Winter. (Archive)

This was originally published in December 2008. "Asylum" will be posted this week.

Ah, winter! It’s de-lovely, isn’t it? Amidst a mild snowstorm by Midwest standards, a gazillion hexagonal ice crystals floating, flying and twisting, I view through my window the dissipation of color until all surroundings are absent of hue. I turn down my music and open the casement window. Virtually soundless. It is eerie, not in a sinister manner, but rather unearthly, as if the scope of what is happening is not the weather but visual acuity failing.

I am a winter enthusiast. Not a winter sports enthusiast, mind you. I have no inclination to be unnecessarily active during cold months. Skittering down the driveway for the newspaper and occasionally picking up frozen dog turds is the extent of my strenuous recreation. Gelid conditions aside, I am a committed Chicagoan. There is a perverse satisfaction that comes with surviving the Midwest winter every year, idiotic pride in our ability to maintain everyday life no matter the weather conditions. While other regions of the country shut down with a spray of snow or a speckling of ice on the roads, we act as if nothing is amiss, even during a blizzard. We drive, we walk, we work; occasionally, a reporter will interview a resident about the inclemency; they will be outdoors, of course. Amidst the violently blowing snow, the Chicagoan with snot icicles hanging from his mustache will say, “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”
The cub reporter will ask, “Did you take any extra precautions?”
“Well, I put some kitty litter on the stairs ‘cuz last year Grandma slipped and broke her hip. And, I been starting up the cars ever so often to keep the motors warm.”
“What are your plans tomorrow?”
“Well, I have to work at 6 in the morning. After that, I’ll head to the bar, watch the game. Go Bears!”

Kids of the Midwest are similar in demeanor. I have watched children from out of town snivel and whine, “It’s soooo cold!” upon their arrival in our city. I fear they will amount to little in life. During the snowstorm of ’78-79, my family lived in a townhouse; they were nice then but are now considered the ghetto of Schaumburg. We had a very small, square, fenced-in backyard. My brother and I built an amazing snow fort, a labyrinth with tunnels and trenches, little areas dug out and covered and filled with an arsenal of snowballs. We stayed outside for hours without reprieve, frostbite started to chew at our skin, yet determined to create a stronghold in the suburbs, a fortress worthy of Marvel comic superheroes (we had decided long ago that DC Comics superheroes were sissies). When the sun set and the bitterness edged into our bones, we finally succumbed and retreated indoors. A bit of nourishment and some rest would serve us well before our envisioned battle the next day.

Around these parts, weather doesn’t matter. We are accustomed to the requirements of the season. We have unspoken rules. We migrate; we hibernate; we cover; we bundle. The lessening of exposure to ultraviolet illumination fades skin pigment, leaving some of our friends with a tone more pastel than we are accustomed. Perhaps we chubby up a bit from holiday treats and increased frequency of casual gatherings with the prerequisite of a pass-around dish. Some men grow facial hair, whereas some women are less inclined to shave their legs regularly, resulting in both sexes being stubbled. We sneeze and sniffle as our immune systems are overworked from the cold temperatures and celebratory soirees. That is the upper northern hemisphere from November until March: pasty, plump, shaggy, and symptomatic. It is our rogue’s gallery and we embrace it annually.

Tilting my head, I can see the fullness of the moon through the window. There is a comfort in cold, in dark, in silence. In this hush, I reflect upon the twelve months, what transpired, how I coped and empowered and weakened and settled and managed. As each Gregorian calendar year concludes, I am always astounded that I am still alive. It is not that I live dangerously; it’s not that I invite menace. Concert-going with the Hell’s Angels? Nope. Base jumping and cave diving? No, sirree. Scrumptious dinners of fugu and Death Cap fungi? C’mon now. That’s just silliness. Sometimes, trouble finds me (it’s true; ask around). Other times, illness attempts to strong-arm my emotional enthusiasm. Occasionally, I imperil myself with, shall we say, questionable choices; however, my days of internal thuggery are now limited. Still, in the still, the New Year brings amazement. “Good job, Deb,” I say. “You freakin’ survived another one. Well done.” It is an acknowledgment of perseverance without acquiescence and anticipation without expectation. As Albert Camus stated: “In the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer.” When I first read it, the quote stopped my breathing momentarily, as I analyzed simple words used with precision to create a flawless thought. Thus, with the close of each December, I settle in and gear up, preparing for another chance to be harmonious with others and yet indomitable in spirit.

My pensiveness is interrupted violently by snow plows. The scraping upon the pavement, coarse salt dumped randomly, scorching headlights slicing the darkness. Back to work and back to life. One cannot be wistful in a pothole.

Road.

