Today is the third consecutive day of clouds and rain. While it is not the sort of cast most people appreciate this many days in a row, I'm sure my neighbors in the home directly behind us are taking a small bit of comfort from being shrouded in this fine drizzle. Yesterday their house caught on fire.
It was a fire that began at the kitchen stove, although I'm not sure of the specifics. Beth, my neighbor, said it had something to do with what she had on the stovetop and a nearby candle. However, within seconds there were flames too virulent to control and smoke filling the house and billowing out from all the windows. Pat, her husband, was at that moment airborne on a return flight home after a business trip and, obviously, could not be reached...not that he could have done anything other than pray anyway, and she was home with their two small children and two dogs.
She did the only thing she could or needed to do and grabbed the babies, the dogs and her cell phone and exited out the front of the house to our small cul de sac where she called 911. Being a very intimate enclave of only five houses we are all very aware of and friendly toward one another so she was immediately aided by all the neighbors who took the children and the dogs and comforted her as she tearfully watched what she feared might have been the end of life as she knew it.
Within minutes several fire trucks, ambulance, police cars, etc. were crammed into the circle taking care of what, blessedly, turned out to be a relatively minor fire, all things considered. They will need a new stove and some minor repairs to the surrounding walls and the house smells much like McGonigle's Meat Market on the days they have the huge smoker out in front of the store cooking ribs and chicken, but other than that, everything is fine and they were all able to sleep in their house last night.
My job is now to provide dinner for them at five o'clock each night until their kitchen is fully operational again. I am happy to do it since I've got to make dinner for my remaining family anyway, plus I still remember the excruciatingly long eight weeks when my kids were all under ten and we were reduced to a microwave and mini fridge in the downstairs laundry room while our kitchen was being renovated. I did the dishes in the downstairs bathtub -when our Newfoundland, Frodo, wasn't sleeping in it, that is. And while it began as sort of a campy, quirky alternative to conventional living, the fun of it all went out the window within the first three or four days, as soon as the kids realized their persnickety cravings and favorite victuals could not be sufficiently satisfied under those conditions.
I don't want my neighbors to have to experience that any more than they are already bound to do.
Whether it was precipitated by the near disastrous events of yesterday or by some other subliminal yoke strapping a weighty claim on my unconscious, I can't say; but last night's sleep was riddled by nightmares of nomadic wanderings in all manner of dark places. Caves, underground tunnels that served full-scale trains rather than the expected subway cars, and above ground places where there was a supposed sky overhead but one that was so dark and thick it left the impression of being more like an inverted (and dirty) Mason jar.
In any case, there was nothing familiar or comforting and a vigilant regard was paid to being perpetually on the move. I was by myself, but there were hundreds of thousands of others there with me. I knew no one, although many of those around me appeared to know each other. It didn't seem to matter because the mood was so somber that the only connections were those of commiseration, so it wasn't like alliances could have been forged to alleviate the heaviness anyway.
Even though there was this hard dread and physical evidence of uselessness, senselessness and despair in all the grim and abstract images of dead-ended beginnings and never-begun endings, I didn't feel trapped as it seemed the others did. I was aware that it was a dream and would summarily end in time, with or without my complete comprehension or endorsement.
I was a watcher, yet at the same time I experienced a definite emotional accord with everyone and had a visceral understanding of all that occurred, all that was felt, all that was missing and all that could never be in this nocturnal confederation of the damned.
This wasn't my first visit to this place. I'm taken there regularly by whatever force it is that captivates all those unspoken thoughts and caches of denial I subscribe to inappropriate or selfish behavior in my waking moments and then compels them to expose themselves deep in the unconscious night when all pretense and contrivance sleep soundly.
I think we all go there because we all withhold more of ourselves then we should in the staid rounds of our day, and were there no releases or receptacles for these untended particles of thought and emotion, implosion would be the chief cause of death everywhere on earth.
My conscious walk through the world at the moment feels not terribly unlike those sepia colored, stained containers of non-being my soul travels to at night, which is giving the stoic in me a pretty rigorous workout. It's a good and valuable exercise I don't regret undergoing, although it would be nice to have a better grasp on what it is all about.
