Author Archives: Elissa Timothy

Beauty Is Real

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Is something real, beautiful, or is something put into words beautiful?  I keep looking at the building construction outside my office window, and I keep seeing beauty in the materials, the strength in the colors of the cement and the wood and the steel.  Sometimes the rhythm of nail drivers, sometimes hammers, and even shouts of men’s voices and the crash of the things thrown, have a beauty that is heard.  The saw and the hum of the crane and the bull dozers is constant, like the many voices in unison can be heard, but not the words.

This scene is most welcoming, and almost soothing, in the morning after an hour commute.  Something human is constructive.  With a long day ahead, it is reassuring to believe it will work, that the frustration common in work is always happening, but things will be greater than this–especially the sounds continuing towards the establishment of something new–or even just a new building.

So, is the world filled with useless work?  Is some of this work needless, and wasteful?  Is the only goal to do something every day that you can do?  Or should your job verge, always, on the pleasurable?  Is it important that you be loved, or loved for your role, your position, your job?  If you have no money to spend on your home, do you still have a home?

In utopia, there is no money.  Only endless jobs to do, and therefore continually, and endlessly, make the universe work.  There is no demotions and promotions, related to money, but just achievement, the goal, since this is what makes people happy and proud.  At this point I think of my mother’s home.  For decades now, she has kept a special list, titled, “A Happy Home Recipe.”  It mentions things like love, loyalty, forgiveness and friendship, plus another four that deal with others helping you out, hope, tenderness, faith, and laughter.  For the longest time, I felt this was the most perfect, more beautiful thing of all.  The way I felt as if I were  being hugged, and loved.  I have no memory of being with my mother on a shopping trip to particularly buy this plaque, and I think, this is why I don’t associate its message with money.  I still think of it when I visit my mother.

Now, back to beauty.  Are beautiful things the only things that are real?  To take a thought experiment to the extreme end, the foible of human beings is to assume that beautiful things are naturally rich, and better, and easier.  Take all the glam and money in Las Vegas….  The stores there only have things that can be bought with a mortgage, and it is assumed that if you go to Vegas, you have some money to spend, or invest.  I have been there, and I do admit that my thoughts tend to run on and I see fountains running and spraying with coins rather than water.  It is like money can make the impossible happen.  Is it beautiful?  Is it even real?

Sometimes, I wish for more privacy than the hordes in Las Vegas can give me when I am on a trip or vacation.  The idea, I think, is that crowds there, fill the void common in any city or town.  It is along “the strip” that I am thinking.  In any other city, at a place of beauty, there is no sense of abandon.  That people are carefree and laughing, and not thinking of the priorities that need to be done by next week.  The “strip” is teeming with hordes of people, especially the young and rich, who exude this energy.  There is no rush, no hurry.  Only pleasure and enjoyment.  And, yes, lots and lots of money.  For most people any other trip or vacation cannot rival the wealth and riches of Las Vegas.  The non-stop flow of money in and out.  Taking a cruise to somewhere comes close, though.

So, in my thoughts, I am guessing that beauty is not limited to “real” things.  Every day, I draw breath, at the small things that happen.  The brown hare in our backyard.  The call of the infrequent owl at night when I have opened my window.  The construction sit that builds and moves slowly, by increments, like watching a stop-action camera become conscious and produce a film over months.  I love the first snowfall.  So delicate, and light, as if the snow is the real color of transparency.  I love the beauty of the old parts of town, where artisans have set up shop, creating and selling wares, of beauty and imagination.

I am looking forward to surprising my children to a two week vacation in December, for the Christmas Holidays.  Filling their days with some warm sunshine, and, hopefully, a sense of carefree joy.  To suddenly, one year have a Christmas away from snow, and attending too many get-togethers and parties.  I am sure where we are going, there will be a “Midnight Christmas Party.”

Champagne

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The first boy I ever dated was a mistake. We met in the summer of our sophomore year.  And it was not even at school.  It so happened that he and I were separately joining the Red Cross as Youth Volunteers.  Sometimes, I admit this with shame and reluctance, but I was planning on being a doctor, and therefore, I was planning, this particular summer, my Curriculum Vitae for the review of the Schools of Medicine, starting with a great start at the Red Cross.

