Mysteries of Life …

Mysteries of Life …

– optional vs. required –

monumental clash. Circa ’08

Some if not most of you know that these past few months have been quite a challenge for Boo and I. Seems like just when we’re standing tall, there’s a trip and a fall, but then we get back up, brush ourselves off, take a few more steps … wash, rinse & repeat.

Words I put onto ‘paper’ from the loss of our pregnancy won’t see the light of day anytime soon, and making it through October was and is always a cause for celebration.

I’m not a whitewater kayaker, though I play one on a radio show… but it seems to me it’s quite the challenge – trying to get to the end of the run, dealing with forces coming at you from every direction, missing submerged obstacles … occasionally taking a dunking. The end of a dime-store mystery …

Turns out my memory was correct, and though a toast was proffered to my wonderful ma, the actual consumption of the small bottle of Jameson’s hasn’t quite happened yet. I was thinking of a gathering around our fire pit out front would be a nice place to let the weight – ironically – lift and settle at the same time.

Love means beauty. ’09

“Loss mellows over time” – er. How’s that for a somewhat completely crappy throw-away of a sentence? When I’m beat and tried and worn down and worn out, I guess I might agree that “loss mellows with time”. Except when it’s quiet, and the bed is too big, and you remember. So maybe it’s better to go with “loss mellows with forgetfulness” but even that’s a bit harsh.

My mom would call to let me know to change the clocks back or forward – always let me know ’cause that’s one of the many ways she showed her love. That and cookies. As witnessed these past few months – cookies = love.

Loss mellows as life eases. Maybe? Of course, if you’re thinking this has anything to do with my feelings of devastation by not being able to bring Blue home, I’ve done a poor job of storytelling. Note to self – describe ‘distraction’.

“We hold on as tight as we can” – ah yes John. You sing the truth so often I’d be surprised if you aren’t actually a prophet.

Returning to the water theme today – cliff diver. I remember seeing actual cliff diving on Wide World of Sports back as a kid. Recall seeing ‘target’ diving too – off high jumps at paper targets – human darts I guess.

As much of a scardy cat as I am, boy howdy do I have this diving into the dark depths locked down. You should see my playlists, stacked song on top of song with sparse guitar riffs to accompany the heart-wrenching lyrics. Is it right or normal to revisit the pain? Or are we just holding on as tight as we can?

Artsy fartsy Blue. Circa ’09

Boo and I are unbelievably blessed with the love and support and sympathy of friends, family and acquaintances. I feel like I’ve been too often the recipient, and wish – oh how I wish – that it was not needed, or at least that I could hide away until no one noticed. Wonder what that describes in the books of psychology?

{{on a completely unrelated but oh-so-needed belly-laughing moment, let me share a snippet from an email thread happening as I write this:
“People, where is your head at? Turducken are the most efficient of all poultry. They feed more people and take up less space on the table. Why do you hate hungry people?”
says Boo in response to issues regarding 47%’rs who like meat on their table. Or something like that…

To which Rachael responded:
“Oh, turducken feed more people and take up less space on the table, do they? That smells like communism, my friends. Keep your red birds to yourself and away from freedom loving americans!”}}

Also from the scrapbook of our lives is a message that contains this truly fabulous gem –
“If only there weren’t so much grief involved in grieving.”
So very very true, mi amiga Morgan …

3:13p – took a short break, made an appointment to get some help, made Boo lunch in the form of a grilled cheese sammy. On a wet, grey Thursday it’s a moment. You got to enjoy the moments, people.

The Mountain Goats. Portishead. Neil Young. Marc Cogman. Jakob Dylan. M.I.A.Elvis Costello. Edie Brickell. Tom Petty. Love & Rockets.

I find my way into the damp basement that is my wretched soul and – in the words of Ernest Hemingway – “sit in front of my typewriter and bleed” … bloodletting … is it just me getting what’s in my head out, onto the page? Is it just me looking about the destroyed room and thinking ‘hey, what’s this, outside this window?’ and turning the speakers up a bit, letting the plot develop into an ‘oh, I could put a pic in here I guess…’ moment?

Blue finds a comfortable position. Circa ’10

Ah, pictures… still on the fence if it’s a character trait or flaw, but I’m consistent at least.

Riches and Wonders indeed.


{1:39p + 15Nov2012 = Thursday afternoon || Dime Store Mystery by Lou Reed}


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