l i g h t

In my meditation this morning, I had one thought:

Light.

Most days, there’s a bit of a preamble to my meditation in which I ground myself, connect to source, activate chakras. I gently de-clutter my mind, quiet the noise down a bit so I can receive guidance. What happens next depends on the day and my purpose for meditating.

Sometimes I ask questions of my guides or ancestors, sometimes I pray (even though I don’t identify as Christian I do believe in prayer), sometimes I sit and watch the area behind my eyelids like it’s a giant movie screen. Generally I go with what feels best for me in the moment. Plenty of times I send love to specific people, cover my children in protective energy, repeat mantras or affirmations to myself, and express gratitude for all that is.

Today, I sat cross-legged on top of my already-made bed, hands on my knees with palms open and up, ready to receive. I closed my eyes, took some deep breaths, and pictured a ball of light emanating from my chest/belly. The ball grew larger with each breath until it surrounded me, engulfed me, and light energy began to flow from both my palms. (One hand is for giving, one is for receiving so I suppose both should be active if I am in a balanced state.) It was like sitting under a golden rainbow that went from one palm, curved over my head, and landed in the other palm. A super cool visual.

As I sat calmly I said, or I heard someone say, “light”. (It can be difficult to distinguish sometimes whether a thought like this one is my own, as I sometimes get information from nowhere, things I have no explanation for knowing.)

I kept thinking “light”. Light. Light. Light. I told myself my energy is powerful – my magnetic field is powerful – and I could feel it radiating out from me. One of the fingers on my left hand began to vibrate. Not a twitch, but more like a hum. This is good, it felt like a new skill breaking through, a new level of awareness. Also the left hand is for receiving.

In divination I always ask that I be a conduit, and that’s exactly what I felt like. A channel, a receiver. The message?

Light.

Be the light? Focus on light? Respond in light? Seek the light?

Why not “love”? Why am I hearing “light”?

Later, I thought about light and all that it is and all that it symbolizes and there is so much, so many layers, so many messages:

Light is knowledge, light is truth, revelation. Learning, teaching, discovering. Light gives life, it nourishes, it comforts, it sustains. Light is warmth. Fire, passion, comfort.

Light can also mean not heavy. Unencumbered. Unbothered, untethered and unattached. No ego. Fewer possessions, more observing and less reacting. Let go, release, ascend.

The sun is shining its brilliant light through my window and onto my desk as I type this, and I think of all the days I dangled by a thread, begging the sky to part and let the sun peek through. Light is hope. Each new sunrise is a new beginning and represents enormous possibility.

Light is uplifting, encouraging, leading. Everything that grows follows the sun. Am I a sun?

Light guides, it directs, it reveals the way.

Light sweeps away the darkness. Not that darkness is bad, just perhaps in my life the darkness has had its time and now it is time to be light, to look at light, to embody light.

I think so many people (myself included) complicate so much about the human experience that was designed to be simple. It isn’t meant to be a struggle every day. There are answers, if we seek them. We aren’t meant to fumble in darkness. Today I will heed the message and focus on light – all that it represents and all that it is – in my internal and external world. I will allow and receive and let go and be grateful.

I will be light.

Chosen

At night, when I tuck my kids into bed, we say affirmations.  It goes something like this:

Me: Repeat after me.

Kid: Repeat after me.

(Years of doing affirmations and they still laugh at the ‘repeat’ thing.)

Me: I am brave.

Kid: I am brave.

Me: I am kind.

Kid: I am kind.

You get the idea.  A few more generic ones, and then I deviate according to the kid’s personality, something we struggled with that day, or something silly.  I love to make up songs on the spot and they enjoy my goofiness as well, which I know won’t last forever so I’m soaking it in.  We always end with “I love myself, I’m proud of myself, and I can do great things.”

I love myself and I’m proud of myself were not part of my original formula, they came to me a couple of years ago when I was thinking about how to have the kids’ validation come from within, rather than from others, including their parents.  I’m not of the opinion that me arriving on Earth earlier makes me any more of an authority on how to be human, it only makes me responsible for their care, safety, and guiding them with things like manners, potty training, and when it’s acceptable to yell “Go Dawgs” at strangers. (Hint: Always. It’s always acceptable.)