Over the course of twenty years, I have traveled to every state in the continental U.S. Up until this last trip, I had avoided Delaware. This omission had not initially been purposeful; however, as time passed and states were journeyed through, the ostracism became somewhat amusing, cultivating into ridicule toward a state that did nothing to deserve it. Except for being itself, that which is Delaware. My first road trip companion and I had a large map push-pinned to a wall upon which we would carefully and proudly track our journeys with a black Sharpie marker. First to New Orleans, then southwest, then northwest--- driving with rarely a destination, only a direction. It was thrilling to be on the road in a beat-up car with little money and few possessions. In the age before cell phones (ghastly, I know), we had to rely upon passersby if anything bad happened. Somehow, it always worked out without us appearing on a milk carton. I would prefer to claim that we weren't stupid girls, but that was not always the case. If one was moronic, the other offered no astute insight, instead going along without reservation to the land of Imbecilica, chortling accomplices to any end.

A fairly accurate description of me is: “homebody with wanderlust.” My home--- once settled, once content--- is my sanctuary, a sacred shelter which protects me and allows me to decompress. Its comfort is restorative, its stability is life-sustaining, and its Wolf Cave is inspiriting to fecundity. Still, at times, I start pacing, I get snarky, I have an edge to my behavior, my movements, my speech. At that time, I know I need to get the hell out of my surroundings as well as my head; I need to go somewhere different, see and hear something different, talk to someone different, experience something different. Diversity and variety assist with sanity. Maintaining my creative madness without making me batshit requires a farrago, sparks of real life to rouse the right side of my brain.

To allow yourself to be in a state of complete unexpectedness takes balls. The excitement of that which is unfamiliar, senses renewed and enhanced by sights and sounds never experienced, it feels almost like an hazardous indulgence. Road trips are not for everyone, to be sure. Those who are high-maintenance should best stay home or consult a travel agent for their extravagant hooey. On road trips, vanity is, at best, a slapdash longing; luxury is laughable; itineraries are for namby-pambies. The correct answer to, “What do you feel like eating?” is: “Food.” And to the question, “Where do you want to stay?” the only answer is: “The car is fine. Or, if we're feeling outlandish, a place with a bed and a shower.” Without any idea of what may occur, one tends to rely upon the adrenaline rush itself. But, that, too, will become spent, and then dependence is upon the traveling companion to remain steady, as he or she is the only consistency available. That is why one has to be highly selective when choosing a compatriot. Will the person have temper tantrums? Then, no. Will the person be boring? Then, no. Though I have many friends with whom an evening is an absolute delight, they would never make the short list of road trip collaborator. Because John and I have spent many hours together, long stretches of time without the need for entertaining one another or being solicitous, we felt confident that we could not only stand one another for nine days, but also enhance the experience.

In Cleveland, John and I had the first of personal space challenges. The bathroom was tiny and its exhaust fan was less than effective. To emerge from the shower, apply deodorant and lotion, dress, and swaddle long, wet hair, was annoying and sticky. With a turban comprised of an itty-bitty towel, I opened the bathroom door and announced, “John, here's the deal. You will probably see me in my bra at some point during this journey. I will not subject you to full nudity, but I need to not ruin my showering event by embodying all that is humid. Therefore, I may appear from the bathroom displaying unmentionables. I refuse to bathe and then be moistly.” He nodded with empathetic understanding.

We both reveled in the opportunities for stories, dialects, and absurdity. Whether it was the aristocratic family from Beloit, cod curds, the psychopathic havoc of Lyle Dingman, Sicilian mobsters killing pet cats, exploding biscuits, or ass pain, we hyperbolized every incident and encounter until we could barely contain our hilarity. As we delighted in our waggery, we mutually honked clarion calls, inciting each other to take it one step further, and then clapping and roaring when it achieved preposterous. Ah, such gloating scribes! Though our inventive ad-lib narratives kept us occupied and smiling, we both needed a day without seeing everything at 80 or more miles per hour. The first stop at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum was a fun diversion, but we both needed our legs to stride and our eyes to veer. We decided to stay just outside of Boston and spend the following day wandering the Common and the Public Garden. Finding a motel proved to be challenging with every affordable place booked solid for no apparent reason. And, to make matters more stupid, all the motels we called apparently had the same receptionist. All conversations were close versions of this: “Are you on Mass Pike? If you're on Mass Pike, I can get you here. Where are you on Mass Pike? What direction are you headed on Mass Pike? From Mass Pike, I can get you anywhere. Take Mass Pike and head east. Exit at the second exit. You see that exit on Mass Pike? We're behind the Friendly's Restaurant. You can see Friendly's from Mass Pike.” This was spoken brusquely and with a distinctive, pronounced East coast accent, and the individual seemed exasperated that I wasn't of the “Mass Pike” elite, knowing precisely to what she was referring as if I wasn't an out-of-towner. “Mass Pike” continued to appear in banter for the remainder of the trek, easily upstaging other quips and capers.

