sometimes words are bricks i throw at your window when the message of the pebble would have been enough. today the glass frame itself busted out and we were left speaking with nothing between us but spit and dust. it's hard not to laugh when your angriest moment is confronted by hush puppy eyes and every single thing you love. but hold on we must - to our little swords - our bayonets, our rightness. god forbid in the moment we remember what matters.
When I am an old lady, I shall not wear purple. But a fishing visor and a polyester vest I have stolen from the employee lounge at Walgreens. I will smoke cigarettes and cackle like a bird, the insides of my practical walking shoes lined with rubies, because they are pretty and my feet have earned it. I will drive an old dodge truck and fill it up with items discarded, at the end of somebody’s garage sale, all that unwanted bounty. I will buy fake flowers and tie them to my rusty old bumper, bend the metal stems around my windshield wiper and watch the dirt stained blossoms smear the water across my window when it rains. I will not care so much but in the quiet crevices of no longer needing to know, or shine, I will deliver sermons on gratitude through the silence and I will fix my load of broken things and pass them on to someone with many teeth.
There is thunder in the first cup of coffee. Thank god. Or gOod. Or however you want to say it. Spent $50 on fireworks yesterday and am remembering a time when it felt like I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. And even this isn’t the American Dream. But the freedom! I’m choosing to look at what is magnificent about this country. About the world. About people. About circumstances. When you find the sliver of light in the dark room, you’ve got a starting point to raise an axe to.
My friend Nat told me the other night “the thing about your writing is that you say things that I think everyone wants to say but doesn’t”. Aside from this being a huge compliment as I have worried that my blogging is merely self-indulgent, I felt compelled to say “Then…F- you!” Not to Nat, of course, but to every other person I ever wanted to say “F- you” to, but didn’t. And now, since I sort of feel like she gave me permission to say a few things that maybe other people wanted to say, I think F- you is very apropos. So there, I said it. Now, I take it back. I am even sorry.
That she also mentioned, in passing, a person whom had actually used the phrase “he has the dementia” simply made me happy. Not because someone has dementia – that is sad – but because someone called it “the dementia”. In doing so, he gave a secret squirrel insight more into himself perhaps than the person of subject. I imagine he has an old closet full of neatly folded doilies and handkerchiefs from 1939, and a trunk full of someone else’s old photos. I imagine he opens the closet only on the first Sunday of the month, at precisely 7:12 PM. He wears vintage white gloves that have never been washed but still appear pressed. He is lonely.
Hearts are broken all the time. Some breaks are more like surface cracks that hurt in the instant but seem to regenerate and even close after a modest kindness from time. Others occur more like tremendous re-enactments of the Grand Canyon – an act so ineffable and deep cutting that neither time nor any forthcoming kindness could propose to offer solace. These are the ones that stop time. The swollen heart syndrome that destroys a day a month a year a life…in an instant…that seems to last forever. They are the great global tragedies, the abuses done to the innocent, the day someone tells you they no longer love you. “F- you” doesn’t do it here, words fall apart in your throat, muteness only speaks to the surface. If I had a color for every bottomless moan and wounded yelp that cannot be uttered, I’d paint a crimson umber blood orange sky that wrapped the entire universe in forgiveness. I’d sing so sweetly, so quietly, so right.
People want to be acknowledged where it hurts but not dragged into the mire. I am supposed to say something funny that wipes all the badness away. “The dementia” helps with this. My own, and yours too. If I told you that my seven year old flipped me off the other day, you’d think I have some good fer nuthin’ punk ass kid with a bad attitude and a whole helluva lot of trouble headed his way. These are not the facts. My son is funny and sweet and kind. He makes me laugh everyday, from the bottom of the barrel of my gut. He is precious and he cares about the hearts of others. And, he gave me the middle finger. The funny thing was, he didn’t mean to . But it happened, at just the perfect time while he was saying just the perfect thing. Quite by chance, it was the middle finger that pointed at me, while he made some playful delivery and we both laughed until we cried. So inappropriate, so awesome. If, in the same breath, I mention that he also called a “mean kid at school” a “ball sack” you might think differently of him again. But I tell you, he is an angel. An angel who has a way with words way beyond his age.
Being married is a whole lot like a carnival. Caramel apples, merry-go-rounds, and the House of Horror. A crazy tooth-less Carni super-imposed by a lovely plump lady in a polka-dotted dress. Sun shining “this is the best day of my life” while a midget is stealing your wallet.