Some nights I thank them for choosing me to be their Mama when they were souls preparing to come to Earth.  I feel so grateful and honored that they chose me, knowing they’d be vulnerable and I’d be so very … well, flawed.  Human.  Ill-prepared for the task.

When I was young enough to have a bedtime, Bonmama tucked me into bed most nights.  My mom worked late nights as a radio DJ, so she was usually gone and Bonpapa was downstairs working in his office or occasionally asleep in his recliner in front of an episode of Dragnet.

We walked down the narrow hallway, Bonmama and I, feet scuffing on the vintage green carpet (it had odd sections that looked a lot like the tops of cauliflower to me and I liked how it felt underfoot) until we reached her bedroom.  I had my own bed in my own bedroom across the hall, but didn’t sleep in it because it was big and I was small and afraid of the dark.

So she had an antique bed brought in from Lacanau – her mother’s home – and squeezed it beside her bed, the foot of it nearly touching her delicate dark wooden vanity, and that bed, pushed back into the corner of her room, is where I slept every night.  That was our room.  Bonmama, Bonpapa, and me.

[[Side note:  Eventually, I acquired an ugly gray radio/alarm clock and I was allowed to listen to the public broadcasts each night until one of them came to bed.  It helped me to sleep and not feel alone.  Usually, my choices for night time listening were the grainy audio from some mediocre stage production of Macbeth, or an opera with commercials interspersed.  I always chose the opera.  It’s so romantic, dramatic, and while I couldn’t ever understand what was being sung about, I could tell it was earnest and urgent.  As an idealistic young dreamer, I loved the sounds of catastrophe, climax, and resignation.   If Bonpapa chose the station – which he sometimes did – it was Beethoven.  I still listen to music when I nap, usually Italian opera or Beethoven.]]

I climbed into my little bed, nestled amongst my “menagerie” of stuffed animals, including a mangy-looking white Persian cat and its equally scruffy black sibling, and Bonmama sat beside me arranging pillows and blankets around us.  Once I was still, she prayed with me, beginning with the Lord’s prayer in French, and sometimes invoking Archangel Michael to watch over me.  “You are special to Michel,” she’d say.  “You’re named after him.”  There was something about the way she said it.  I believed the fiercest of Heaven’s warriors might actually have taken time to check in on me as I slept, if I asked him to.

Some nights she rubbed my back or chatted with me about the day.  Every night without fail, she said to me and I repeated back to her:

Bonne Nuit,

Bonne Reves, and

Je t’aime beaucoup. 

Those are French for Good Night, Sweet Dreams, and I love you.

Not exactly affirmations, but no less affirming to my heart and soul.

It’s been a hard week, mostly due to missing her, and today was a welcome reprieve. I spent all day with my boys, just the three of us.  We began with breakfast, then painting.  We went to the field and kicked the soccer ball around, threw a football, raced, and fell down and laughed with each other.  We shared a pizza for dinner, and they played video games while I sat in my big chair and read a book.

Forgive me if my writing is scattered.  All of these thoughts are strung like twinkling patio lights in my head, a web of love and comfort and tradition.  Tradition in the sense that no one is really gone as long as you remember, and echo, and say their name and – here’s the important part, the reason I’m writing this tonight – pay their love forward into new hearts.

A lightning-strike realization. Another revelation.  They keep coming, unexpectedly, as I think and overthink my life and hers and that sweet spot where they intersected, and I wonder if this isn’t another unrecognized stage of grief:

Epiphany.

Honoring Bonmama is not just about saying her name or making her bread.  It’s about the love she’s given me, that can never be divided, only multiplied, and pouring that devotion into my children so that they meet her, and know the best parts of her, even if they don’t know it’s her they are meeting.

I felt like a good mom today.  A Bonmama – type of mom.  At the end of the day, my kids knew without any doubt just how treasured they are.  Cherished.  That’s a word she liked to use.  I like it, too.  (As I type this, my boys are asleep in my bed, surrounded by 15-20 of their “favorite” stuffed animals. This is the kind of history I don’t mind repeating.)

What I’m thinking about over and over as I listen to them gently snoring is, I am so grateful for the choosing. 

