A Pretty Ship

This is not interesting.

We tried to see this exhibit:

But did not. While our friends casually walked the floors of the Whitney, we waited for a train that would never come. Unlike the more (self-proclaimed) Interestings, we resist the city’s aggressive advances.

Why? There is no legitimate reason why. Art is beautiful. Together, we can ingest it quietly, without the chatter of the Pretenders. But —

No. Daily, we spoon ourselves puréed beauty as the tender babes we are. Near gurgling radiators, behind closed eyes. I prefer this. I cannot tell you why.

He’d offer a suggestion. Or a lucky number.

The most recent accordian collapse of my brain reveals my life’s greatest truth: this is not interesting. Nor am I. Nor you. All fakers.

You knew already, didn’t you?

You’re okay with it?

Candy Wrappers Steal My Skin

John came to bed around 2:30 a.m., and I woke.  I rose as four lines of poetry struck my brain — one being, Candy wrappers steal my skin. Curious it is how the brain can guide a girl in the middle of the night toward believing she’s a genius.  I’m looking now at the piece of paper with my deep sleep scribbles, and clearly that line can never be used in a poem, or anything really — other than as a crappy title for a blog post.

There were three other lines, which are less disgusting than the former, but much manpower is needed before they ever see the light of day.

And so 2:30 a.m. came and went.  And I remained upright.

I listened to 2 hours of Beethoven Sonatas and taught myself to crochet.

And then I watched four films: 1, 2, 3, 4.

Consecutively, I give them the following marks: B-, D, C, F (for freaky).

Please don’t question my choices, especially the Annie film.  2, 3, and 4 were all Netflix Watch Instantly selections!

It was Thanksgiving.  Still is.  We ate vegetables.  Many (warm) vegetables.

Today, I am grateful for: my family’s health, my own health, love, hobbies, a bright future.  And kitty paws.

But change what?

At my age, I probably should not (still) need role models.  Unfortunately, realistically, it’s apparent that I do.

Because I waver. 

Some days, I’m convinced that love is enough, and time to rest, to read, to take long walks—that it is all enough.
Other days, I dispute every choice that has contributed to my present place in life.

It’s easy to look around and point fingers and say, “That is what I never want … whom I will never strive to be.”
It’s not easy, however, to identify what it is I do want.

Because I don’t know.

What I do know is that on many levels, I am part of, or take part in, the landscape I find so very fractured.
Which makes me a human being.  But also a hypocrite.

So I make tiny improvements.
For example, this is the year that I finally stopped buying leather shoes.  I no longer buy wool sweaters. 
But I still buy garments that were manufactured in sweat shops. 

I will take conscious steps toward extending compassion to animals—but not to other human beings, or to children?  Hypocrite.

I (still) firmly believe there is no skill more important than communicating well—and that the written word is highest form of such.
But I rarely make the time to write.  And I’d rather be warm at home, in our quiet space, than out there in the dirty world, listening to poets read in crowded bars.

Kind of a hypocrite, right?

And I ask myself — do I believe in the domination of large corporations, of unfair distribution of money, of grossly abused resources?
No. I despise it.  And I despise those who push the buttons and sketch the blueprints and mastermind the magic.

But I am a part of it.  Every day.  Although a servant, it is the machine I serve.  Such a hypocrite.

Michelle Obama says: “If you want to change it, you can’t become a part of it.”

Those are the words of a role model.  I need role models.
Why not make it Michelle Obama — strong, articulate, full-of-conviction, woman, leader, wife, mother? 

I’ll take her.  I’ll take what I can get.  Someone needs to hold me responsible for my actions if I am not going to question myself.

I need to be reminded that each person is responsible for his or her own footprint.  One person does matter; after all, aren’t counties, states, countries, and continents all made up of individual people?  Yes, they are.

And even if I never finish writing the novel or the collection of poetry or the screenplay or the summer dresses — it is still important to do more.
If I am discontent or find myself complacent, now is the time for more.

Although I am often at a loss for what it is I want from life, or want to give to life, what I do not want is very clear.
It’s also clear that the first step to a better life is through the process of elimination.

It’s similar to nutrition, yes?  By simply eliminating that which is most harmful the result can be nothing less than improvement.

Right?

First on the list: Eliminate Target.  (This is a huge one for me.)

Secondly: Eliminate bleach.  (Oh, geez.)

Three: No more macaroons.  (Gulp.)

Now is the time.