So, as the last school term was ending in June, I saw on the bulletin boards, the opportunity to join a Youth Committee that would involve itself in the business of the Red Cross.  I already held a job at the Public Library, as a Page, but, this volunteer position would be the first job I held that would require my performance to guarantee my position on the Committee for the following year.  This was an impressive leap for me. Where, my talents were really not required in any other job, being a part of a group of people who had to define their jobs to have a job to do, was something I saw as rewarding talent.  I was sure that I could do this job.

Now, the issue of my first boyfriend.  He had the same reasons for joining as I did.  We were the youngest in the group of people who became the first Volunteer Youth  Committee Members.  The others were also a mix of men and women, who were, also, in school, but they were mostly studying sciences at university.

We met as an official Committee once a month on Sunday.  I had to get up early, to go to a closed and locked office, and sit for an hour-and-a-half listening and joining debates on our activity and the justification of this activity.  In the winter, which was only part of my tenure for one season, we tended to not do any fund-raising work, but we concentrated our work, but we concentrated our work with the other youth volunteers, who worked during the weekends at the malls, to register blood donors and usher these people through the experience.  This was as close to an official job that I could get.  So, for the first summer, during the meetings, and our planned fund-raisers, I was busy.

My boyfriend and I met at the second official meeting.  It was the second meeting for me, but it was the first time he showed up.  We both rode our bicycles into the tiny parking lot, and, since this was before people thought of cyclists, we both rode up to the steel stair railing where we both intended to lock our bikes.  As I did not even make notice of him, he casually asked, if he could lock his bike with mine, as he forgot his lock.  Of course, since this was before the time I suspected criminals to be young and devious, I whole-heartedly agreed.  And, so, we locked our bikes together and went into the meeting.

Now, this was not how we actually became involved with each other.  We went home our separate ways at the end of the meeting.  We were not savvy enough to talk each other into dating.  And this leads me to the mistake.  About one week later, after this initial introduction, a physical confirmation of age and sex, I received a phone call.  It was the boy with the bike, and he had asked to lock it with mine.  Could he ask me on a date?

I was pleasantly surprised, and, not exactly smart enough to know that there was something illegal happening.  At leasst, not until the next meeting.  It seems, this boy called me, and several other girls who were affiliated with the Red Cross, as Youth, in different capacities.  He was able to call, in the first place, because he was able to “scam” the Receptionist into giving him the list with phone numbers.  The other girls were savvy enough and complained to the management at the office, and got an immediate response, which included a reprimand, of my first boyfriend, who was a mistake.

It was also a lucky summer and year serving at the Red Cross, as this boyfriend and I ended up dating for two years, and he ended up taking me to Prom.  This is a happy story, and, even though I like to think of myself as someone who is savvy, I really was not that lucky in dating.  I have been on more dates than is “legal” or advisable.  Now, though, I carry this experience with  me.  I carry it, because it is light and I feel grateful for being able to be part of people’s lives.  I sometimes look at this particular situation as “the one” that started it all.  I do, in this way, cherish him more than I cherish the others, as they were time and experience, again, beyond knowing what to do.  So, even though he is “technically” a “mistake,” he was probably the most real of my boyfriends.

We have no more contact with each other, and I have no more contact with any of the ones I did date.  And, as experience is, these dates become examples of life happening.  The more time there is between me now and me at a very young age, keeps increasing, and also, as time keeps increasing, I mention and look to these experiences even less.  I have become less obsessed with having lived that life!

So, I toast my glass to that life and drink champagne to enjoy the life that I have.  Cheers!

We Will Go on a Cruise

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“We will go on a cruise, when we have the time!”  This pronouncement from my mother made me frustrated and even more impatient than my 18-year-old self could actually handle, which is to say, I began to whine.  i must say that the whining did pay off, as within six months we were on a massive ship in the Caribbean visiting 3 or 4 ports of call, including Jamaica.