That Bonmama chose to be more to us – and give more to us – than she was required.

That my sons chose me in the “before”, and that they continue to choose me every day despite my shortcomings.

Grateful, too, that I am choosing and choose in each moment to show up for them, to be better than I might have been, to give more than I sometimes want to, to try again and fail and apologize and cry and keep working at it.

The words are a comfort and certainly, we like to say them.  I want to hear the words, repeat the words, have fun with the affirmations.  But the love – the evidence and proof and depth of that love – exists, I think, in the choosing.

Philosophy and a Pork Platter

Driving to pick up some barbecue for dinner today, I had a revelation.  It stems from the outfit I’m wearing today.

I’ll explain.

I’m wearing a dress today that I have had for a long time, maybe a year or so.  There’s nothing wrong with it.  The dress is lovely and light, perfect for Summertime and it fits me well.  It’s yellow and floral and frilly and beautiful, and I have until today been afraid to wear it.

Wait, what?

Who’s afraid of a dress (I mean besides the big white ones that come with rings and dramatic promises)?  Well, this girl was, for a number of reasons.

First, this dress is bright and happy, and I wasn’t feeling that way.  Yellow is not a color that says “I am moody” or “Don’t talk to me”.  It screams, “Smile!” and “Sunny day bicycle ride” and “Let’s go get a popsicle together!”

Second, this dress is sexy. 

To clarify: it’s not a sexy dress.  It’s not what you think of when I say the word “sexy”.  (Yes, there’s a difference.)  This dress isn’t cut to hug every curve or show a lot of skin.  It covers much of me and it flows away from my skin in the breeze.  But when I put it on, it feels like I’m wrapping myself in a long-forgotten version of me, or perhaps she’s a brand-new version I’ve not become.

For most of my life, in my friend groups, I have not taken on the role of Sexy Friend. Historically, I’ve played the part of a sincere friend, helpful friend, aloof friend, sidekick friend, even bitchy sarcastic friend on certain late nights and weekends.  Never was I up front, sitting center, or walking in slow-mo to maximize the effect that me walking by might have.  That’s just not who I am – or how I saw myself – outside of the confines of my own living space.

Wearing this dress today I have felt open, and sexy, and radiant, and … well, happy.  True happy, which is way above fake-it-til-you-make-it happy or posing for a photograph happy.  I’m talking true, puppy who just got adopted, tail wagging so hard it’s spinning me in circles, happy.

So this dress – or rather, the beams of light radiating from me as I float through the world in this dress today – got me thinking about good energy vs bad energy, or high vibration vs low vibration, and what happens when the two meet in human form.

For example, let’s say you’re feeling fly like a G6 and smiling and saying hello to your neighbors and even when the barista gets your coffee order wrong you’re still singing in the car all the way to work because you’re grateful to have that kind of First World problems.  Then you run into a kindred spirit who is similarly cheerful, grateful, and radiating light.  You are instantly attracted.  Not in a romantic way, but in recognition. You want to be near them, and it’s not really a thought as much as it is a pulling feeling in the center of the chest or navel area.

This attraction happens because you’re reflecting back to them the light that they are.  You are vibrating at a high frequency, and their vibration is at a similar frequency, and your inner beings create harmony together. The divinity in them recognizes the divinity in you.  It’s like a soul hug.  Or a Vulcan mind-meld but with less agonized screaming.

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“I can literally FEEL the gratitude.”

On the other side of that, (and this is the really important part for me because I am living it out and I literally just realized what is going on) when someone is repelled by you and your light (the you that is functioning as a divine light being having a human experience, your best self), two things are happening:

One, you are reflecting back to them what they are not – which is to say, what they are but they are not currently BEING or choosing to be, because in truth they always are the divine and the light, just as you are.**  When they see and feel your energy, they immediately feel things like guilt, or shame, or insecurity.  This is not your fault.  It’s only because you act as a mirror for them to see themselves clearly and for many people, that’s too much information that they’d rather not look at so closely.

Two, you are in high vibration and high frequency and they are at a lower vibration, which creates dissonance.  You both experience disharmony.   Again, it’s not a thought, and very seldom does the conscious mind understand what’s happening.  It’s not a soul hug this time, it’s more like a soul wedgie.  It is a feeling within that instead of pulling, pushes.  You want to get away from them and likely, they want to either get away from you as well or to lower your vibration so that it matches theirs (and therefore you are in harmony, which FEELS better.)

