Aimless…on a path to wherever

Tolkien

April 10th, 2019

[Utah’s “Mount Doom”, courtesy of the 8/2018 California fires a thousand miles away. Even the air knows we’re all connected].

After my divorce in 2007, I read the Lord of the Rings trilogy every year. James (my ex-h) is actually the one who initially said circa 2006 “I bet you’d like the LOTR movies” and he was right and the next year after he moved 2000 miles away to live with his girlfriend and her son, and my children almost died of broken hearts, I bought the books at Barnes and Noble and read them on my front porch.

The books spoke to parts of me that I’d not known were there to the point where the person who wrote them was important to me. What kind of soul, I wondered, would create something this complicated and magical? What kind of life could make this allegorical journey pierce through my grief and trauma so as to feel strength? I had to know, and my wonder brought me to him.

And he wasn’t even a writer; not in the placeholder of those typically dubbed with that label. He was a philologist—studied languages; invented them for his books—and the world he moved in was the academic one.

But his beloved mother had inspired words by encouraging wide reading. Then at age 12, when he endured her death, Tolkien and his little brother became wards of the Catholic Church because their mother had been disowned by her family when she converted to Catholicism thus making his religious allegiance firm. And fast-forward tonwhen in the hospital recovering from a lice infestation, he relived stepping over the dead faces of soldiers and slipping on the blood of his friends in the trenches of WWI that the idea of Middle Earth was born.

As I’d rock in the wrought iron glider James had purchased, I met this man and read his books. As I watched our children play in our neighborhood—James now long gone—then later, inside the bourse, in the privacy of broken hearts, held them when they fell into their panic that I’d somehow disappear forever and they’d be alone, Tolkien made me alive inside the resilience and wisdom born from paths trod of pain. His voice let me live inside worlds I wanted to be called to. Made me lift my sword to a foe that read seemed too big except in newfound fearlessness instead asked me for mercy.

And trauma and grief had settled in to terrorize my girls but through Tolkien’s words and his magical retelling of his difficult life, he bore people of strength and tenderness into possibility.

Only From the trials of his youth did he persevere through fighting greater causes and mightier foes.

And on my porch, rocking in that glider–watching the children I loved more than anything ingesting unwanted trauma; myself inside vulnerability I dared not yet admit—Tolkien taught me that life will be fraught but that when the tender hearts are forced to face the shadows, they get to rise to a greater wisdom.

For though much in life is simply endured, for beauty and love much is also created. And when the tender heart needs a voice, you must make a world for it to live in.
Fluid

April 4th, 2019

This is beautiful. In the article it says that this “fluid” would have negative mass—rather than being attracted to other mass, would be repelled by it—to where if we pushed on it, it would move towards us. I love that the universe is more than humanity could ever know. It makes me feel reverent in the most peaceful sense.

For when we consider that 90-95% of matter in the universe is, as of yet, undetectable by humans—but rather is scientifically-inferred to be there because among other things, if it wasn’t, the continued expansion of the universe wouldn’t show the cohesion that it does—it becomes easy to imagine that there could also be layers/depths/dimensions of realities our minds aren’t currently capable of perceiving and thus are very real but we currently lack the ability to discern them. And sometimes I think it’s almost better to let your mind be a bit malleable with regards to a strict “reality” because even the most rigorous science is limited by our own human thinking and perceptions which is why Fritz Zwicky was dubbed a nutjob in 1933 when he first theorized dark matter and why now billions of dollars post his “diagnosis”, we live in a world that’s spent 30 years trying to build something so as to directly detect it.

To my feeling, its more reality-based to admit our thinking/perceiving is inherently limited than to assume we have sensorily arrived at some base endpoint, for while we can often agree on the simple realities (physical events, who, what, where, how), even those have to first be processed through the filter of our sensing/perceiving system. And it seems wisest to admit that while we’re embedded within psychological experiences and skewings—surrounded by matter we cannot even perceive, where from only 10% we’ve assumed is all there is—that it’s the most possible thing to say that the genius idea we’re mocking as unrealistic is actually the very thing diagnosing ourselves as the nutjob. Humans should walk around during their day knowing that the most normal thing to believe is that we’re actually only able to experience 10% of the reality that we live inside of.
Making space (for pollen and grifters)

February 26th, 2019

Things to be grateful for today:

That my puffy eyes from allergies haven’t totally sealed themselves shut. I have the gift of sight.

That I caught the drip of watery-snot before it hit my mouth when I bent over to retrieve my sunglasses from the street.

That I didn’t step on said sunglasses and kill them like I did in January to my eyeglasses and that now I know I can go 5 months wearing lopsided, broken eyeglasses because Time is a meaningless invention most especially since each spring I become gainfully employed with “Impairment” and making an extra effort to tell everyone “it’s allergies” and that I’m not just stupid, high or hungover.