When I was a kid I had these All About books: All About Mammals, All About Birds, All About Reptiles, All About Dogs. I wish they had not stopped there. What I wouldn't give for a book, All About Apathy or All About Where To Go From Here.
Many years ago we had our driveway asphalted by this buoyant and wise character named Delacey. He could neither read nor write and for a time my husband, who is a reading specialist, tutored him. But what Delacey could do was put things into perspective, and one of the things he said that has always stayed with me was said after watching all the traffic clogging the local highway: "Nobody knows where the hell they goin', but they all goin' like Hell to get there!"
I'm not what you'd consider a 'type A' personality, but there have definitely been periods in my life when I felt that way; that I had no clue where I was going or why but that I was getting there on a souped-up bullet train of discontinuities. Perhaps this is why I've come to such a screeching halt now? I've used up all of my "get out of jail free" cards and cannot pass 'Go' without one, so the game has come to a stalemate.
But as I sit waiting for the bail bondsman of enlightenment to return me to the world of productivity and purpose, I am not idle. My brain is working overtime and taking me to a non-linear zone where thought all but obliterates despair, as well as keeping reality enough at bay that it loses it's immediate relevance. I suppose if you're stuck in jail, it's better that it is the one of your own making. At least you know your way around and are on friendly terms with a couple of the guards.
Music also helps, and Friday night I reveled in a live dose of it delivered as it was from the recording- studio basement of my stellar rocker friend, Chris; where I was treated to healing decibels of jams between four solid musicians and friends. I even got a playful stint on the drums, which is something I have not done since the seventh grade when I decided that pursuit of the male species would be more challenging and less redundant than seeking proficiency even on Ludwig's best percussion set (although I later and regularly question that assumption) and was prompted to abandon my drum lessons after only three years. But let it be now noted that while vodka can substantially loosen inhibitions, it can also impair coordination; although I managed to hold my own, albeit not without backup.
However, my favorite spot was sitting on the floor with Chris's old dog, Duke, where I could happily scratch behind the the old boy's ears and drift away on rockin chords of possibility. It was an absolute Be Here Now evening that I am grateful for.
And now that I have returned to this odd place of indeterminable boundaries, I am thankful that my neighbors still have a house with walls. Beyond that, today not much else matters.
I'm confident that at some point form will again be apparent in my life and around me a structure of clear perspectives and sturdy objectives will once more provide shelter for all these quaking doubts and finally put them at ease.
I don't doubt that the process of building a whole new exterior attitude on a house without any interior walls is going to be challenging. What will this new building resemble if it appropriately reflects my thoughts? One thing I do know is that it must have loads of windows without any locks. I've had enough doors slam on me to recognize the value of open windows and fire escapes, and I want to ensure that plenty of air will be circulating opinions and ideas from the outside intersection at the corners of Conventional and Dissenting.
In the meantime I've got a foundation to put down, which could take quite a while to put together given the importance of making certain that it is a solid one; and if I remember correctly, the first step before laying any foundation is to dig.
If I had a hammer.....and some nails, some two by fours, a rotary drill, reciprocating saw, self-leveling concrete....
I don't want my neighbors to have to experience that any more than they are already bound to do.
Whether it was precipitated by the near disastrous events of yesterday or by some other subliminal yoke strapping a weighty claim on my unconscious, I can't say; but last night's sleep was riddled by nightmares of nomadic wanderings in all manner of dark places. Caves, underground tunnels that served full-scale trains rather than the expected subway cars, and above ground places where there was a supposed sky overhead but one that was so dark and thick it left the impression of being more like an inverted (and dirty) Mason jar.
In any case, there was nothing familiar or comforting and a vigilant regard was paid to being perpetually on the move. I was by myself, but there were hundreds of thousands of others there with me. I knew no one, although many of those around me appeared to know each other. It didn't seem to matter because the mood was so somber that the only connections were those of commiseration, so it wasn't like alliances could have been forged to alleviate the heaviness anyway.
Even though there was this hard dread and physical evidence of uselessness, senselessness and despair in all the grim and abstract images of dead-ended beginnings and never-begun endings, I didn't feel trapped as it seemed the others did. I was aware that it was a dream and would summarily end in time, with or without my complete comprehension or endorsement.