At eighteen, this is not only a vacation, but on the best adventures.  I was “officially” graduated from Disney rides, and allowed to sip Bloody Mary’s and have a bottle of Corona.  I almost had a room to myself–I shared a cabin with my sister.

Every day was get up late day…  And because the late I preferred was noon–lunchtime, I missed being in the main dining room, which was only open to any public for breakfast.  For lunch, I often wandered into the buffet, as well as one of the cafes on a few of the other decks.  I welcomed getting up late as the feeling that the sun is always shining is absolutely the one feeling I wan, especially if I am on vacation.  This made it possible to run out to the pool deck for the afternoon, if there wasn’t some show or movie on.  My sister and I would share a cocktail, just before meeting our parents and a couple of other friends who had come with our parents.  Sometimes, it was easier to pay for a bottle of Corona and avoid the late afternoon nagging that would come from Mom and Dad…  especially in one of the several bars and lounges that were open.  This happened a few times in our two week cruise, sine the traffic continually changed, sometimes making the outdoor sundecks too crowded.  My sister and I didn’t have the money to go  to the ones with the dress code, but we made an effort to get together with the grown-ups at one of the karaoke bars anyway.

This was one of the best vacations I had ever been on, and I am young, so, you know that if I had the perspective of a more experienced cruiser, that probably this business is a good one.  To always have a water bed to sleep on is one of the luxuries I always thought belonged to the ultra-rich.  To have an experience that is related to having a lot of money and a lot of taste is like an adventure at Disney Land, for adults who love this feeling.

The fun thing about a cruise is that the fun of Disney Land and Disney World doesn’t end.  If you get bored of gambling onboard ship, you can always disembark and on land at one of the ports and go for something fun and interesting.  There are bars and restaurants and sites to see as well.  And you get to see all those buildings that could only be seen in unreal ways.

After that first trip, I have fallen in love with cruising.  It has a cult following that attracts people who like to travel, which in the past, was not as easy as getting aboard ship.  I’ve also been on the road trip…., which requires nerves of steel, if you have them.  You go and you stop and stay at absolutely any time you wish, going as far as you want, but just get back home within three weeks!

As this summer ends, we are getting ready again fro the regular business of school, and the changing of season, again.  After a break like the two months in the summer, it almost seems fun to get out big coats and sets of boots, and start to think about the fun of Halloween and Christmas.  I feel lucky to have “things” despite those people who are minimalists, who want to have very few interior decoration or things to carry  around with them.  I am not so attuned to having luck or no luck decide my life. I am very focused on having “my things” with me, when I get them.  So, in this pack rat style, I now have to clean my room.  I still have university text books, and my favorite doll from childhood.  Things that I own, and with a growing family, I must now decide, “text books” versus “daughter and son.”

I almost feel as if I am letting people cruise through my life…  Experiencing it through these objects that i have collected.  But where else, what else, can I do with these things?  Sometimes some of the things are still very useful.  My sister, in one of her “cleaning moods,” got together with her friends and made a three week yard sale, and made over  a thousand dollars. “On junk.”  At this point, even if people were to cruise through my life, like this, I am more willing to get rid of the junk than to care about being nakedly exposed.

So, welcome, please, and join the cruise.  It is an adventure of things and experiences.  Welcome!  Come All, Come One!  WE will have fun!

The Art of Time and Space

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This summer has been rewarding for me, as the mark of the first summer that I spent time on a new hobby.  I think that my family probably wishes that I did not discover painting, but I do, indeed, love to paint.  I am but a hobby-ist right now, but I can put all my attention into a canvas, and definitely churn out a painting….  From start to finish, in about a month.  It is something I think that I didn’t know or understand as a child and student, even when I was being pre-occupied with the more “artsy” and “socially-oriented” subjects, like music, literature, and drama.  These already allowed me to express my more artistic self without much loss, without much missing.

So, as I attended the first class, nervously wondering if I had everything that I needed, I was surprised that Night School for Adult Learners, is very relaxed.  The place, usually a school during the day for teenagers, becomes a classroom full of art, color, instruction, and usable tools for the trade of painting.  The talk and conversation is surprisingly mature and it is as if we all followed the stream to this place of enlightenment.  Suddenly, a visit to the Art Gallery is much more interesting than the thoughts I had in the past while walking by all the talent.