The road has magical allure. On the road, there are no obligations and there is no accountability. It is a quick taste of absolute nomadic ambrosia. One of the thoughts that John and I both had independently was, 'No one other than my traveling companion knows where I am right now. No one knows what I'm doing; no one knows how to find me. I am experiencing freedom.' And, with freedom, one has time to come to terms with the many events that are transforming and life-altering. In addition to igniting imagination, the road allows time and focus to process. Mostly, we are denied that opportunity by daily life. The “big things” aren't broken down, sorted through, and resolved; they lay untouched and neglected in our minds until they start to decay. As they rot, other unresolved issues begin to fester until our internal cacophony causes us to act out with anger, confusion, and irritability toward others. Too often, the death of someone close or a severe illness or the dissolution of a relationship has its brief moment and is then tossed aside because, well, hey, life goes on. Grief and remorse and suffering are never given proper examination and reflection to reach resolution and then metamorphose into a past experience rather than a continual inner ache. This cyphering becomes angst, and we are unable to pick apart our own cryptogram and end our own torment. And that is why people are screwed up in their heads and mean.

On road trips, we need not be hurried to compartmentalize, stash away, and recover from before our next shift at work or our weekend with the kids or what have you. In my situation, before leaving I had a follow-up appointment with the physician who did my abdominal surgery. She informed me that because of the MS, my guts were becoming defunct. Those normal nerve signals that go from the organs to the spine to the brain and back again that say, “Um, pardon me, Person. You should really go to the bathroom soon,” in my body, somehow had a break in connection so that, basically, both my intestinal system and my urinary system had become paralyzed, no longer able to let me know I needed to relieve myself or to void on their own. Splendid. This news made me want and need to leave town, not to escape, but rather to process. I knew that the latest progression of the disease was not something that I could or should hastily accept and then within a couple of days be ready to face the world with a quick and ready “bah dum dum ching!” This progression was not just pain or lack of coordination, symptoms I had become accustomed to; this advancement was an insidious aspect of the disease, one that I had assumed would happen when I became bedridden and suffered from nearly complete paralysis. I had purposely skipped over the chapters in the MS books dealing with this, not only because I figured it was a long way off, but also because of its unpleasantness. The discomfiture and mortification were harsh, even for me, someone who does not embarrass easily. It's difficult to be a naughty, bawdy hellcat when you have voiding issues. Even though I had yet to suffer an incontinent mishap, my self-confidence was squashed, thinking that now, with these new developments, I lacked any sultry oomph. Carnal debauchery seemed dubious at best, hopeless at worst. Not that there was a throng of suitors and wooers in zany pursuit of me, but still... it could happen.

Thus, with my octogenarian bowel regime of Citrucel, Colase, mineral oil, and Miralax, and specific guidelines to John that we needed to stop every hour or two so as not to have pee flow up to my kidneys or down to my pants, we departed. In addition to both John and I needing adventure, escapades, and an unconventional and bizarre medley of people, places and things, I needed the road's magic--- its guidance to grapple with issues, its protection when jostling with fate, and its restorative powers--- besting reality by transcending its restrictions of clocks, obligations, appointments, chores, and pressures. It was time to clear the crazy and accept fortuitous events, whether blest or curst, whether happy or wretched. 'Tis life, best lived on an impromptu journey via motorcar.

Next: Asylum.

Trip.

We left with only the intention of going. That lack of expectation filled us with hope. Though I have been on many road trips, I was aware that this could be my last. That is not a macabre thought, but rather an objective assessment of my body's ability to handle duress. Though thoroughly exhilarating, road trips require endurance, patience, less healthy food, fewer hours of sleep, a youthful back, and a steel ass. My mental preparation was not necessary; my mind saw and heard only magic with the mere mention of nine days without an itinerary. As I packed, though, the precursory items to an even short time away from home made my mental sails suddenly windless. What once was some clothes, a toothbrush, and a carton of cigarettes, now was the metered clicking of a multitude of pills, dropped with precision into boxes with miniature partition walls for morning, lunchtime, late afternoon, and evening. Pink tablets, white and maroon capsules, all-white caplets, beige, peach, pale yellow--- dropped into their specified slots without contemplation yet with heavy sighs. There were other medicinal items necessary to my physical functionality--- enough so that I stopped packing, thought about having a cigarette, and instead laid down flat on my back, arms beside me, eyes vacantly staring into the whirling ceiling fan. 'I am not old,' I thought, 'I am worse than old. I am sick,' and that made a mockery of my childlike wonder and excited heart. Before finishing packing, I had to sleep hopeful for dreams of road trips long past.

It was John's first road trip and I feared being the sole source of letdown in our 3500 mile trek. It was a conundrum: should I wear my game face the entire way never indicating pain and illness, never allowing him to see that I may not be up to the task, or should I allow myself to be seen with some weakness, some frailty, a need for rest and recuperation? John is one of my closest friends and has been a pillar of support and compassion for a couple of years now. Still, I didn't want to be the singular cause of any disappointment, the reason he may tell his other friends, “It was okay, not as great as I expected but okay.” That would crush me, or more precisely, my ego, as well as my reputation as the finest traveling companion ever. But then, who was I trying to impress: John or myself? What was I trying to prove exactly and to whom? I grinningly ate up others shaking their heads upon hearing that I had the balls out nerve and stupidity to go on a road trip only two weeks after major surgery. It made me feel like Old Deb, the girl who flipped off authority and good sense with a quick finger and a sexy smile. With the accent and audacity of the Black Knight from Monty Python, I said aloud, “It's just a flesh wound,” and resumed packing.

