Wishful Indulgence

I am on my way to pick up a mystery gift. I am fantasizing about what it might be.

The mother I haven't seen or spoken to in 12 years has canceled her trip planned for next week. I was so accommodating that I agreed to have lunch with her on Wednesday -- 9/11. But this morning her husband sent an email informing Zoe and me that the trip has been canceled. My mother is currently having a short stay in the hospital due to a mini stroke. More likely than not she's just had a panic attack and chickened out. Or she wigged out enough to give herself a trip to the hospital.

Possibly I seem unsympathetic, callous even. But I'm allowed to.

Now I will tell my children that the grandmother they've never met is not coming. I will tell them she got sick. I will not tell them I think she just flaked out.

I have never told them anything about her other than a vague indication that she did not take very good care of me. I have not spoken of her in way that would cause them to feel anything but open to her. I have barely spoken of her at all. When asked one can tell a child that a person they've never met is "gone". They will not press for details.

So I have never told Sam and Leo anything to justify her paranoia and anxiety. But of course she doesn't know that. And she's too paranoid to believe me even if she asked.

So today Zoë and I are bidden to collect the gifts she sent in advance of her arrival.

Right now I am indulging myself in the giddy feeling that something wonderful will be in that box. Not a dish towel, or an ugly tchotchke, or something in a frame that says god on it.

The email from her latest husband--either number 4, or 5 I think--indicated a small, square box. So I am dreaming--wishing with all my heart--that I will open it to find a card from Thos. Moser telling me something beautiful has been ordered especially for me. I am giddy, my insides are tingling and all my muscles are in that peculiar state of being both being ready to spring and ready to swoon.

Here sits a jungle cat, a panther poised in the instant before pouncing on its prey. Simultaneously I am locked in that precise moment when I am not touching my soon to be lover. When we are as close as two can possibly be, when the frisson blinds you both and the promise of what's to come--the bliss of joining, of melting together is an unstoppable force.

So for now it's something made of cherry, something made with love, alive and beautiful. Right now the contents of that box is the deepest, most profound way of saying something to much for words. This gift says take this thing of beauty, take it to your heart and embrace it as I embrace you. Be with it in your nest everyday, use it and love it and know that it's permanence is your steady reminder of my love for you. With this gift know that my love for you is always there. Even when I am not.

It will probably be a dish towel. With a lobster on it.

And the Winner is.....

Here at the monkey house, there is, on this Sunday morning, at the end of a particularly rainy July, on our beloved Maine coast, in the midst of our lushly overgrown--neglected--garden, there is a contest of sloth. Three of the four players have taken their dedication so far as to be unaware, even at this time, that they are in fact engaged in said contest. Such is their art!

Player number one remains deliciously tangled in luxurious comfort. After the previous night of bandit stalking, stepping even a toe out before noon would be a scandal.

Players two and three are the undisputed top scorers. Find the equally bathed in comfort as they lie in front of the screen surrounded by fluffy pillows and comforters. Plenty of crumbs are at their fingertips and they boast full possession of a working remote control device.

Their entertainment options are even more plentiful than the crumbs. An infinite number of devotees have made available to an unknowable number of fans films in which they provide full narration to various Minecraft activities they have previously performed. Or perhaps just something someone else has performed. For all I know they are all just continuously commenting on previous commentary.

In my innocence I thought the least doing of a thing was watching some kid describe his collection of Pokemon cards, although the opening of a brand new pack could potentially be over-stimulating. But I am now prepared to admit that the voice overs that accompany these mini Minecraft tours do have significantly less monotone, in some cases even dialogue between characters. Which leads me to consider accepting the watching of pre-recorded actual virtual mining and building, with all the accompanying foul language of the actual virtual thing being done not in real time is indeed evidence of more being done by doing less. Much less done, much more watching of less being done being talked about being done previously and in the future, that is to say both actual virtual future and virtual actual future re-telling.