That it’s Sunday and parents can use me as a teaching moment for their kids because “the lady with the misshapen face can’t help it and Jesus wants you to be nice to things like her and whatever she is.”

That Mr Baby’s house is only my second pet sit of 19 today and I’m already so behind but that my exhaustion is actually impeding my ability to be stressed about it (or to remember my own name although honestly, I could make some good guesses plus it’s also on my drivers license so I’ll be okay)

That my hair is dirty because now my 50 psi eyes match my gnarly, filthy head. It’s a look now; I’m the total package.

And…

That the cat in the picture who was making a horrible racket in the bushes under Mr. Baby’s house wasn’t actually a homeless pregnant female in labor but rather a pissed off grifter locked out of his house working me over for treats.

That I was already planning how I’d fit it in my schedule to meet my girls back at Mr. Baby’s house to catch what I thought was a pregnant female and transport her to Best Friends for care and eventual spaying.

That I’m not too world-weary to fall for the feline grift. That I actually AM a nice “whatever it is.” That i can see the humor in puffy eyes. That life isn’t perfect so I don’t have to be either.

That I can walk, have a home, have food, can breathe air populated with oxygen courtesy of trees and their selfless offerings, that I have my life, abilities and opportunities, my girls, Ellen, a chance to bitch then to stfu and make my day be it’s own inspiration for perseverance.

Happy Sunday.

[4/29/2018]

[2/26/2019: I can already feel the allergies starting for this year. They truly are debilitating at times–even while on allergy meds–but the show must go on and when you feel about it, things could always be worse. Happy Tuesday]
Stolen coats

February 25th, 2019

Stolen coat with checked lining doing all classy theft and stuff 10/2016

The yin and yang of two crappy coats zipped together 2/18/19

[2016]

The first coat I “stole” this year: black, enormous, hideous, belonged to James; acquired when he mistakenly included it in the three bags of the girls’ dirty laundry he dropped off into my entryway last December; naturally I kept it, and wore it right in front of him several times, because piss off, douche: I’m not your maid. I looked so bad in it, sometimes I’d laugh when I’d catch a glimpse of myself.

The second coat I stole this year: black, enormous bomb-shelter-wannabe thing, belonged to Julia’s coworker who left it in her car right before moving to Southern California; he knew that I was wearing it, didn’t care, and there were some pretty good FB jokes about the coat that we were then sharing. Wearing the coat in public was embarrassing to the point where even if it was really cold outside, I’d leave it in my car when I went into stores.

So I bought a new coat. A $200 green Columbia. Because I was tired of stolen black coats, and wanted to try and be classy and spice things up, rather than walking around in oversized coats accessorized solely with cat hair but after two months of wearing my new classier coat, I’ve realized that green is a very impractical color unless you’re the type of person who’s okay with walking around and looking like a piece of dirty shit within 3 hours of washing it. Come to find out: I’m not.

So:

Yesterday, in a pile of stuff in our spare room, I found the coat you see in the first pic.

“Whose coat is this?”

“I don’t know; I found it in my car; I think it’s Chris’s.”

She thinks but she doesn’t KNOW. Could be Chris’s; could belong to some random person I’d hate on sight; could be the devils; could belong to that asshole who tailgated me this morning. Besides, we haven’t seen Chris since October; he hasn’t asked for it; he loves me; I need a coat; mind-whirs AND, boom, here we both are, my new coat and I.

I think the take away here is that some people can do being out in public and not feeling ashamed of how bad they look; some people can make the effort, and do classy green coats that look impeccable all the time. And some people just take whatever leftover shit is lying around and call it good.

Note the checked lining though. I bet it’s gonna be my best stolen coat yet.

2/18/2019: Over the busy Presidents Day pet sitting weekend, I somehow came to wear both the green Colombia AND the huge coat from Julia‘s coworker. The latter now sports a tear from a dog jumping up on me which caused the white stuffing to come out in the exact region (if my keys were in my pocket dragging the coat down) where my nipple is which resulted in me walking around in this enormous black coat outfitted with a white fluffy pasty; I may or may not be proud to admit that I forgot about the white fluffy pasty until I was rushing out of the house one morning and suddenly decided to cover it with a piece of black duct tape—believing (falsely, ends up) that I’d sew it later like I don’t even know myself at all— but sewing never happened. So I now have a black duct tape pasty. Which I consider an improvement, both aesthetically and metaphorically. Nothing screams “trying too hard” than a white fluffy pasty.

Then this morning in some leveled up zen bullshit, I accidentally zipped the two coats together, a feat that I didn’t know was even possible but now feels like an entirely fresh story arc. Stay tuned. Big things coming.