Part of the giddy fun of starting a lengthy car trip is the inevitable notion of being unprepared. One does her best to ensure basics are taken care of, such as providing a caretaker for the animals. I adore my pets and it would be highly irresponsible and tragic to let them starve while I was gone. And then there are things such as rear struts. Since I am automotively challenged, I am unsure what struts actually do. I understand starters, brakes, steering... but, struts? Clueless. How important can they be? And, if they aren't functioning properly, what does that mean? A starter doesn't work, no starting. Brakes don't work, no braking. Struts don't work... then, we cannot strut? I'm okay with that since I much prefer to shimmy. Thus, we began our long journey slightly disappointed that we wouldn't be allowed to strut, yet confident that from the many silly walk variations, we would still be mobile.

John and I were, in fact, virtually all systems go for our excursion, much more so than I have ever been. Technology helps. We were both armed with laptops, cell phones, chargers, digital cameras, and debit cards. Fabulous. Additionally, John had a hand-held device that stored a little more than a kajillion songs. I am old school, packing numerous compact discs into a clear storage bin allowing easy access for the moments when I just had to hear one specific song. Combined, we brought enough music for a yearlong, worldwide voyage, but, you see, this was necessary because, as stated, sometimes you need THAT song. Like Boy Scouts, we were prepared, even if only primed for flashes of euphonious euphoria. We also had clothes and personal hygiene products--- always thinking of others are we--- and some caffeinated beverages and happy snacky treats. Luckily for us, it is always snack time on a road trip. Within the first few miles of the engine running, I exclaimed, “I ate that Ho Ho in two bites!” This was said haughtily and loudly while John goggled at me and then stared at his Zebra Cake, which was nearly untouched, flickers of crumbs stuck to his stubble from a polite bite, no more than a nibble. I believe I may have even raised my hands in fists from the steering wheel to exhibit my prideful satisfaction. So then, beyond those items, we needed little else. Oh, but wait... we are both writers. Thus, at the ready were journals, notebooks, scratch pads, writing instruments, and boundless flickering ideas soon to lose their turbidity. And, what, one may wonder, was the first recorded dynamical boom of genius? Why, of course, “I ate that Ho Ho in two bites!”

… Sometimes brilliance need not initially be swift to ultimately have impact. This was the immediate focus of our supplication while speeding eastward on I-90.

Next up: "Road."

Home.

It has been some time since I have written. Oddly enough, I have been consumed with everything involving my home. Not long ago, an opportunity arose for me to live in a very nice house despite my limited income. Initially, I was skeptical--- there had to be a downside, there had to be something wrong, something weird, some sleaziness. Yes, the rent was affordable… too good of a deal… what was the catch? Did I have to join a cult? Were there hidden cameras recording me at all times? Did I have to be someone’s sex slave? Accepting the concept that people in the world had goodness in them, wanted to help complete strangers, had kindness and interest in using their own good fortune to toss a few rocks of stability into someone else’s foundation… it was exhilarating as well as unnerving.

Living in a lovely house gives one a distinct joy akin to being gussied up for a special occasion or driving a fancy automobile. There is excitement in the experience itself. There may be a sense of ignis fatuus with the flighty whirling keeping one grinning though it is illusory to others and self. When telling friends of my new living arrangements, I have described myself as a Clampett, a clumsy twirl of dewy eyes, gingham and pigtails, hollerin’ for the critters to gather round and head over to the cee-ment pond. It is without doubt the nicest residence I have lived, and I still feel a bit the intruder, a houseguest who has brought all personal belongings. As I arrange furniture and color walls, hang art and cultivate plants, it is beginning to feel as if it might be okay for me to stay here, that maybe I do belong if only temporarily. Working room by room to infuse identity has been enjoyable, an outlet for creativity and expression done upon an exceedingly large canvas. I possess a few highly girly aspects: my toenails must always be painted a whimsical color; with flowers, I tend with a nurturing daintiness; I revel in coquetry and courtship; and, interior decorating is both a mission and delectation for me. I love making a house pretty. When I’m describing “my vision”, I have a confident panache, and I actually become somewhat swishy. Okay, maybe that’s not girly as much as dandyish.

