Meaning Beyond Question

All I know is, my soul is a pest. Or whatever is that internal thing that has kept yammering away, lo these many decades. Always with a very clear idea of what is right. Not what was easy, at the time, or even possible. Certainly not taking my children into consideration, when I was young and most wretchedly married. Just, Move on, move on. You’re going to leave here, sooner or later. One of the leavings was without my children—and I have never been able to explain why that was something I had to do. Granted, I thought it would be a separation of months—but back then, and perhaps still, a girl who would do such a thing was a slut. Beyond slut: inexplicable. I simply knew that if I had to move to Iowa and live in married-graduate student housing, I would kill myself. Having seen the sad and depressed women who lived in the same at Princeton, which I figured to be a fucking palace compared to Iowa.

Women then had nothing to do but childcare, which is a really boring thing, as occupations go. And the grad student housing itself had wallboard that picked apart in shreds, the rooms were tiny, it was terribly hot. I saw enough. We lived in a cottage, as my then-husband’s family knew someone, a family so extended it was hard to go anywhere in America and not know someone. In truth, for a while I wanted to fit in with them, it was ever so much better than my family, which had no influence at all–except for my father’s fellow physicists, scattered along the Eastern seaboard at just enough removal so that every night, when we travelled north or south, there was always someone from whom to cadge dinner. For all six of us. Something I did not know was strange until I studied the whole autistic-spectrum thing and began to see my parents for who they were. People hugely without a social clue, which is where shades of autism show up. Who saw nothing wrong with arriving, four children in tow, just in time for dinner. I remember clear as day my father checking his watch, noting that it was ten to six, and, getting out his address book, punching into a pay phone the number of tonight’s potential suckers. And the worried look on the wife’s face of the wife, trying to make her bean casserole stretch.  Wondering, I realized later, how to feed another six people, while my mother sat silent, mortified—but then, she was always mortified—as the husbands talked physics or whatever the hell it was they talked.

The soul so intimately tied up with memory. When everything fell into place later, in adulthood, I realized most of what my soul had nattered on about was the normal. Healthful. Not a massively distorted life. It definitely wanted and still wants for me to live amongst people who love me, and whom I love. Something I’ve had very brief experience of. And trying to stay sane in the midst of thought-disordered people is the biggest damn energy-suck. The point always was, I coulda been a contender. Instead of a bum. Which is of course what I turned out to be.

Words to that effect.

 

{ fin }

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The Mind of Hope and Fear

There is only hesitation, or trying to push oneself past hesitation. This is the mind of hope and fear, which arises because one is trying to live in some other moment, instead of in the moment that arises now. One is comparing, planning, or trying to maintain an illusion of control in the midst of a reality which is completely beyond control.

Completely? Entirely? You sure there’s not some little corner of the universe what’s rightfully mine where I am supposed to be in charge? You sure that wasn’t part of my birthright? Cause I often feel entitled. To something. I do pare away at the To What. Or to be a tad more factual, life pares away the possibilities, and I adjust. Or not.

But the Or Not was so goddamn painful, I just could not get things the way I wanted them. Things? Oh, like a kind husband, like the strength for art. Not bad wants, and not impossible, either—in another time and place.

It only required that I change the laws of physics. I don’t know why it didn’t work out.

 

Newton Redux?

… what am I going to do with all this left-over schadenfreude
I ask you?

“Many signs point to next week’s laptop announcement as being the world-beater we’ve been waiting for,” says The New York Times. Brian Hayashi: “Apple will come full circle with a mobile device that acts like an inexpensive laptop.”

Something hot is going to happen. Though by god, the curves have been slow to meet. Okay, slower than I would have liked. I thought the time for a pocket-tablet-touch-internet-thingie was at least five years ago. Man, that Steve is a slow worker. However. He’s got this thing about doing it right. Meticulous—the byword of a certain presidential candidate, too.

Actually it’s heartening, in this piece-of-crap world. I’m surprised all those alleged McCain fans aren’t even curious to see the New. The well-crafted President. Who takes his time and gets things right. What an organization. Continue reading “Newton Redux?”