OH, the little mysteries in life... The muddy, meandering, marvelous little mysteries!
I am talking about the invisible miniature laundry helpers who steal our socks in between loads. DUH. Those little rascals have a thing for my favorite pairs of compression adidas socks. The ones that I get in white with a dash of color. The ones that I now must forever wear MISMATCHED because those little devil crime-doers exist just to annoy the crap out of me. Me and everyone else who ever uses a laundry machine. I remember back when I didn't believe those little nasties existed. I actually blamed myself for the sock mystery! Can you believe it!? 'Oh no, I must have forgotten that one sock in that one bag when I went to that one place. It's my fault. Must be. ALL my fault.' I was delusional. Of course they exist. How else would you explain the sock mystery?!? 'Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved.' An old woman's voice rings in my ears. My voice perhaps, years from now, when I am wrinkly with saggy boobs and terrible hearing. When I no longer solve the mysteries of the world. When I no longer believe in the miniature laundry helpers and their affinity to adidas compression socks. I hope I never become her. I hope I always believe in the miniature laundry helpers. I hope I always thrive to uncover the marvelous little mysteries of the world.
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If you follow me
For a moment To that willow tree And sit under its weeping embrace I will tell you a secret A secret so sacred that only the willow can hear it The willow and you If you follow me For a moment And sit under its weeping embrace. I will tell you my secret like a story So grand It was straight out of the bible With all its stakes and romance and fire and horror I will play all the parts And narrate with my deepest sincere voice And I will hand you a program Written in the weeping leaves One that gives only highlights Because when I would have told you my secret Under the weeping willow No program long enough Could contain A secret so sacred That I will only tell you One of these days Under a weeping willow When I build the courage To lead And when you build the courage To follow me For a moment To that willow tree. When one is young, youngish, younger than sixty something, and one adopts a CAT - one isn't afraid of commitment. More so, ONE - in this case - moi - welcomes commitment with open arms. After all, the commitment to adopt a cat when one is young, youngish, younger than sixty... is the willing and open invitation to lose. To love and then to lose. To liven up and then to let go. To lure and then to lament. A cat lives... what? Ten, fifteen years? eighteen if she's lucky? So when one AKA moi adopts a cat, one says 'Hello. I'll be your mama. We'll get close. I'll take care of you. I'll feed you. I'll clean after you. We'll snuggle. You'll kiss me every morning. Sometimes you'll puke, and I'll clean it up. Sometimes I'll puke, and you'll just stare in dissatisfaction because you are a cat and not my caretaker. But you'll love me. Because I'll feed you. And I'll love you. Because you're fluffy. And adorable. And mine. And then one day you'll die. Or you'll get sick. And then you'll die. And I'll be left here, alone. Without you. Grieving you. Remembering you. Smelling you still because a cat's scent takes years to wipe off. To wither. To wander off... So hello, cat. AKA my hereby commitment to love. To loss. To litter."
If one says they have a fear of commitment, but they have a cat, you should know: one's a LIAR. My niece is a riot. A radiant, rascal, rambunctious four year old riot.
And she asks tough questions. Tough, troubling, tingling questions. The kind of questions a spunky four year old would ask. So when she stared deep into my eyes and asked 'what is your favorite thing that you ever lost?' I could only give her my most sincere and deepest answer: 'Time. My favorite thing I ever lost is TIME.' Boom. Bam. Bingo. Don't we all wish we had just a little more... time? Personally, I would have given myself a ten for that answer. An eleven. A twelve. A trophy. A Nobel prize. But this four year old riot had other plans: she frowned, rolled her eyes, and stared deeper into my eyes when she repeated: 'NO. I said THING. What is your favorite THING that you ever lost?' And my zen moment of enlightenment went to shit. Went. Withered. Wallowed. I had to stumble on an answer that would satisfy the little rascal's need. She's a material girl this one, living in a material world, and how dare I stoop down to the level of philosophy or dare I say Buddhism with this future influencer?!? Or future rocket scientist. Or future president. The future is grand for this materialista. So I smiled back at that little devilista materiallista and talked about some made up music box that barely played music anymore but had a ballerina who twirled around even in silence. If only I could have had that music box back in my life... but alas. It's gone. Gleaned. Grifted. Truthfully, it never existed, but when a four year old riot stares into your eyes - you do what she says. You do what she says. Three little words.