Side note:  When this happens it’s very common to lose friends, family members, and other people from our lives unexpectedly and sometimes in big and messy ways.  Harsh words are said, feelings are hurt, pride is injured. They will do what they can (unconsciously) to lower your vibration because it’s comfortable for them.  It is easier to lower frequency than to raise it, so please be aware of yourself and do what it takes to keep yourself shining light.

In my mind, losing friends is preferable to lowering vibration.  To achieve higher vibration there has to be a willingness to confront and integrate the shadow, to heal the inner child and old traumas, to cut out discordant beliefs, fears, and stories.  It is hard work.  The reward for that work is the privelege of embodying a version of yourself that isn’t dependent on outer circumstances and isn’t easily changed by being in the company of lower-vibe people.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

All of this happened in my mind in the span of about 8 minutes, and I really couldn’t wait to come home and write it down.

 

**No person is really darkness except he who chooses to be (and even in that choice, he is just denying the light he came from, not truly existing as darkness.)

 

 

In the Crush [[draft]]

This ocean is new.  I have not seen or felt it before.  I have seen the other ocean, it was bluer, and the old ocean, it was louder.  This ocean is gentler, calmer.  There is a symmetry to it, a greater sense of balance.  This new ocean is what all the oceans that came before wanted to be but couldn’t quite get their fish together, if you know what I mean.

This ocean is mesmerizing.  All the seas and oceans and lakes I’ve ever seen held a certain amount of mystery, of majesty but this one – this one is unparalleled in its depth and breadth.  The waves are gentle and almost obsequious, keeping their rhythm in time with the tune in my heart.  I squint at the horizon as it greets me like an old friend, reaching its long lavender and rose fingers across the sky and overhead.

My toes sink deep into the soft, gray sand.  Seashells reflect the sun’s light back up to heaven and there is a hint of a breeze that lightly moves each rebellious strand of hair from my face as if to say, “Let me see you, child.”  For a time, we – the ocean and I – gaze into each other.

Oh, tangy saltwater on my lips and the sweet promise of oblivion!

I relate to the ones who walk out into the waves and vanish.  This introduction feels more like coming home, a return to myself, although I do not remember being born here or having left.  (I ponder the notion that perhaps I do not remember because this ocean has always lived within me, so we have never truly been apart.)

My soul recognizes this place.  I have been here… before existence, before time and love and hunger and sorrow – long before this forward fumbling that is the human experience.  I was graceful once, and fluid.  Majestic, boundless and wild.

As a wave breaks over my head I acquiesce, just for a moment, to the pull of the tide, limbs and body unrestrained, relaxed in a cool comforting embrace.

Inside this tiny modicum, this speck, this trivial fragment of time, nearly imperceptible – perhaps quicker than a lightning flash – I am healed. Whole. Unquestioning, unapologetic, and true.

The moment fades, and I exit the water, taking my own flawed shape once again.  I tread gently over the broken seashells at the shoreline, and I smile at them.  I smile at them because I am among them, the broken things along the shore.  Beautiful, weathered, eternal. I, too, am a part of this ocean and she – in all her magnificence – is a part of me. They say if you hold a seashell to your ear you can hear the ocean.  If you listen closely enough, you will hear the waves within me, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Know.

Life is short and do should tell people you love them! Don’t hesitate! Tell them now!  No regrets!  YOLO! (does anyone say YOLO anymore?)  If you love someone, let them know!

The number of posts I see on social media that say this or something similar is crazy-making.  I get the general idea, but let’s talk about the practicality of it.

There are lots of people whom I genuinely love that I don’t tell every day.  If I say “I love you” all the time it loses meaning.  It loses potency.  If I say it after every phone call (which I did frequently in my old life) it becomes a way to say goodbye, not a profession of endearment.

Now, I will be honest here and say that I am of two minds on this.  I am an extremely affectionate being and I long to experience love as both a giver and a receiver, so I will tell the mailman I love him and mean it.  No issues there.  On the other hand, I think following my loved ones around constantly professing my adoration has a really disingenuine vibe, as does calling up that girl I was best friends with in 4th grade just to let her know I liked being her friend.

