And, When I Die

Father’s Day isn’t really a big deal for me… my father’s dead. I noticed that many people had changed their FB picture to that of their fathers. Sure, I have some pleasant memories of the man who fathered me…but they’re few… He died when I was 17, he was 43 years old. For every good memory I have there are three of him drunk-the one that stays with me is of him at Parent’s Weekend when I was in 9th or 10th grade. He was flirting with one of the older girls… drunkish, of course. Mortified.

I spent yesterday doing a little de-cluttering. It all began because I couldn’t find the deed to my property which resulted in my getting paperwork filed carefully in labeled files so the kids would know where things were should I die.  Household chores too. I thought I’d feel more accomplished by the end of the day, but…..   I sorted all the plastic containers matching them up with lids. Lids are like socks … where does the partner go? Of course I keep all the stray lids hoping the container will miraculously appear. I also sorted socks and organized the panty/bra drawer. And, to cap off an evening of  mindless television I went through the huge stack of New Yorkers and marked ones with articles I want to read… the rest are in the recycling bin.

Then, glass two of a semi-decent Pinot Noir in hand, I emailed with some guy from Kansas on Match. I’m sure he was, like me, killing time. When I asked why he was talking to me, and who he ‘really’ was-he disappeared. I also got 3 different men trying to IM me. I must admit that I’m pretty jaded at this point and ignored all of them, even the one who was somewhat local.   Yesterday was another one of those mysterious wink days. Four this time. I’m jaded by the pranking or spam type profiles and because the profile and personality of “Mike” make it hard for me to even get excited about some guy who is writing mundane, misspelled egocentric crap.

I finished the evening with an audiobook by Benjamin Black, Elegy for Amy, read by Timothy Dalton. Great voice for that book. Benjamin Black is the penname for John Banville, an acclaimed British author. They’re good books, this is #3 in the series. Detective/mystery.

And, for no particular reason this song sprang to mind this morning. I saw Blood, Sweat and Tears when I was a teenager. I went with my cousin; he was probably forced to take me.  He died in his late 40′s. He’d be 56 right now. Had a heart attack in the sauna at the gym!

Daisies and Fire and Bourbon, Part Two

As I sat there watching the fire, after a day of drawing daisies and thinking way too much, these words popped up. I rushed inside, and just wrote them down. My natural inclination is to edit and censor-but I’m just going to leave this as is. Ramblings…..

The evening is delightfully balmy.  Van Morrison’s Queen of the Slipstream is wafting out from the kitchen and I am at one with my glass of Marker’s Mark. All on my own, doing whatever I want and thinking way too hard.. though as the level in the glass diminishes my thinking grows soft and fuzzy (yes, fuzzy).

Watching the tall pine trees sway and nod in the breeze, it’s lie they’re greeting each other, with gentle, gentlemanly nods. I view them as men. Old and majestic, but prone to cracking and splintering as we are wont to do with age.

All the decisions I’ve ever made in my life rise to taunt and haunt me. I imagine an exercise where I write them down and as I think that, there arises a scene worthy of JK Rowling. The list begins to sort itself, the decisions fly from column to column of their own volition. Good ideas, what the fuck was she thinking… they fly back and forth until finally they are settled. But, I’ve lost the thread. It no longer matters . It’s the past. Why should I go there? At the time, in the moment, the heat of passion, the moment of avoidance or impulsivity, I made a decision. I looked out and chose a path. Good or bad… depends on the day. I’ve made tons of less than good decisions. So what. Who cares?

I do and I don’t.  The tendrils of smoke weave around me, I’m coating in a smoky state, the shimmer of the heat makes my phone screen appear to shimmer and move in front of me. When I notice it, can I somehow  capture that image? It’s black with the silhouette of bare trees against a black background, moving and rippling.   Am I sending up, yet again, smoke signals? Rescue me.

The fire doesn’t die. It took so long to take hold, to reach below the dispensable, disposable stuff… old bills, dried pine needles and bits of small branches and now, as I want to leave, it bursts into flames. I am captive, I want to douse it, but feel that I must give witness to it.

Stop running around with my heart… Mark Broussard.