Mean Santa and his Whipping Stick

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What is needed?

Listening to Star Talk, currently an episode where Bill Nye is using that hilarious euphemism of his, talking about “interacting” and doing it “hard and often.”  My childhood just curled in on itself.

So, I have been quibbling and considering if I can get some more story words in today, but I think that will have to be the cherry on the top.  This will take long enough as it is, even if I am now in a better mood for the moon having broken through both the window and my body.  Someday, I’m remembering, we’ll get through this.  We have to, if only just to get to the end.

I like that I know enough about my friends to know what makes them grin or enough to know what troubles are foremost in their minds at the moment.  Last night, a few of us were able to chat and while I had some idea that we were on similar wavelengths with our anxieties, our personal and professional woes, I forget how it is to just have people there to talk to about it.  I worry that I try and deflect my own foibles, the darkness, the negativity and helplessness I feel in response to my problems and theirs with this over-exuberant quasi-therapeutic self-help book sounding tripe.  It’s not tripe.  I believe it, and therapy has put some helpful stuff in my head that’s quick to hand, but I don’t want them to think I think I have all the answers.  I mean, how could I with everything so incredibly…less than optimal. (That’s me correcting for perfectionism.  It ain’t perfect, it ain’t shit, it’s just less than optimal.)

It would be nice to have them all around a table, drinking mimosas, eating french toast speckled with powered sugar and puddled in syrup, or sugared berries and moist, floury shortcake and coffee with a nutty aftertaste that settles on the tongue. Sunlight, of course, glass windows as though it were taking place in a conservatory.  As it is my imagination, it is certainly taking place in a conservatory.  As green inside as through the windows because my conservatory could only be situated so as to overlook a vast garden, verdant and lush as though it just woke up from a night of heavy rain.  Straining to burst with chlorophyll and capacity to grow.   Very English, but a bit of Florence in the furnishings.  Maybe the coffee is instead espresso.  So we are all able to pay our best attention at 10:30 in the a.m. some easy Sunday morning when we’ve all gathered together.  It would be hard to suffer in such an environment.

I think that’s the lesson.  You need to give yourself environments where it is hard as hell to forget happiness, to let the joy muscle start moving.  That’s gross.  But true.  And poorly worded.  But true.

Listening to Stardust by Artie Shaw and His Orchestra.   Thinking of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the CSO.  I don’t care who you are, Mr. Future, I want to feel the way I feel now when I’m with you.  Free, and soft, and with a pliable mind slipping on the peels of dreams and never falling.

N

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