So my question is, does everything need to be said?

Is the desire to tell everyone everything we feel at all times really stem from a want to keep them close or make them feel wanted?  Or is it a desire to feed our own egos, to lather a balm on some deep childhood wounds, or even to (hopefully) have someone reciprocate pleasant emotions to us?

Also, if I love you – Meaning I have expressed and shown love to you in some way in my lifetime – do you not already know? Do you not fondly reminisce on the crossword puzzles we shared or the time we fed your dog table scraps without your parents knowing or sneaking out to leave Boys II Men lyrics under each other’s doormats (hi, 8th-grade crush)?

I mean, all Han and Leia ever did was argue, and even he knew she loved him.

han

I’m grieving a loss, and yeah that’s why I’m writing about this.  I sometimes think about how I wish I had told her every day, all the time, how much I love her and appreciate her.  But that’s no good, that kind of thinking. It serves no purpose and besides, she would have thought I was a kooky bird if all I ever did was follow her around saying “I love you, I just really need you to know that I love you”.  No one does that because it’s weird and honestly it’s depressing and cloyingly sweet.  And again, borderline disingenuine. Actions speak louder than words, and all that.

I have come to believe that it does not serve to treat the living as if they are dying, and that’s what this all sounds like to me.  Fear of death is fear of life, and I don’t want to live mine that way.

If I die tomorrow and you are someone that I love, I hope that you already know.  I hope that you’ll be confident that if you love me, I know too.  I do.  I have written before about how I believe interactions and relationships require energy exchange, and I think about that in this context too.  I have a little of your energy in me, and you carry mine with you.  There aren’t any words I can say that would be more meaningful than that.  No random quote from Pinterest can be of more comfort.

So the best way to (live and) love is to just be.  Enjoy, be present. Soak up the moments and appreciate each of them. Share your playlists with each other, tell stories, FaceTime while wearing funny filters, do whatever you do.  Cook meals for friends, go camping together, or just out for a run at the park.

What I mean is, it’s not the words, it’s the time.

It’s the YOU that you share, it’s the THEM that they give in return.  That is the crux of real love, the thing that underlines all of it, and that kind of connection is, thankfully, understood. You need never say it at all, because they know.

when the night comes

Some days

I can fool myself into thinking

I’m alright.

A walk outside,

A giggle or a conversation,

Pleasant distractions.

Two or three moments

Strung together

That do not wound me.

False confidence, as I think

Perhaps it’s not so bad,

This new life.

Maybe I can live it.

When

Suddenly, quietly,

Like a fox slipping through

The fence at dusk

It comes…

Creeping into me,

Cyphening the light from

My chest and the love

From my bones

I am destroyed

As

Ever so slowly

(Yet somehow all at once)

I die, I die, I die.

 

J’ai du vague à l’âme

Je suis prest pour apprendre le francais.

That’s what I was going to say when I called. We had so many conversations about having those conversations in French if I wanted to try.  I did want to try, of course, but I was embarrassed at how bad I might be and I didn’t want to be bad – in front of you – at something we both loved so much.  Sounds stupid now.  I’d give anything to rewind a couple of weeks and chat with you in your native tongue.

I know people see me drowning in this and they think, “what’s the big deal?  Everyone has lost a grandmother.”  They only think that because they don’t know who you were, who we were.  I won’t attempt to write that here, because I think it would be impossible, but I have gathered a few thoughts to keep for myself.

When other people hear the term “Iron Lady” they probably think of Margaret Thatcher.  Maybe some younger, stupid ones think of the Statue of Liberty.  I always think of you.  Strong and unyielding, a real force of nature.  A woman who would plunge her hands into scalding hot water because that was the best way to wash dishes, walk 15 miles in a day without complaint (and in fact, prefer it to driving), the woman who caught me by my hair and pulled me up when I slipped and fell off an actual cliff.

Having grandchildren softens a person, and I think it made you – as Goldilocks would say – “just right”.  I hear stories about you being conservative with your praise but with me, you gave it so freely.  I felt empowered by your true and steady belief in me.  You were my compass, my North Star, encouraging me to try new things and have adventures.  At the same time, you were an anchor, helping me feel safe in knowing that I always had a home to go back to.  A refuge.