One of the first subjects we tackled, was the issue, “What do you paint?”  We started listing things that we see all the time: portraits, still life, and landscapes.  Then, there were the more modern, and some would say, more experimental objects, like a lily flower, the foyer of a cafe, a pile of old shoes and boots, and surreal dreams.  Then, the big discussion, “What do you think abstract paintings are about?”  This took us a moment, but then, the thoughts came: irony, balance, color, strength, pride, honor, desire.  Armed, within the first twenty minutes of the class, with these beautiful words that describe painting and visual art, we became more certain that we could do this class.  That we knew how to be painters and visual artists.

This class took me into the summer.  I was very excited, as the end of June approached.  I dreamed of the beauty of our cottage just by the lake.  I dreamed of this beauty with the imagination of someone unsullied by failure or disappointment.  I took time to “picture” the scene, and I started imagining the mixing of paint, to create color, and then, the big decision, should I create texture by adding a gel medium to my paints?  To build leaves of grass that could stand up, and ridges into the wood used to build the house….  I dreamed, and I dreamed.

Then, the first weekend at the cottage arrived.  I packed everything I needed into the car.  Easel, canvas, palette, brushes, and paint.  Everything, including my husband and my children, arrived safely….  I was ready to just jump into my painting clothes and start!  We use our cottage all year round, so there was no need to undo anything and set anything up….  I started to move all my material and instruments out to the back sun room where there is a perfect view of the backyard leading down to the lake.  The sun was still out upon our arrival, and I stood there a moment, deep breathing the scene inside.

It is the most precious moment I have of the this particular view.  To walk into a strength of beauty after a long ride in the car is utterly amazing.  It is like taking that first deep breath on the morning after a big snowfall.  My breath rushes down, and I forget that I breathe.

So, being flexible in work, not only did I have weekends to spend absorbed by my new hobby, I spent up to a week, one week this summer, just lost in painting and relaxing by the small piece of space that most feels like home.  It has been rewarding.  I may not be able to paint the Mona Lisa, but I am able to capture that beauty, that she is associated with.

We have also partly re-decorated the cottage walls.  Taking down anonymous paintings of terrestrial beauty, to be replaced by my own exploration of beauty and meaning.  I am looking forward to the start of the night classes again.  I am already planning what it is I will paint.  Perhaps, still life, this time.  I would want to try to get a painting finished before the fruit rots and the flowers wilt.

I think about ironic things too.  If I can get enough of my paintings together, I would want to have a gallery show, somewhat along the lines of Virginia Woolf‘s style of publishing.  I would have a “Vanity Show,” where my work would be displayed only for as long as I could rent the space, rather than as one of the Gallery’s standard list of artists.  And suddenly, I could find people who could like my work.  Just like writers want to be read, so, visual artists want to be seen.

I am spending the last week of summer trying to title my two paintings.  I have a million titles, but it is hard for me to find a title I love.  And, very silly of me, I think I am purposely taking all this time, to see if I can come up with as many suitable titles as I can.

And so, as I imagine one day being able to paint the thrill of riding in a convertible down the highway, just like I imagined painting the quiet beauty and strength of a view of the lake, I like to imagine that I can do it.

An Elixir For Love

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“I was thinking about an elixir for love, the other day.  It would make beautiful people I see–almost anywhere–just become attractive.  We would fall in love, and have the most wonderful life to live!  Why did I think of such an absurd thing?  I noticed that beautiful people and I were not attractive!  We were not attracting each other!”

This is a quote, and could possibly come from all the new dating sites that have sprung up in the past five years, everywhere.  It actually is something my son said to me, on his observation of life.  (It’s sort of a summer homework project, I gather.)  From being in school, everyone is in cliques.  “And this completely shuts people off from each other,” observed again, my son.  If someone in clique A wanted to talk to someone in clique B, then there would ensue a whole ruler-full of acitivity that would evolve into a whole set of political manoeuvring, set either to establish new clique rules or to completely destroy the social lives of the clique-rule-breakers.  This is high school for thugs, politicians, and the dating game.