Epilogue, Today, 1/15/22: I have since agreed to let the universe judge me as it sees fit for my appearance. It’s really more of a give and take: I find comedy in everything and can laugh at the ridiculous and the Universe gets laughs too as I walk around (wearing yet another hand-me-down [Ellens], ripped coat) in what it assumes is farce but it can’t be sure. She’s wearing a ripped coat from which she leaves little feathers randomly in 5-18 homes each day: does she know she doesn’t have to? Is this ironic fun? No one knows. None of us. Universe on its own exploratory journey now.

And I have nice coats—bequeathed from classier “Universe Verified” people—but in 7/2020, I moved and put a bunch of seasonally-useless things into a Public Storage unit which we stacked so high and precariously that naturally the stack fell over and I’m a few hundred therapy appointments away from facing that. So when yesterday between sits I caught sight of my 53 year old person trying to pull off a level of shabby that—at best—is a job for my 25 year old self, I drove to Target and bought the only coat that fit me—a medium emerald green puffer—yanked the tags off, got a coffee, walked out of the store and called her home to me by spilling coffee on it. And I laughed. It was funny. I didn’t see the coffee on the sleeve and this color makes me look at the most 55.

But this morning, driving to my first sit, I see some shit on the sleeve like some bitch spilled coffee on her or something. Except it’s huge; I didn’t spill this much coffee on it. So it’s more like somehow over the last 12 hours this green fabric got bitter about its divorce. Or maybe sent Jeff Bezos updates to his rocket ship erection and he powered up my vaccine microchip, and now I’m being targeted.

No one knows. The Saga continues; my morning coffee’s only half gone.
Mama

January 18th, 2019

[Quail mama and tribe, Taylorsville UT, 8/26/18. Look at that little ones legs flying back there. I didn’t get a pic of the ducks from this post because I was driving and kinda wanted to live].

On my way to a sit a few days ago, I was on the stretch of 700 East where it curves around and intersects with 900 East. It’s a wide road there–like 8 lanes I think–with a lot going on, stoplights, and turn lanes, cars barreling and others merging, and another stoplight up ahead synced up with the 9th East one, so that if the first light’s green, you don’t even have to think about stopping. You can just sit your ass in your lane and jet on through.

And it was late evening, but even through my speed and the curves, I could see something up ahead moving across the road from right to left, and it took me only just a sec to realize it wasn’t just one something: it was three “somethings”, a mama duck and her two babies, crossing this road, with cars easily going 55 to 60, mama in front and babies in back, in the hot dusk and barely visible, moving across the road at a pace suggesting they were well aware of the danger.

And relatively fresh in my mind was another sit I’d done at a complex with lots of ponds, when I’d seen this mama duck and her six or seven ducklings toddling around, and as I surveyed the scene of so many ducklings in my car, I had pulled up slowly and maybe because I’m a weirdo, rolled down my window to offer her my respect as one parent to another (’cause this shit’s hard, yo) and window rolled down, as her babies scurried close by, I was telling her what a good mom she was and enjoying the moment, before looking down and noticing that nearly right under my window was the completely flattened remains of a baby duck that’d been crushed by a car. The guts were relatively fresh, and it was literally so flat that while carefully driving up–with the remains smack in the middle of the road–I hadn’t even seen it.

So of course on that dusk-night, my mind went to “oh my god; they’re going to die,” because flattened ducks happen and sometimes happy endings appear so unlikely that it seems best not to hope.

I looked to my left at the big black SUV next to me–preparing to quickly look away from the carnage lest the driver not see the mama–but he saw them and slowed, and between the two of us, the little family got to the middle of the road where they then rushed into the lanes of the oncoming traffic and out of my view but, as I turned south onto 9th East, I just happened to look in my drivers side mirror at exactly the right time and saw that somehow the little duck family had also managed to safely cross the 4 lanes going the other direction and were now together and moving towards the brown grass of the far side of the road. Out of immediate and imminent danger, hearts certainly racing, and marching forward, blessedly having edged out death so as to be graced with another day to live.

And, naturally, I was so relieved.

About a mile down the road as I relived the scene with a calmer mind, a powerful thought came through, so powerful I had to write it down. Because on that road–in a duck scene I’ve seen maybe dozens of times before–mama duck and her babies crossing in extreme danger, the road roaring with cars, feet propelling them desperately forward through what seemed like (and often is) certain death, I couldn’t get over something that I’d always before taken for granted.

For locked in my limited box of “human”, where I’m sealed into an experience and magnetically tied to the earth, I’d never before acknowledged what an improbable act of self-sacrifice it is that, in the midst of extreme danger and peril, the mother duck doesn’t just save herself and fly away.

And in opening my eyes wider, I let in an entire world. For, in a life of psychological minefields, holding to hope seems foolish until you finally see the ever-present happy endings that you never even noticed.

And the bigger truth is that Life’s not just about flattened baby ducks. Life’s also about mama ducks who don’t fly away.