I’m not sure how much “things” add to the feeling of home. I like things, but I have spent the last few years purging: lessening my possessions, restricting my buying, limiting items which required extreme care and caution. It was a penurious purification, one of both necessity and choice. I had read The Good Life by Helen and Scott Nearing, as well as Voluntary Simplicity by Duane Elgin, and I was implementing aspects into my life, frugality with the ultimate long-term goal of sustainable living. All of my owned items fit comfortably into about 500 square feet of living space. I was far from miserable; in fact, I felt a sense of release. I didn’t worry about anyone breaking into my home and stealing; I fretted more about the thieves’ disappointment. I drove a beater of a car and left the doors unlocked at all times, not just because the locks didn’t always allow entry, but also because it was 20 years old and if someone wanted it that badly, hey, have at it. Most of my clothes were purchased at resale shops located in fancy neighborhoods; used music and books were new to me; brand loyalty rarely played a factor for any merchandise; I patted myself atop the head with each act of transcending materialism and bringing Walden Pond to me and with me. And then… I got me this big ol’ fancy-pants house. What to do, what to do? Succinctly, I figuratively flipped off simple living, Thoreau, New World Order Utopia, et al, and I bought stuff. Since I could not go entirely full-throttle against my 40-year belief system, virtually nothing I purchased was new, nor was it expensive. Utilizing Craigslist and my alter-sprite, the Googling wunderkind, I was able to secure a number of nice items for few dollars. There was a need to fulfill the intentions of my house’s rooms. Without a dining table and chairs, it wasn’t a dining room and there could be no dining; it was a sad empty room with a chandelier hung centered and low, swaying woefully with each puff of air through the windows come. Perchance my nocturnal circumstance of airy-fairy affected my sighting of the ghost of Lord Byron, recumbent and listless, his curly locks and poofy shirt speckled with fuzzy carpet fibers, lamenting the lack of board and seat and thus, the privation of sumptuous banquet… And that was just one room.

Quandaries abounded. Living arrangements, for instance, have always been troubling. Christian Morgenstern, a German author, poet, and aphorist, stated that, “Home isn’t where our house is, but wherever we are understood.” If this is true, which I believe it to be, it is the reason why I’ve always preferred living alone. Often I have felt misunderstood, and rather than go through the process of explanation ad nauseam to others, I prefer to elucidate alone. Doing so rarely makes me irritable, and in fact, often allows creative furtherance or makes me sleepy-headed. My perfect living arrangement is with four-legged friends only; that is sufficient and enjoyable. Of course, human visitors are always welcome to come and go; eventually they leave and if they do not, I call the authorities to have them removed. The majority of the time, though, I’m quite fine alone. If I desire human companionship, I use the telephone, an amazing piece of electronic equipment that converts sounds into signals and back again. I am appreciative of this invention because it doesn’t require me to be showered, dressed or socially appropriate, and yet I can still feel connected to my loved ones. That device is sufficient for me. And, regarding casual conversation, my animals have distinct personalities and are rather vocal with their opinions. It is similar to normal interchanges. Frequently while getting dressed, I will ask my pets, “Does this go? I know it doesn’t match, but does it go?” I’m fine with their recommendations, which depending upon interpretation either makes me silly or daft. Now I must add that I do have a housemate, a very close friend of mine, and we are doing well at deciphering our synchronicity. Though she breathes and walks and talks, I am adjusting to having her in the house; and, though I am an antisocial ogre, she is adapting to my attempts at invisibility.

Joyousness in one’s home is often found in the nearly lost art of puttering. To muck about and tinker, touching this or rearranging that, is a fine mode of spending one’s idle time. Amblers are sometimes disrespected in our hurried society, which is unjust. To lollop through my home clipping dead leaves from plants, rearranging books and photo frames, sorting screws and nails, and meandering through minor home repairs and maintenance is not devoid of purpose. It is the placid ease of being soothingly afloat, the peace and pleasure of one’s stable surroundings, unhampered by the accelerated worry and onerous toil of being a denizen. That’s what home provides for us--- a place to safely putter. We love that. And, we need that. Another discovery: many have wondered why puttering retired men have one hand partially beneath their pants’ waistband. Due to medical anomalies beyond my control, now I know. They are holding in their hernias. Visit my home sometime: my carriage is that of a 70-year old Floridian, absent the socks and sandals.

Patience.

Moments ago, I spit forth a stream of vile obscenities that would have made any Navy SEAL turn his head with a giddy eye twinkle thinking he was amidst one of his own. The victim of my ire? A bi-fold door. A bi-fold door that I have fixed four previous times because it is continually assaulted by a marauding 9-month old German Shepherd. Why didn’t I yell at the puppy? Because I have infinite patience with animals and children. Inanimate objects? Not so much.

Whenever I hear someone described as incredibly patient, I think, ‘You just haven’t found their deal yet.’ Everybody has his or her deal. No one is intrinsically patient or impatient; we all have limitations. I am honored that many people describe me as calm, tolerant, and understanding; those are nice words, and for the most part, they are representative of my demeanor. Being perceived as benevolent and possessing risibility are qualities for which I have worked. With that said, within a day, a dozen different imbroglios can cause me to behave like an ogre on PCP. And, the events that may cause me to react in that manner are entirely different than what makes another person crazed. I can have someone tell me that they wrecked my car… “Okay. I never liked it much anyway. Are you all right?” or they ate the last of the cheese… “Odd choice considering my addiction, but that’s fine. There’s more cheese in the world. Please go get some.” But then, I can try fervently to fit a square peg into a round hole and go completely batshit… “That’s it! Where’s a fucking flame thrower!?!” Obviously, I’m no Job. Or Micah. Or Ayyūb. I’m actually kind of a wank in many situations.