To be known, seen, understood – and to have that revelation of understanding DEEPEN love, not repulse it – is something I have only ever felt from you and Bonpapa.  You did not tolerate me, you did not chastise me, your love was based on nothing that might be taken away or failed.  It simply was.  I could sit next to you and FEEL the love radiate from you. I know that in thousands of instances, you made a conscious choice to see and speak to only the good in me.

You were otherworldly.  We both knew it.  Your psychic dreams, your knowing.  Remember when you called to ask me if I was pregnant?  I lied to you, but you had known.  When you realized I had similar gifts, you pointed to me and said I was witchy like your grandmother but the sparkle in your eye and half-grin on your lips always betrayed how much you liked that about me, related to it.  I wasn’t like her, I was like you.

A tri-lingual translator for the allies who lost her home and family’s title in the war, lost her beloved father at 9, ate grass sometimes to survive and cursed the Germans frequently.  An athlete and raven-haired beauty queen who held every man’s heart in the palm of her hands.  Coy, coquettish, playful, talented, quick-witted, smart.  Strong.  Unyielding.  Unashamed.  Different.  Proud. I didn’t meet this young enchanting version of you but I could see her in your eyes, hear her in your voice.

The version I met was still a beauty, still playful. She had a radio in the kitchen playing Lionel Ritchie while she cooked.  She took me to the symphony and the ballet so I would have a love for the arts.  She made French bread every Sunday after mass, always pointing out that it wasn’t perfect because the “American” ingredients aren’t the same. She took my brother and me to France – twice – so that we could understand and appreciate her history and our own.

There was nothing you could not do, my fiesty fearless conqueror princess.  Not many people know what a magnificent woman you were.  There should be books written about you, epic movies made.  They wouldn’t do you justice but you deserve them.

My sister, the mother of my heart, my partner in crime.  The first – maybe only – person I really wanted to tell about returning to Paris because I knew that you wouldn’t just listen, you would understand. You wouldn’t just understand, you would feel.  Describing that day, when I turned and saw the Eiffel Tower with the sun rising behind it and I wept, we wept together.  I felt happy to have someone to share that with, and a little sad because I knew that some part of that sadness in you stemmed from knowing you would never get to see your beloved France again.  My heart ached for you.

I hope that you are there now.  I hope that you and Bonpapa are together, traveling as you liked to do,  laughing, free.  I hope that being all-knowing hasn’t changed your opinion of me.  I hope that you can feel my love and see my heartbreak and be honored by it.  I hope that you are already planning when you might visit me in a dream.

My whole life changed in a moment.  My reality shifted.  This is the biggest, the most profound loss, and that is why I am drowning in it.  If you are the thing I held myself up to, defined myself with, what am I now?  I am empty, floating, directionless.  I am filled with guilt that I didn’t call you when my intuition provoked me.  I am filled with sorrow that by the time I got to you, you couldn’t speak to me or laugh with me.

I will miss all the secret things that I have not written here.  I will cling to the memories of my childhood, which you built around me from scraps my parents left lying around and your own beautiful love and strong will.  I will be grateful every day of my life for every day of yours.  I will do my best to love my children the way you showed me, and to travel with them and talk to them like grown-ups and empower them.  We will eat pastry for breakfast and send postcards to ourselves and I promise to speak French with them.  I will wear dresses for no reason and rings on all my fingers and I will stop apologizing for who I am.

Je t’aime beaucoup, my beautiful flower.  My soul cries out to yours in separation. I will count the days until we meet again.  xoxo bisous I love you, Bonmama.  Beaucoup beaucoup.

 

DFW

That story –

The one about David Foster Wallace

Winning a prestigious award months after

Stepping into the abyss,

Believing he and his life and his work

Were worthless…

I don’t know if it’s true but

It comes to mind a lot.

I started reading him after I heard that story.

Talented, raw, stunningly gifted.

I am full of rage today

White-hot flame that accompanies

Grief of this magnitude

I’m pissed that my life hasn’t gone anywhere

Embarrassed that you probably

Aren’t proud

And I am ready to be done with

All this bullshit

So. Much. Bullshit.