To hold such a high rank in a sport whose very definition is the essence of an absolute lack of ambition shows a mastery which must be honored. By mastering their position while maintaining complete ignorance of their exalted status shows how much they who know nothing can truly know. The subtlety by which they maintain their superior ranking marks a profound gift for feigning the ignorance of ignorance. Forgive my immodesty, but my children posses spectacular brilliance.

As for player number four, the glory days of my youth are past. But I must take my defeat gracefully, as exerting any effort would betray what a true loser I have become.

The Grey of It All

Today a friend asked me why I like black and white so much. To my surprise I did not have a ready answer. I can't remember not loving black and white. My response to this particular combinationhas been so ingrained in me that haven't really thought about it. Except that I have. But the aesthetic came first. In film, photography, fashion, graphic and interior design, dishes—the black and white is what grabs me and holds me every time. (Speaking of aesthetics please excuse these truly dreadful photos. I couldn't really see the blotchy shadows while editing on my phone. And if I spend a bunch of time making beautiful photos I will avoid writing all together.)

I have always loved collage, although I've never liked any of mine. Knowing when to stop is key. It is highly likely that my passion for Legos runs deeper than the monkeys'. I could happily sit all day making collages with black, white and grey flats. And there is more than one shade of grey. What could be better?

I grew up watching old black and white movies on TV. Most people had b&w televisions when I was little. Color TVs were the big new thing. Walter Cronkite was b&w. The Dick Van Dyke Show was b&w. They were my surrogate family. Dear old Rose Marie. She was still in b&w for me when she held the center square for so long.

When I studied film noir in the '80s b&w really came alive for me. High contrast drama. Prior to that I'd begun shooting b&w photos. But they all looked like crap. I could never get enough light. In college I took photography and was able to realize my dream of the Nude Musicians shoot. Oh they were lovely. My friend Lorelei looked so good with her cello. The compositions were so enticing, but the shoot was ultimately a failure because I had no idea how to light flesh. Or anything really.

At one time I lost a friendship because of black and white. He said, "You either support the revolution or you don't. There is nothing in between and if you don't support the revolution you are on their side." I said but both of those choices are yours, you have decided on two options, and there are no others. I asked why he got to frame the debate only on his terms. He could not see the difficulty of only acknowledging one extreme or another. I saw how limiting black and white could be. My friend could not see grey. No grey at all. If I was grey I ceased to exist. Grey is the rational mind, the moderate thinker who weighs each position carefully and knows the best solution takes something from each side. Compromise. Sanity cannot exist without it. Absolutes can be so dangerous, so heavy.

There was a phase of trying to dye all my clothes black. I know how to get a good black now, but back then everything came out grey. I wanted black, but philosophically grey suited me perfectly. It's true I always wear black, but I do not like absolute black. Only a theater tech needs absolute black.

I have what some might consider a very dull wardrobe. Black jeans, black tee shirts. But I adore the simplicity and consistency of it. And no two are alike. I love subtle variations, heathers and textures. I hate brand new black black jeans. They are too black. They need counterpoint of an old scruffy black tee shirt.

I made a huge concession a few years ago. Because being a parent requires spending much more time out in the sun than I was previously accustomed to. I am not insane enough to wear all black on a gorgeous, sunny summer day. So I shocked myself and everyone who knew me by adding white. Specifically white linen. so that's it. White linen in the summer, black cashmere in the winter. Simple, easy, understated.

Black suits me perfectly. And if you know me, you know that my personality is quite loud enough. My clothes don't have to be.

Who? Where?

There's a Rothko in an office on Mad Men! I recently put up a bunch of Rothko prints in my bedroom. Lovely, but much too small. Your best Rothko experience is to be as close as Pete is. I'm blown away. It's just casually hanging there in the background. I wonder what a Rothko cost in 1968. It's killing me.

Sigh

This is what I want right now. My house gets messier and grosser every time I blink. I dream of a place that is just mine. A place where no one eats candy in bed, or runs in with sticky fingers, or throws little plastic beads all over the floor. A place with no crumbs. Oh and the sound of the ocean coming in through the window.

Saturday where are you?