Patience is not about being good-natured so much as it is about pacing. When one mimics the pace of another, they exhibit patience. When I am with children, I go along with their pace and, if need be, strategically alter their pace and direction to meet the needs of the situation. I do not yell and scream; I am firm yet casual in my requests and make them appear interesting to the child, as opposed to an authoritative demand. And with animals? I play Alpha Dog; I am not intimidated by their behavior because I have enough experience to understand their aggression, fear, and games. I can tell within seconds if a dog is a poseur or freaking cuckoo. If, indeed, the dog is the latter, I tend to back away slowly. Of the many dogs I have encountered, I would guess only about 2-5% are mentally off; the rest are looking for guidance, praise, and limits.

Much to my dismay, I have never been able to match the pace of the elderly. By elderly, I do not mean the spry chatterbox neighbor who sports a kicky scarf and recently signed up for kitesurfing classes; I mean the skin on bones, barely moving, needs to have the heat set at 85 degrees and the television volume at the highest decibel level old person. The grandfather of a friend of mine was an extremely interesting man. Minimally educated, he eventually rose to the position of Minnesota State Senator. He had been a logger and worked his way up to serving on the University of Minnesota, Board of Regents, eventually having a campus building named after him. Of Norwegian blood, he was taciturn and industrious, and also equitable, honorable, and clever. He met many U.S. Presidents through his life and was well-respected by all. When he passed away, the now deceased U.S. Senator Paul Wellstone called the family to offer his condolences. The man had an incredible life. Yet, while visiting him, he would tell stories so slowly that I nearly combusted. “In 1939… a gentleman named………… Tom……. Stanley… no… Sherman… um… Sherman Thomas from…. Polk County… near Grand Forks…” The pauses were so lengthy, I wondered aloud to my friend, “Did he just die? Is he still breathing? Check his pulse.” She shushed me with a crinkled brow and eventually her grandfather would resume his story. In truth, I would have loved to have read a book about his life. I would have loved to have a conversation with him had he been twenty years younger. I couldn’t change my pace to match his and became impatient. I became restless and a little petulant. Numerous times I tossed on my coat and escaped into the cold for a cigarette, mumbling, “I could be out here for an hour, what would I miss? Nothing. Same sentence. ‘Grand Forks… north of Fargo... Tom… no, um, Sherman…’” I would spin in growly circles, stretch my neck, and tetchily jump in place before returning inside.

Not too long ago, I had to exhibit patience in a number of regards. I was awaiting test results, diagnoses, outlooks, expectancies, all kinds of things that, if I had gotten shit-faced or cried incessantly or found myself in a straight jacket, most folks would have said, “Well, can’t really blame her considering the circumstances.” I would have blamed me, though. I would have felt as if my emotional growth had reverted, that my earned skill of self-solace was fraudulent, and that my perspective was skewed, being reactionary before knowing reality. Some friends were worrisome, thinking that I was in denial. They were incorrect. One does not have to be consumed with the possibilities; one need only be aware. One need not rehearse outcomes; there will be plenty of time for jubilance or sorrow or nothing. My closest friend, Lara, knows this. She and I have had frank discussions, but she never pushes me. We have synchronicity, pacing and spacing, comfort and contentment, the deep desire to assure the other is happy and her needs are met without being overbearing. We have that amazing flow, never needing the other to perform or please or pity, knowing the other doesn’t need continual attention and fawning. We have patience with one another, whether I am incapacitated and need much sleep or she is having blood sugar issues and needs nourishment. I can be stupid and sick; she can be surly and agitated. We know what’s going on. However, while playing a raucous game of CatchPhrase, I must admit, I may have exhibited a bit less patience. But, no root beer references, and there were many, were making her get the “frosty mug” answer. With veins popping blue on my forehead, I tried the snowman aspect. She twisted her face, raised her eyebrow, clueless. Clenching my shirt in an attempt to rip my aorta from my chest and end my anguish, I shrieked, “THE MOST FAMOUS FUCKING SNOWMAN!!!” It wasn’t my finest moment, but anyone with a competitive board game spirit would surely understand. It’s part of my deal.

I will continue to attempt to broaden my patience. It is not that I desire to achieve any of the Seven Heavenly Virtues; I don’t give a hoo-hay in that regard. I do, however, believe that other beings deserve respect, and when I exhibit tolerance and longanimity, I like to think that I added civility sprinkle onto my surroundings. Until I improve, someone else can handle storytelling by senior citizens. I’ll be in the other room listening to a toddler tell the same knock-knock joke for a few hours.

