XVI The Tower

 

I've been thinking a lot of about politics, and tarot. Not at all related, really, just what's been on my mind. In tarot there are a few cards that everyone always freaks out about. The tower, being one. And it is, it's a rough card, because no matter how you try to soften that blow, it still signifies catastrophic change. But the thing is, I think sometimes you need to see that, the flames, and that tilt that seems so wrong, because it IS eye opening. It's harder to keep pretending that nothing is wrong. Everything is, of course, open to interpretation. But what it boils down to is, you can either ignore the message, or start the work that needs doing.

•festive•

 

struggle (starve)

What can I say? I'm in a mood.

 

dead roses

 

•phobia•

•homegrown disquiet•

•a soundtrack to my restlessness•

half-life

       I may have watched too many press conferences today...

•connections•

I live in Ohio.  Yesterday I saw first hand how mass hysteria functions...during a simple grocery trip.  And then watched my neighbors have a huge party as their interpretation of social distancing. 
I ruminated on both of these things, and this is what came out.

when the writing prompts get out of hand

{I've been playing around with randomized prompts, and bits of short fiction.  So when I pulled "violin" and "person covered in tattoos" this was definitely not what I meant or wanted to write.}

Ink & Strings

I am not who I thought I would be. Neither violinist nor person covered in tattoos. Do I want to be either? Yes and no. Had I had the money to spare in my late teens, early twenties, late twenties, early thirties, etc etc etc I might have gotten a lot of tattoos that I thought I needed--hard emphasis on “thought”--instead of the one acquired at 42. I have a list now. Of need versus want...and still no funds to accomplish it.  So, I could have been covered in tattoos, though they’d have been the wrong ones.

As for the violinist...as I write this, I sit under an antique violin case hung on the wall. An odd sort of family heirloom gifted to my father by the doctor who delivered him. It is not strung. It has not been played within my lifetime. It hangs on the wall, where it has been for as long as I’ve known it; not even a decoration, just a thing we had. A prop for a story. Valued...but in an arbitrary sort of way.

I would have loved to have taken lessons in my youth. But it was another thing we couldn’t afford, and the violin itself another low priority “should”. As in, “We should get someone to check it out.” “We should see if it’s still playable.” “We should see about getting it restrung.”

When I was a child I thought all of these should statements were things we were going to do. That’s what “should” means in that context, right? Something that you should do is important...?

As an adult, I think should is a curse word. Not like saying fuck or bullshit. A true curse.

I’ve been beaten down by so many years of “it should work” or “we should be able to do it”, “we should be okay on the bills”, “the life insurance should pay out”, “we should be able to get the car fixed this time”, and my all time favorite: “meh, it should be fine”. I flinch every time someone says it anymore. And I cringe and chastise myself on the rare occasion that it comes out of my mouth.

Maybe somewhere in an alternate universe there is a woman who looks like me. Maybe she is healthy and less angsty, and not crippled by depression and anxiety. Maybe she isn’t scarred by cursed words. Maybe she isn’t alone. Maybe she is calloused from years of the pressure of strings, and inked with artwork, only a few of which she feels the barest twinges of regret for. Maybe she has a safe stable house that she loves. Maybe she has a dog, or a cat, or a ferret. Maybe she has a husband or wife or both. And maybe they all have family dinners every month with both blood and bound.

Maybe she has occasional nightmares of another woman, one with her face, but none of her charm. Nights where she wakes in tears, and becomes angry with her bedmate for not understanding why the idea of “everything staying the same” is so heart wrenching. Nights where she wants more than anything to go back into the dream, to hug that other woman and tell her everything will be alright. But she’s also glad that she’s awake, that they are just dreams. Because she doesn’t really believe that it can be okay.

i don't know

how long

        if every loss
        leaves a hole
        how long before
        there's not enough
              left
        to hold together?

Every year, for at least the last several, by this date I'm done.  I'm just so fucking over the last 364 days that I cannot wait for this shit to be finished.  It's so easy to look back at the year, through the recent magnified lens of holiday angst and see all of the things left fucked up, unfinished, undone, or just not gone right.

The past week social media has been flooded with "fun" posts of the "list one thing you're proud to have accomplished this year" or "what's your happiest memory of 2018" variety.  And every time I scroll across one I sit and think.  And ponder.  And strain.  This year has been so awful, on so many levels, and for so many reasons that I have to truly struggle to think of ANY good things.

So, given my general end of year attitude, right now would normally be the time I am beyond ready to tack a new number onto the date.  The hell with 2018.  Burn it with fire, bury it in a shallow grave, whatever, just get it the fuck away from me.

Only...

Firsts are hard.  So are lasts.  I hate this year.  So much.  There are not words for how much.  But it's the last one I had with my mom.  And that makes me want to cling to this thing that I loathe, like it's a life raft that could, that might, keep my head above water.  Sitting trapped in this too quiet house, feeling the minutes ticking away, I know time does not operate on my whims.  I wish it did.  That it could.  If there was deity who could be swayed, I would beg for a do-over of this year.  Even if the outcome had to be the same.  I'm not ready for it to be 2019.  It's not a first that I want.  But I know, like with so many other painful things, that there is no choice to be made.

This is Not a Political Post

This is not about candidates or issues.  It's not about changing your mind or swaying your opinion, as the time for that has well and truly come and gone.  This IS a post about storytelling, spirituality, and fear.

My mother was a poll worker for many years.  She did it because it was interesting work, because she genuinely enjoyed talking to all of the different people, and frankly, because we could always use the extra cash.  She would come home tired--they were very long days--but content, and with a fair amount of folksy news and amusing stories to tell.  And even in controversial election years it seemed to be a genuinely enjoyable experience.

That is not this year.

As we have all watched the increasing ugliness, unrest and aggression, I have said that you could not pay me to go near a polling place on election day this year (and as a matter of fact I made a point to cast my vote by absentee ballot a couple of weeks ago).  But over the past week or so it has really hit home what I am saying by my refusal to vote in person.

I have been thinking more and more of the various firehouses, churches, and schools where my mother has worked and where we have cast our ballots.  Thinking about all of the decent people she has worked with, that like her, volunteered to do a job out of patriotism, interest, or need.  These places, these people, will take the brunt of whatever happens today.

And I......I don't have a good feeling about it.  I'm worried, not about the election outcome right now, but the more immediate concern about all of these raised tensions, clashing beliefs, and the powder-keg potential for violence.

I've darkly joked about treating today as though it were some horrible cross between the day after Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve, with all the angst and cons of both days.  I've talked about holing up at home with tea and a couch full of snuggly blankets, watching the fallout through the cold glow of the internet.  But I know many--most--do not have that luxury.

I'm not deluding myself into thinking that I can have any sort of impact on the actual election, this country, or the world in general.  But I can lay out my rocks.  I can light my candles. I can mix my herbs.  And I can try to assuage my own worry by a sending of thoughts, prayers, and hopes.

So, for those poll workers who are doing their jobs, for the kids trying to learn in one of the many polling places, and for all those people who are just trying to go about their day today, I wish for you light and love, peace and protection, and the safety of home no matter where you are.