Chekov’s Vase: Day 17

Here’s the frog to swallow. Do this now and everything else will be easier. Not easy, mind. We can’t make that assumption these days. But easier to not despair so fully. That’s the benchmark we’re reaching for…to not maintain an overfull sense of despair about things we have zero control over.

I’ve bought my airfare to go to Seattle, see some dear friends, indulge in all the Critical Role my heart can endure (this is why you need less despair, so the bucket can tip and sway under the overfill of joy) and reliably, it’s nice to have something real and immediate on the horizon to look forward to. It’s a good reminder, of course, about the Grand Plan, to get myself into a bit better shape to not get overwhelmed by those hills once again. A reminder that you can’t get there by doing what you’ve done before.

Someone posts a meme: “You deserve someone who isn’t confused about their feelings for you.” Comments ensue. His feelings – all feelings in all forms – are confused is the public statement. Well. I think. Well, I nod to myself, pulling at my dry eyes. Well. I can be snide about it. Post back something charmingly sarcastic about how little confusion he seemed to exhibit last night. Maybe all of that is a lie. Who can say? But I know that would be painful, mortifying, frustrating, and would end with me apologizing and feeling as though I’d crossed some line in the sand.

And I would have. It’s not who we are to use the forum to have actual communication, to argue publicly, argue at all. But the forum exists and these parallel streams of experience flow through its conduits, currents that split and run for miles in opposite directions before they cross into the fog of Love and War and somehow end up pooling in the same ocean. I hear what he’s thinking as a vase in a room absorbs an actor’s monologue. I just get to know it, hold it. I don’t have any option to roll myself on the floor and crack over it. I’m not the audience. I’m a piece of set dressing in the long Pinter play that is his life. An upgrade from a handful of dust, tangible, photographable, but unless you put some significance in the narrative, the gun is just a gun, the vase is just a vase, a spade…

Not entirely true. But far less false than it should be.

No word from the honorable RP’er. That is as it should be, of course. He’s passed the test, refused the ring, and away he goes with a good and happy life.  Maybe.  Nobody can begrudge him that.

I am moving on?  Not really, but I’m enduring by building the small brand of power I claim.  Another day – 3 days running  – of facing the turn of terror.

A note, as a poet one must comment.  Mary Oliver passed away today.  You can kind of feel a chill in the air, a lacking that feels urgent, new, inexplicable.  Let’s not forget the work, the way the work can make a life just where it stands.

The Present is A Gift

I tell myself several times a day that what I really need is an hour to myself to just figure things out.  But when that hour comes, I never know what the hell I mean at all.   Internally resolving your issues in a free hour seems beyond impossible and not to mention more than a little egotistical to plan upon.

So I do not know what tomorrow will bring where I will have hour upon hour to reckon with my unfinished business.  There is an everything in every direction to tackle in these sweaty chambers from my car needing new brake pads (I think.  I have no mechanical skills, I just know it’s hissing when I press the pedal), to needing to get new tags for the license, to needing to get this money thing notarized (I tried today and my co-worker was waiting and the three notaries were all busy), to needing to wash sheets and wash this couch cover and basically flood the whole house and start over.   I am more likely than not to get overwhelmed by the prospect and per usual, blearily waste my Saturday and try to crunch everything into Sunday where I will fail, cry and give myself more trouble than if I just did something.  Anything.

People on the sidelines of my life, few and far between though they are, are trying to be helpful and I am trying, in my way, to be helpful in return.  I spoke to my father while in the grips of my job struggle right now and his suggestion was to start looking which I sort of listened to, crestfallen, obviously having decided that I knew what I wanted his advice to be before he gave it and I wanted him to give that exact advice but I didn’t want it to be sensible and realistic and require things of me.

He told me about how much time and how many hundreds of thousands of dollars he wasted being loyal to a company that couldn’t or wouldn’t allow him to advance and help it build.  This is not my situation, not really.  I am given an extraordinary amount of latitude and that’s exactly the length of rope I hang myself with.  So I sit in my flop sweat and consider how many areas of my life this is true:  if you don’t look around and see what you’re missing, you never have to miss it.  How thick and dark the blinders have to be to keep some of these realities out, though, thick and heavy enough to bow your back.

Do you want to know what I’m eating?  Probably not.  I don’t want to know what I’m eating.  I want to just pretend everything is fine in that regard as well.  It is.  Actually, but it could be a lot of other better things.  It could be vegetables every now and then.

I get so paralyzed by the things that might be if other things were true that reality seems an effect of the light.

I am considering sleeping on the balcony tonight.