and then turning back again to see M vanishing into the store's enclosed entry space.
When I caught up with her she was already in tears. "I want to go home, Mommy!" she cried, and I knelt down on the floor in front of her to wrap myself around her body as fully as possible. I saw in her at that moment my own sensitivity, my own tendency to jump to hurtful conclusions and take things the worst possible way, even when they weren't intended as such. It broke my heart to see this part of myself in her. I'd hoped she'd be spared it somehow, that her skin would be thicker than mine and that she'd breeze through life with a tougher shell enveloping her, one that would repel those tiny invisible arrows I always feel striking at me. No such luck.
Just then, Mr. Smooth burst through the store's interior door, having seen M's tears from his register, I suppose. "Oh baby, come here, I'm sorry!" he said, and reached one arm out toward her. In his fist was a one dollar bill. My heart sank.
Yes, I understand that the intention behind these monetary exchanges was good natured. I get that these men meant well. But where does this come from exactly, this sense that money is an appropriate conduit for emotion, a fitting and proper means by which to express feeling? Because that? That I just don't get.
Candy and chocolate on the other hand? Now THAT'S what I call a salve for all ills and a favored medium of communication. Silly menfolk, will they never learn?
Some craziness in the mail yesterday:
I own a company. I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up.
I'm an imperfect Gen-X Parental Unit from Baltimore. I believe in early afternoon cocktails, the greatness of Jon Stewart, and that being a smartass is a virtue. More about me...