When I heard him say these things, I immediately wanted to counter him with something truly more worthy of reality than what he said he sees.  And, if you have guessed correctly, I was not exactly able to make my case for the shallow lives of teenagers.

I also thought back to my high school days, and yes, his description of just this one feeling, is very accurate.  Almost every high school interaction is heavy, laden, with much prejudice, and attempts to be someone part of something important.  If not for one’s own self-aggrandizement, then, for protection against those who who held much “political power” to make life miserable.  Teenagers need to feel rich, able to drive the car, and if not, then, to be able to have friends who have cars.  This is the center core of every teenager’s hope in life.  They need evidence, that does not yet exist, of worthiness, money, and value.

So, what is with my son’s need to buy an elixir for love?  Our talk actually did continue.  It was not stopped and stunted without investigation.  He is not necessarily older and more mature in his few years, but he has heard the lectures nd the talk of those who are more mature and have more experience.  So, I asked him, what exactly he was thinking of when he used such a strong metaphor for his thoughts and feelings?  He said something surprising enough, that it surprised me a little.  His answer?  “We are always trapped in roles we do not like.”  He is blessed with the gift of the gab, like his mother, and I immediately thought of a million things to say to him, but, I thought carefully so that I would only say what could possibly made sense to a teenager.

“Are you doing something you don’t want to do right now?”

My son hesitated, and, I gather, to try to figure out what it was we were both saying to each other.  “Everyone just hates each other all the time!  Everyone is boring.  The girls are boring, and the guys get boring.  I hate ending up stuck at someone’s house, or hanging out in the cafeteria, because there’s always nothing to do.  And people just get boring!”

I took a deep breath. It seemed that there was something on his mind.  I was wondering if there was something unrequited?  He did not answer, and was a still statue.

So, I did prod him a little, and yes, it seems, that there was a girl that was hanging out close to him and his friends, but she never really responded to the things he said or to his flat out questions about just going to hang out with him.  He was getting frustrated, but since she did always end up hanging out, close to him and his friends, he was also getting confused.  He imagined that there could be an “elixir of love” that could just make everything clear!  This girl, then, would not be so confusing, and cause him so much heartache!

“And,” as he says, “attractive people would be attractive to each other!”

I commiserated with him.  Yes, he is experiencing something that not only teenagers face every day, but something that a lot of people face in life.  I applaud him for his insight into the matter, and suggested that the answer may not be the elixir, but for him to either wait for another year, or, to find an official school club for him and this girl to join together.  “Believe it or not,” I said, “some girls are very shy, even more shy than some boys!  Don’t give up!”

He seemed to be relieved.  I am hoping, right now, that the problem does have this answer, and not some other, terrible, unexplanable answer, that perhaps only someone like God can answer.

My son and I smiled at each other, and we gave each other confidence in each other.  I am again, blessed with an easy life, and I cross my fingers every day, that we remain such a happy, lucky, family.  And, if I could, I would bottle all this into an elixir called “life” and give it away to people, spreading the joy, and the freedom that comes with joy.

Is the Beginning of the End Too Late?

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Is the beginning of the end too late?  I know I have already asked this question, at least once this year, but it is rearing its enormous head, yet again, begging my attention.  I feel that everything that is happening, with my job, with my family, and with my interests and pastimes, are all coming to some sort of end.  The thing?  Well, a simple, “What is going to happen next week?”

It is easy for me to be a coward, until, that is, I realize that if I choose to not do something, that I will literally end up with nothing.

The next step?  I need to be clear that I want my job, that I want to be with my family, and that I value my lesser talents in my hobbies.  Yes, an enormous and ugly head is rearing itself up, right now.

So, in this end, I ask, “Let’s do something!”

With some disposable money, a short trip outside of this one horse town is possible.  Then again, visiting friends or throwing a big party and inviting some out of town guests is always fun too… and probably something worthwhile if I can promise some fun and a magical tour of the city’s bars in the trendy and bar part of town.