I was a watcher, yet at the same time I experienced a definite emotional accord with everyone and had a visceral understanding of all that occurred, all that was felt, all that was missing and all that could never be in this nocturnal confederation of the damned.
This wasn't my first visit to this place. I'm taken there regularly by whatever force it is that captivates all those unspoken thoughts and caches of denial I subscribe to inappropriate or selfish behavior in my waking moments and then compels them to expose themselves deep in the unconscious night when all pretense and contrivance sleep soundly.
I think we all go there because we all withhold more of ourselves then we should in the staid rounds of our day, and were there no releases or receptacles for these untended particles of thought and emotion, implosion would be the chief cause of death everywhere on earth.
My conscious walk through the world at the moment feels not terribly unlike those sepia colored, stained containers of non-being my soul travels to at night, which is giving the stoic in me a pretty rigorous workout. It's a good and valuable exercise I don't regret undergoing, although it would be nice to have a better grasp on what it is all about.
When I was a kid I had these All About books: All About Mammals, All About Birds, All About Reptiles, All About Dogs. I wish they had not stopped there. What I wouldn't give for a book, All About Apathy or All About Where To Go From Here.
Many years ago we had our driveway asphalted by this buoyant and wise character named Delacey. He could neither read nor write and for a time my husband, who is a reading specialist, tutored him. But what Delacey could do was put things into perspective, and one of the things he said that has always stayed with me was said after watching all the traffic clogging the local highway: "Nobody knows where the hell they goin', but they all goin' like Hell to get there!"
I'm not what you'd consider a 'type A' personality, but there have definitely been periods in my life when I felt that way; that I had no clue where I was going or why but that I was getting there on a souped-up bullet train of discontinuities. Perhaps this is why I've come to such a screeching halt now? I've used up all of my "get out of jail free" cards and cannot pass 'Go' without one, so the game has come to a stalemate.
But as I sit waiting for the bail bondsman of enlightenment to return me to the world of productivity and purpose, I am not idle. My brain is working overtime and taking me to a non-linear zone where thought all but obliterates despair, as well as keeping reality enough at bay that it loses it's immediate relevance. I suppose if you're stuck in jail, it's better that it is the one of your own making. At least you know your way around and are on friendly terms with a couple of the guards.
Music also helps, and Friday night I reveled in a live dose of it delivered as it was from the recording- studio basement of my stellar rocker friend, Chris; where I was treated to healing decibels of jams between four solid musicians and friends. I even got a playful stint on the drums, which is something I have not done since the seventh grade when I decided that pursuit of the male species would be more challenging and less redundant than seeking proficiency even on Ludwig's best percussion set (although I later and regularly question that assumption) and was prompted to abandon my drum lessons after only three years. But let it be now noted that while vodka can substantially loosen inhibitions, it can also impair coordination; although I managed to hold my own, albeit not without backup.
However, my favorite spot was sitting on the floor with Chris's old dog, Duke, where I could happily scratch behind the the old boy's ears and drift away on rockin chords of possibility. It was an absolute Be Here Now evening that I am grateful for.
And now that I have returned to this odd place of indeterminable boundaries, I am thankful that my neighbors still have a house with walls. Beyond that, today not much else matters.
I'm confident that at some point form will again be apparent in my life and around me a structure of clear perspectives and sturdy objectives will once more provide shelter for all these quaking doubts and finally put them at ease.
I don't doubt that the process of building a whole new exterior attitude on a house without any interior walls is going to be challenging. What will this new building resemble if it appropriately reflects my thoughts? One thing I do know is that it must have loads of windows without any locks. I've had enough doors slam on me to recognize the value of open windows and fire escapes, and I want to ensure that plenty of air will be circulating opinions and ideas from the outside intersection at the corners of Conventional and Dissenting.
In the meantime I've got a foundation to put down, which could take quite a while to put together given the importance of making certain that it is a solid one; and if I remember correctly, the first step before laying any foundation is to dig.
If I had a hammer.....and some nails, some two by fours, a rotary drill, reciprocating saw, self-leveling concrete....