Words.

A friend of mine suggested I blog about words. Wow. It’s really hard. It is a much more difficult task than one would think. How do I write about my truest love? As smarmy and French as it sounds, words are my raison d’être; writing them on paper is my passion; morphemes are my motivation to continue breathing. The method in which language evolves, the cultural implications, the global impact of hybridism, are all incredibly fascinating to me. Metalinguistics, semantics, syntax, phonetics, phonology--- I’m getting a bit aroused. I’ll be the first to admit that I am a word wonk, through and through. "And then, just to show them, I'll sail to Ka-Troo And Bring Back an It-Kutch a Preep and a Proo A Nerkle a Nerd and a Seersucker, too!" Theodore Geisel makes me hot.

I study idiolects, even my own. Those phrases and words frequent in speech, punctuating normal conversations, are curious. They are exceedingly expressive, but we have to listen closely--- to the manner in which the speaker stresses this word or that one, to the pauses between certain sentences, to the speaker’s choice to enunciate syllables or slur through them--- everyone creates jargon within vernacular within dialect within language. The nuances of verbalism shine like neon; a high-spirited conversation is a photograph of city light trails with my ears set at a slow shutter speed to catch all fractions. Words… miraculous. Contrarily, physical expression is not instinctive to me; I’ve known this since I was a child. While others may touch a forearm during conversation, place a palm on a shoulder when walking through a doorway, slap a knee during raucous laughter, I sit stunned in instantaneous analysis:

‘Why did that person touch me? Does she do that with everyone?’
‘Is he being polite or is he being weird?’
‘Is this touching thing what normal people do? Am I socially inept or is she particularly friendly?’
‘Is this necessary? Can’t he just make his face move and use his words to exhibit emotion?’

It’s not as if I cringe or flinch or run away screaming. I don’t have aphephobia, the origin stemming from the Greek roots meaning “touch” and “ACK!” And, it’s not as if I don’t like it; I enjoy when my friends are affectionate. It is just not my chosen form of expression. I like words. It’s similar to learning methods: some learn best by reading and then applying, others by listening, others by doing. None of them is wrong or inferior, just different. While a friend may reach for my hand to share an intimate moment, I’m more inclined to say something such as, “I like you more than toast,” or, “This hour right here, one of my favorites of all of my hours,” or, with rarity, “I love you, my friend,” which is said with pureness and without pretense.

Whenever someone has a passion for something, as I do for words, it has the capability to cause conflict with other aspects of life. Relationships with humans come to mind. Most have referred to my writing as “my mistress,” which I do not like. It sounds tawdry. It’s disrespectful. Words are not gimcrackery. Writing is not a cheap whore gussied up with fallal and gewgaw, all for me to have it off. I consider words… the writing of words… words… my inamorata. And, the reason I choose the feminine rather than masculine version, inamorato, is because I have always thought words inherently female and numbers intrinsically male. Obviously, it is devoid of truth and has a stereotype stank to it, but that’s how I have approached my studies, whether literature or trigonometry. Whatever. We all have oddities. In relationships with humans, I have some trust issues. Shocking, I know. Somehow, always, they disappoint. Though we tell ourselves not to have expectations of others, we somehow, always, do. Now definitely, the rewards of interaction are worth the efforts, despite the times we are saddened and disenchanted. There is fluidity to relationships--- they are tensile and pliable, similar to the gentle chaotic flow of wax blobs in lava lamps. And, I do enjoy relationships. I like romance; I like friendship; I’m even glad for some of the kinfolk. Words, though, are timeless; they have placid permanence, accompanying me through the whole of life. And, if the relationship between words and me is not going well, it is entirely my inadequacy. The words remain flawless.

One may speculate as to if I have a disorder. Am I obsessed? Do I suffer from logomania and/or graphomania? I feel secure in stating that, despite other psychological issues, I do not have a pathological compulsion with either words or writing. But, there are certain actions in my day that are habitual (it is so different), including but not limited to: relieving my bladder, partaking in hygiene practices, listening to music, playing with my animals, and writing. While others may spend a few hours watching television or shopping or partaking in sports, I play with words. I juggle them and twist them and twirl them and throw them into the air to see how they land. Each one is unparalleled, similar to the snowflakes I catch with my tongue, but instead enticed within the whimsical webbing of Wernicke’s area. My entire life is whirling lexical rapture. Truthfully, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I am content with words, overjoyed with words, impassioned by words… my inamorata.

Dependence.

Here’s a conundrum: we are encouraged to rely upon others yet be independent, to be self-sufficient yet depend upon our friends. Troublesome, yes? We admire ambitious go-getters, uncontrolled fireballs who make it on their own after walking on hot coals and not being taken by “the man”, fighting the system and the power. Because anything you can do, oh hell yeah, doing it better. Rock on, free bird.