About time….  My children are going to be hanging around the house for the whole summer!  Should I promise them another Camp  Summer?  Or, should I home school for two months and have themselves teach themselves a new skill?  And to practice on it?  I had perspicacious parents who did this to me every summer.  I would get home from summer school, which was filling half the day, and i would have to read books, practice piano, or do a chore like bake muffins or cookies.  Having responsibilities like these made me aware that I was more privileged than other children.  It made me aware that I had a lot more to do, than just come home and watch television.  I actually loved a lot of the things that happened to me in childhood, and I valued the things I could do, and having control over these talents, tasks, and knowing things when I heard other people talk, helped to keep me interested in school, life, and other people.  I accredit my parents for being the smart and cool parents for doing so.

So, this end that I see approaching, very quickly, is it for real?  Is it too early for everything to end?  or is it in fact too late?  Am I now too old to start a second career?  Am I too bored with my job to be able to do another similar job?  Do I have time to go back to school and find that magical, hoped for, favorite second job?  all these things are true, which makes me ask myself, “Am I filled with enough energy to handle two lives happening to just one person?”  Can I be a student and still be a parent to a family and a wife to a husband?  While I go to school, will I have time and money to cope with all of it?  I really cannot take out a second mortgage for myself, while I also envision taking out a mortgage for my children’s education.

With responsibilities pressuring me in a way that I could’ve never understood before, I feel as if I am giving up on myself in order that I am responsible for my children.  As well as for my husband.  Being a wife and mother changes priorities.  Men will always win, as men are.  And I am willing to put my education somewhere at the back, where perhaps, when all monetary responsibility for my children and also my physical responsibility for providing a home to them, is past.  It is not as if I have lost hope in myself.  It is at this fork in the road that I yet again, take the right hand fork.  I can’t see how far it leads, or, where it will begin again, but I am confident in being here.

If I can convince my children to fend for themselves a few days in the week, with promises to pay for visits to the theme park or the water park, and maybe a ten day trip family camping or going to rented cottage, this summer, I think I can still live with myself.  I will have the time to indulge, in secret, my interest in art.  As I fumble with the pencil in my hand, and play with the color of paint.  This looks as if it will become a satisfying two months, before the next time  I will have to yet, again, make the THE decision.  I will have to decide whether to be more of a mom, more of a wife, or more of me.  So, for now, it is done.

Surprising Thoughts In the Summer

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Funny thing.  I recently saw a play where nothing ever changes.  The name of the play?  “Waiting For Godot.”  I actually not so much as saw it, as read it in book form from cover to cover.  The exciting thing is the one skeleton tree on the stage.  It is there when the stage lights come on and still there at the end when the lights go off.  It is the one very strong metaphor, outside of the life we live with the two clowns.

The play is only two acts long and the same  thing happens in both acts–nothing.  The clowns clown around, spending the night together by the tree, and eventually, the clowns leave, singly–effectively separating themselves.

The play is by Samuel Beckett, an ex-patriot Englishman living in Paris, France.  He originally wrote “Waiting for Godot” in French and then re-wrote it in English after receiving the reviews.  He is still a very famous playwright, now that he is dead.  He is in good company with other playwrights like Eugene Ionesco, all of them referred to as the Absurdists.

It was by accident that I came across the play, and even got to reading it.  I think I was attracted by the black and white 1929 or 1930 feel, of dust-bowl America where nothing exists, and everything is cheap.  The clowns are in bowler hats, overalls with suspenders, and checked, button-down shirts.  They have stubble and rough work boots on.  They also often speak non-sensically, in gibberish, and they will mix their languages, with one sentence carrying up to three or four different languages.  “Waiting for Godot” relies heavily on our imaginations to fill in the parts that the clowns do not speak.  They in fact do not debate very much or very long on their existence, which we can only say is a mystery.

They make fun of almost everything, which leads to some surprising conclusions, whether the answers have to do with reality or with just imagined places and things.  It takes an educated actor to be able to take on one of the roles, including a travelling hobo who sells things from his cart.

