Dear Distance,
I had forgotten how much I love this song, your song for today. The Wodehousian 'imposs,' the touch on the clutch, the alienation of proximity, the climaxing anguish. The bouncy bop juxtaposed against the abject loss. It is a great song and you can take your arguments elsewhere, boys.
Didn't you, don't you, feel that way so much? Even when they are right there, in the next room, the next town? Even when they are where you are?
Sparer Chairs, David Hockney, 2014.
Dear Setting,
I thought, when I heard that we were supposed to just sit with our feelings, our bad, icky feelings, that I was already kind of doing that- I feel all kinds of bad feelings, most of most days; but I see now that there is another way to interpret that sentence. The emphasis is on the 'sit' - resisting the impulse, the compulsion to 'do something.' This is quite another, much more difficult thing to do.
Just last night, at dinner with a friend: the waitstaff member came over and said the usual kind of things to establish our contact, our social contract for the duration. They said: I am (insert name), and I will be taking care of you/your server for tonight. This is a very familiar exchange; we know what is expected of us, and we comply by responding at the appropriate times in the appropriate manner. But there is also a lot of choice in this exchange. Was I going to be point person? Speaking first, was I going to defer always to my companion? Was I going to say nothing and let my companion always speak first?
The four way intersection with stop signs works because we know the rule: first at the stop bar or to the right goes first. It cause me a fair amount of anxiety, these intersections, because when they are crowded, or have two lanes in any one direction, I lose track of who arrived where and it what order. It's a great feeling of relief to transact the four way stop all on your lone, without any other cars at all. The back and forth of conversation between people that do not know each other is similar- it works because we know we need to 'respond' at certain times.
Okay, now imagine yourself in one of these Groundhog Day type convos you seem to always be in with a family member: They say "you know what I hate?" and you feel a flush of 'ick,' because you feel you should intervene in this person's (possibly) uncomfortable feelings of hate, you should help them to feel un-hate by pointing out what a nice day we are having or something like that. Well, instead of rushing in with the weather, you let it sit there, the statement of hate, and you also sitting, in your feeling of ick. It's an incredibly bold move, I know. It's downright subversive, and the feeling of ick is uncommonly powerful and you know if you just said some small thing about the weather and condoned this hate by your complicity, by your responding, that the ick would dissipate some; I mean, how can you just stand there while people say a thing they want a response to? It's hard, like not even lifting your racket when the ball comes over the net at you; hard like standing there in a game of chicken, trying not to flinch. Because it is pretty automatic, for me, anyway, to step right up and respond to any and everything.
And, you think? So? Well, let's take this non-responding and sitting in the ick slowly, let's just try it, try it somewhere with low stakes, someplace outside of the family. Maybe when you are ordering food at a restaurant. Maybe when the waitstaff comes over and needs your answer, you withhold the smiling pleasantries and just state that 'tap water is what you will have to drink.' It does feel icky, oddly, to me, the pared down facts version of what I will have to drink, because I am not re-assuring and kowtowing. And that is how I am trying to learn to sit with the ick.
PS There is a song for you, today, for this sitting.
Dear Remorseless,
Today, I am ripping out all of it and re-making my whole life- the past part, of course- the future part is impossible to contain.
Here is where I am starting: my job will now have been UPS driver. I have been at it for 27 years, and I love it, because I know all the people I deliver to, and they are always happy to see me. It isn't a great job, pay-wise, but it's steady work, and it leaves me plenty of time to write in the evenings and play music in my all-girl band.
I also only have punky and net clothing now. And boots. Most of it is black, or pink. My favorite thing to wear is a big crinoline with a men's dress shirt and noisy, clunky, buckled boots. The shirt is done up partly with safety pins- big gold ones that I got in a junk shop. I have 12 pairs of fishnet stockings, and I never hesitate to wear the torn ones, with odd shaped holes in the ankles.
I have read all of Truman Capote's books, plays, letters and screenplays, and of course, also, the entirety of Colette. I only have shelving everywhere. And ceramic cat figurines. I have 27 thousand books, and thirteen hundred vinyl records. There is a sofa, and some chairs. There is nothing, nothing in the kitchen at all except a moka pot. All the kitchen cabinetry is filled with books. I often wish I had time to learn to cook. I play mah jongg for money and I always win. I give my winnings to the animal shelter.
I got a law degree, when I was younger, because I didn't like people thinking I wasn't smart enough, but now I know this is just how they make you feel when you are female. I chose law not because I had an interest in it; only because I thought I could buy your respect by going to school for so many years. It was a folly, yes; but there is no youth without folly. Having that degree and doing nothing with it was, after all, the whole point.
A few other details of my re-made past; when you said you thought I was in danger of wasting my life, I threw my drink at you, glass and all. When you cajoled me into having dinner with you, I packed up all my stuff and moved two days later, and I left no forwarding address. When you told me I should just ignore it and get on with my life, I slashed your tires and stopped answering your calls. When you told me it sounded like a mental problem, I burned all your letters and joined a writer's group. I also never spoke to your thoughtless ass again, because why would I? That time you made fun of the shirt I liked, the shirt with all the dancing people on it? That was the day I vowed I would never listen to anyone's advice unless I asked them for it. It has saved me a lot of consternation, and if I hadn't stopped talking to you after that, I would have thanked you for the lesson.
PS Here is your song for today.
Dear End of the Month of Love and Chocolate,
Here is a song for you- if you watch it, keep your eyes out for Nile Rodgers' beautifully transparent guitar.
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