Five non-matching laces of varying lengths. One pair of sneakers. The lace on top doesn't even count. No aglets. This afternoon I managed to seriously organize four drawers whilst searching for the mythical lost bag of shoelaces.

Or is it the mythical bag of lost shoelaces? Or the lost mythical bag of shoelaces? The lost bag of mythical shoelaces? Perhaps what I mean to say is this: The mythical bag of shoelaces is lost. The bag has not been located. The longer it takes to find it, the more I will worry that perhaps there never was a bag of shoelaces. That I only imagined this roving tangle of laces, turning up in one inappropriate place after another. They were never lost. They were just in the way.

Once I knew where things were. Really. I knew where everything was. I used to keep my belongings so organised that it really rattled me when I misplaced something. Because I was accustomed to finding things where I put them.

Now, there is an ongoing misplacement problem in my house. Persons who shall go unnamed regularly pick up things of mine, do whatever they please with them, and then leave them wherever. This type of object re-location is an issue unto itself. That is about indifference, carelessness, and a failure to respect boundaries.

But the mythical bag of shoelaces is my bag of cheese. Generally speaking, I think we tend to look for things in the sorts of places we are likely to have put them. I have various designated areas where I collect small miscellaneous items that are in limbo. So if I am looking for something small, I check those places first. This is logical. When I cannot locate objects moved by monkeys it is because said object is now somewhere I would never have left it. I don't look for scissors inside sneakers. I don't look for spoons on the bathroom floor. And if I were looking for my shoes I would not be looking under the kitchen table.

I regularly come across items that I don't want to leave shuffling around. Items that are important enough to want to get to them quickly. A camera. A flashlight. Extra headphones. A favorite bookmark. A nail clipper. A piece of paper with something important on it. So what do I do? I find places to stash things where they won't get lost in the traffic. The place is ideal. Except I no longer have any idea where that ideal place is. There are at least half a dozen missing things at any given time. I can recall putting it somewhere "specific", but that is all. I won't find the thing I am looking for until I am looking for something else I won't find.

The good news is that while I could have gone out and bought new shoelaces and been back in less time than I spent looking for that mythical bag, I did sort though and organise some pretty interesting stuff. Sweet things that made me feel all mushy right before Mother's Day. The discharge papers from the hospital. The receipt for parking between 5am and 5pm on July 10, 2005. The receipt from the restaurant we ate at on July 9th.

Tripping

I turn on the TV, and it's Entourage. They are on their way to Joshua Tree to eat mushrooms. The calm smile I sat down with shifts towards anxiousness. I've seen this episode. I know what happens. But I can't look away. They arrive and the camera pans around to show off the landscape. Can see how this would be a mecca for a lot of people. Exactly the sort of place people would go to find a connection with the earth, a sense of balance within. A destination.

It is big there. Very dry, very rocky, very big. Way too big. Too much open space. My chest tightens as I prepare to identify with the the sense of panic the first person to get lost will feel. It's Ari, and he begins to get scared very quickly. It's getting dark. He is hollering and no one is there. No one can hear him. The more alone he feels the more freaked out he gets.

My chest keeps tightening. I'm right there with him. He gets Lloyd on the phone. Lloyd is concerned because he knows the first rule of tripping is the buddy system. Always stay with a friend. Even though the other person is tripping too, their head will never go to the same place, so you will keep each other grounded.

I only once lost my sense of reality. Leaning over the back porch of a Cambridge triplex. Top floor of course. The overgrown mass of plant life below to looked like a very cozy, welcoming place to relax. And that lovely nest began to look close enough to reach. Fortunately my tripping boyfriend said the one most concise thing to snap me back to reality. He said, "You're acting like Pete." Our dear friend Pete was the guy you never give acid to. The kind of guy who is likely to dance along rooftops completely sober has friends who know better.

I miss Pete. I miss all those guys. I miss that who time in my life. I have several tales of Pete, and lots of rememories of that apartment on Beacon street. The Throwing Muses lived downstairs, but we were all scratchy garage rock back then, and we thought they were pretentious. Those stories are for another post.