Maybe I’ll never amount to anything?

That’s where it seems to be headed

All these talented people around me

Some are horrible, liars and cheats who

Got ahead

Some are authentic and totally

Deserve success.

They are my peers.

Am I the exception that proves this rule?

I work and wait and hope and believe

And nothing happens.

I feel stuck here, unloved, ordinary.

And I’m angry you are gone

Angry at life

Angry at death

Angry.

I’m no David Foster Wallace but

I think about him a lot these days.

Flava Flave Out

A woman I know is getting divorced.  Well, her husband is divorcing from her.  He blindsided her after 20 years together, 16 of them wedded. I am angry for her and I am sad for her but more than that I am excited for her and hopeful for what she will be without him.

I know divorce is hard, but I think regret is harder.

Today I took a nap and I had a dream that the girl he (the husband) has been cheating on her with (because of course, he is) was insanely tall and predictably vapid with platinum blonde hair in a harshly-parted pixie cut. She was, despite her stature and chiseled features somehow not at all model-like or beautiful, and she appeared to work as an attendant at some kind of water park.

I woke up smiling because I would be endlessly amused if this is accurate. I hope it is.

I hope this human Scooby-Doo left his gorgeous, articulate RN wife, who is soon to have her PhD in Psychology, who is also a brilliant painter, journalist, and radio personality, for a thinner, less-worn (for now) albeit easily as difficult to understand when she speaks [even though English is her first language] version of mid-2000s Brigitte Nielsen.

He deserves that.  He deserves at least that.

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I guess all the good ones are taken.

 

Novel

I just completed my 10th book of the year.  I’m really just writing this post to remember some things that “stabbed me in the front”, like a true friend does. [That’s Oscar Wilde]

The book is Daisy Jones & The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid.  These are only excerpts from the last 130 pages or so, as only today did I have the presence of mind to mark things that struck me as exceptional or true or painful or noteworthy.

daisyvintage

Daisy: Here’s a lesson for everybody, take it from me.  Handsome men who tell you what you want to hear are almost always liars.

Graham: But music is never about music.  If it was, we’d be writing songs about guitars.  But we don’t. We write songs about women.  Women will crush you, you know?  I suppose everybody hurts everybody, but women always seem to get back up, you ever notice that?  Women are always still standing.

Billy: …and I’m trying to put the morning out of my head. But I’m losing my mind because… well it was complicated, obviously.  And then, you know what I realized? It wasn’t very important. How I felt about Daisy.  History is what you did, [emphasis mine] not what you almost did, not what you thought about doing.

Daisy: Songs are about how it felt, not the facts. Did he do anything wrong? Who cares! Who cares! I hurt. So I wrote about it.

Billy: …and I stood there next to him and my brain went, “I could push him in”.  And that terrified the hell out of me.  I didn’t want to push him in, I would never push him in but… it scared me that the only thing between this moment of calm and the biggest tragedy of my life was me choosing not to do it.  That really tripped me out, that everyone’s life was that precarious. … That’s something that has always scared me. And that’s how it felt being around Daisy Jones.

Daisy: I wish someone had told me that love isn’t torture.  Because I thought love was this thing that was supposed to tear you in two and leave you heartbroken and make your heart race in the worst way. I thought love was bombs and tears and blood. … I thought love was war. … I didn’t know it was supposed to be peace.

Billy: Some people will never stop being themselves. And you think that drives you crazy but it is the very thing you will think about when they are gone.  When you don’t have them in your life anymore.

Billy:  We were two halves. We were the same. In that way that you’re only the same with a few other people.

Daisy: I can’t think of any two things that make you quite as self-absorbed as addiction and heartbreak. I had a selfish heart.

Billy: It became so perfectly clear to me that I had been holding on tightly to the possibility. The possibility of Daisy.  And suddenly, I was having a very hard time with the idea of letting that go.  Of saying, “Never.”

Camilla: You know what I decided a long time ago?  I decided I don’t need perfect love and I don’t need a perfect husband … I want mine. I want my love, my husband, my kids, my life. … Things don’t have to be perfect to be strong.

Graham: It’s the ones who never loved you enough who come to you when you can’t sleep.