Three little words that say a lot. Three little words that if one doesn't say them - it is because they don't care to know. Three little words and they are: How are you? Notice who asks and who doesn't. I take pride in never having had a fever. (wowza grammar!)
Correction: I TOOK pride in never having had a fever. It's all over now. Enter madame Feverosa in all of her wham glam no-thank you ma'am. Boy is she a draaaag. A dud. A doorknob. A determined attention seeker. I'm no psychologist, but methink she has some kind of a personality disorder. One that starts with 'histrionic' and continues with 'personality' and ends with 'disorder.' Solely because madame Feverosa makes me hysterical. Sure, I'm too tired to seem hysterical, but inside? Inside I am upside-down, body fighting to not be completely swept away by her sheer power. The cough is unbearable and I realize it is a cry for help or a plea for madame Feverosa to find another victim for her scandalous ways. A pathetic plea that goes nowhere. She is dedicated to her will and her will at the moment is to flush me over and turn me into a couch potato. Correction: BED potato. I am attached to the bed as if I was strapped to it. Hours go by. It's daylight out there, but my bed is my straight jacket and I won't leave its side. It's a symbiotic relation because that's how madame Feverosa wants it to be. And in her hysterical way she always gets what she wants. Our first encounter is epic, though thankfully - brief. She winks at me on her way out and announces: 'you'll never forget about me.' And I never will. The landing is rough. Jarring. Jolting. Jinxing any possible chance of imagined possibility.
Reality bites is an understatement. It's more like, reality chews. chokes. Challenges. I find myself drifting into resignation. Into retreat. Into reason. And the enemy of joy is reason, is it not? Perhaps not. What do I know about joy, anyways. I am no child. Children are the messengers of joy in our world. Children and perhaps also dogs. Yes, dogs, with their wag, their wonder, their wailing. Once, they too were mad at the moon, and like wolves they howled, like humans they wandered timid, tender, toying with the idea of letting go. The landing is rough. Reminding me that my home is broken. Here, there and everywhere. And flying high in the sky doesn't repair a broken home. Flying high in the sky is only a thing of itself. And every thing of itself has an end. A conclusion. A point. A book end. I, too, shall have my book end. But for now, I land. What does writing in mid air look like?
Does it feel elevated, does it flow? It it enlightened, spacial, grand? Does it feel high, tall, cosmic? No. it feels same as on the ground: haunting. Scary. Exciting. Lonely. Introspective. Writing is an art form that doesn't depend on space out in the field, but rather of space in the heart. Space in the mind. Space in the soul. It took me so many years to announce to the world 'I am a writer!' But in truth, I've been a writer since as long as I learned how to write. My need for expression found another outlet. And another truth with it: writing doesn't rely on reading. A writer doesn't write in order to be READ. A writer, like myself, she writes in order to feel. In order to understand. In order to think. In order to get to know herself. If she dares to share, well, then, she also wants her writing to make a difference. To affect others. To reach. To connect. But when she writes... Air or land: she writes only for herself. What is a journey?
Or, to be more precise: How do we know we are on a journey? Is it because there is an END point to this adventure-called-life? Is it because there is a STARTING point? Should there be a lesson at any stage of this so-called journey? Should there be company on route? Should there be a 'should' at all!?? Am I on a journey right now? Are YOU? Is the journey the meaning we all aspire to find? Is the journey the actual destination? My middle school had a quote plastered on its entry wall: 'Education is the journey, the PERSON is the goal.' So my middle school student self would say: On the journey of my life - I AM the goal. PROCESS
(noun) *A series of actions or steps taken in order to achieve a particular end. *A natural or involuntary series of changes. *A systematic series of mechanized or chemical operations that are performed in order to produce or manufacture something. (verb) *Perform a series of mechanical or chemical operations on (something) in order to change or preserve it. *Deal with (someone) using an official and established procedure. "I gotta process that." "It's a process." "Did you process what I just said?" ~The technological age we are in contributes to a unique language. A computer takes power to process data. And so does the human brain. And so does the heart. |
AuthorIn April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling. Categories
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Header Art: Daniel Landerman |