We also have a high opinion of those who wonder where all the flowers have gone, and being in possession of a hammer, they get up early and hammer in the morning, cooperating and selflessly working toward common good, the betterment of the village, sacrificing for others so that generations to come experience freedom and hope because this land was made for you and me, for gosh sake.

I reckon we’re screwed in this riddle.

As a child, I concluded that the only person who could take care of me was me. I had encountered some difficult family situations and that coupled with uprooting and relocating numerous times, gave me a sense of aloneness in the world. Without a shoulder to lean or cry upon, I strived for complete independence. I was willful, strong, determined, and purposeful. Promoted to store manager when I was twenty-one, I bought my first condo less than two years later. Kicking up my heels and swinging round a lamppost, I was on my way. I was never a rip-roaring giant head, hoarding my minimal wealth and dismissing others with scornful spit. Picking up bar tabs, sending checks to Greenpeace, and slipping Jacksons to friends in need were commonplace. It was fine for others to receive assistance from me, but ignominious for me to rely upon them. One of the synonyms for dependent is minion. Sweet. That’s how we feel, though, isn’t it? We feel as if we are subordinate to others, that perhaps we were on equal ground and now that we have asked for assistance, we have dropped a level and are beneath others. We feel helpless when we ask for help. And yet, if others ask us for help, we don’t think of them as weak, we don’t judge them to be powerless, obsequious followers. Why do we judge ourselves differently than others? We all have peaks and valleys; we just feel much more comfortable peaking. We never know how deep the valleys will be. We toddle along thinking that rainbows and a Starbucks are just over the ridge. When we see vultures circling over us and bleached bones poking up from the sand, we think, ‘Well, that can’t be good.’

Not too long ago, I encountered modifying factors. What might those be? I prefer the term to “circumstances.” The reason for that is because it sounds less vulnerable. We all have a contingency factor, right? Some kind of conditions that influence or determine the outcome, and quite frankly, most of the time, circumstances are unpleasant. It’s rare for one to hear, “Due to circumstances, she overwhelmingly succeeded in life!” Nope. She succeeded because of hard work and drive, because of fate or angels or prayers, because of daddy’s investments and mother’s connections. We hear, “Due to circumstances, she was broken down, wiped out, poor and nearly dead.” That’s not happy. Due to those snidely circumstances, I found myself experiencing a muckle of madness. Without my friends and family, right now I would be homeless. I’m a pretty scrappy gal, but I’m not sure how I would handle that. If I were to venture a guess, here’s what I think would happen: drugs, a lot of freakin’ drugs. I would be a toothless, emaciated skank in a very short period of time. This is not because I don’t have confidence in myself, that I don’t believe I can pull up them-there bootstraps. This is because everyone has a bottom, a place they hit hard and cannot climb out. I have learned through forty years that I can be sick, I can be poor, I can be challenged, I can be broken, but I cannot be alone. I cannot be without those I love who love me back. Despite my Pee-wee Herman quoting of being “a loner, Dottie, a rebel”, I cannot be without support and guidance and wisdom from others. At times, I rely upon others whether emotionally, physically, or financially. Does it make me weak? Somewhat, but is it a defect or is it fragility? Is it fault or vulnerability? For me, the difficulty comes from the essence of feeling unfree. But, that is my own doing, my own twisted thinking. The restraints I feel are in opposition to the liberation others are giving me by providing me independence by allowing me to depend upon them. That’s a labyrinthine, tortuous tangle.

So then, how do we resolve accepting assistance without internal self-flagellation? I pondered this for a short time which resulted in three ideas: 1) Wear soft shoes and pretend all of your friends are Cheyenne; 2) designate Miss Manners as your shoulder angel; 3) read books on Adlerian psychology and nursery rhymes at the same time. I’m going to expound on this so as not to give the impression that my intellectual faculties are deteriorating. First, if your companions are all Cheyenne, they would never judge a man until they had walked two moons in his moccasins. Eh? See? Very Polonius of me, yes? Next, if Judith Martin was sitting cross-legged with hands folded upon her knees, resting smugly on your shoulder (and, of course, she was very, very tiny), she would whisper in your ear to be nice, gracious, and express your thanks, then shut your pie-hole. I believe she’s edgier when she is miniaturized. Finally, keep in mind that the song lyrics are, “See saw sacradown, which is the way to London town? One boot up, and the other down, and this is the way to London town.” Simple, playful, nonsensical, just as traditional verse for children should be. The lyrics are not, “See saw Nero’s crown, narcissist or meltdown? Ego up or self-loathing drown, inferiority complex will jumble you ‘round.” When it comes to mindfucks, stand on the pivot bar.

In my defense, I mulled this quandary over right before fading into a hazy pseudo-nap in which the last thing I heard was, “The Final Countdown” by Europe and the last thing I did was eat mango sorbet too quickly which resulted in my blood vessels swelling from brain freeze. I think maybe I should just say, “Thank you,” and retire for the evening.

To my friends, thank you.