The three characters are equals.  There is no “ruler,” “police officer,” “rich person,” “poor person,” “parent,” or “child.”  They all meet as strangers, and even though they become acquainted, they leave each other’s  company separated.  It is a stark play of a tough reality.  They become closely acquainted in their struggle to find meaning in existence, even going to the point of questioning whether they actually are existing?  But, as reality is, the play comes to an end, the stage is cleared, and the skeletal tree is left standing on the stage.

So, have I heard the clowns?  Am I enlightened, according to that great European Revolution, which demanded its intelligentsia debate reality and come up with better solutions to life?  Beckett probably can be considered one of the elite during the tail en do the Enlightenment.  He challenged common thought that there must be a God, that life as it is, is not “good enough,” as, any person who imagines himself with the power of God, would definitely do a better job.

It has now become moot in my eyes.  The debate is an exercise.  Something to meditate on. I heard that things change as we grow old.  That my reading of “Waiting for Godot” now, will have a completely different understanding ten years from now… or, even twenty to thirty years from now.  The English language, according to the Oxford dictionary of Common English is always changing, and it always changes faster and more accurately the more people read–the dictionary included.

I consider this the one big project of the year, that I have promised myself to complete, annually.  It is a habit I picked up from school.  My private school teachers insisted that even though school is out for the summer, we must find a project to do and finish.  Now, that I am older and no longer living my life from school term to school term, I can usually satisfy myself by completing one big project a year.  It does not have to be reading some elitist book, but it does have to make me fee like I like myself.

So, now that “Waiting for Godot” is over, for another twenty or thirty years, I find myself thinking of making a beer cocktail, making sure it is sparkly, sugary, and bitter.  I see myself at our cottage, by the dock, and feeling the breeze that builds in late summer off the shore.

Opinions Affect the World

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I spent some time today meditating.  It was not scheduled and not planned for.  I was forced into an instant, complete, deep, meditation on life, through some rude comments I overheard in the public street.  I was walking on the crowded street, and behind me were two men, who were fairly young, and they were laughing and joking along the walk, for which I was participating with them for about five minutes.

I was in my own world, oblivious to any real, true thought, that could be worth money or friends.  I was doing my laundry list.  Then, amid the jokes and the funny stories, there came two very rude comments from the young men behind me.  They wondered why they had missed the dwarf-throwing contests due to their age.  They lamented that because they were born five years too late, that the bars and the clubs that regularly scheduled these contests were not doing it any more.  Neither of them were very large themselves, and in my opinion, I doubt that they could lift a very small dwarf in order to throw him.

The second offensive comment was very related, in fact, and came within a short minute of the first one.  They were wondering why midgets, somewhat like dwarfs, were completely out of proportion.  However, unlike the dwarfs, who have a bulk of muscle (for the male dwarfs) and a cuteness (for the female dwarfs), midgets were eerie.  If they stood in isolation, against a dark background and the only light was coming from a camera, which they were facing, they would look exactly like a monster form the depths of the swamp.  “Humanoid” but odd.  Eerie.  They would probably be looking upwards, towards the camera being held by an average-sized human being. They look like they are wearing children’s clothes, even if they are forty.  How do you address the situation, when confronted with the issue of talking to a midget?  Is it possible to find a seat, and feel that there are equals involved in the conversation?

Throwing dwarfs probably included throwing midgets, but, then again, they would probably be left out of the party, well, because it is eerie.

Many jobs require people to stand behind a counter and a cash register, as well as working all the machinery behind the counter.  What first job could a dwarf or midget get?  Like left-handedness, most of the world cannot accommodate these people.  They need to fend for themselves.  I concur with this option.  Let the dwarfs and midgets write a list of what they need, as they are the most familiar with what it is they need, and hand it in to their employer… proof that they are suitable for the job.  There should be subsidies for the employer for the adjustment in accommodations, since, it is a health issue, and the person most qualified for the job, will do a good job with successful work, with only small cost to anyone and everyone.

I am hoping that the rude and anti-dwarf and anti-midget comments are not the way that people treat these “little people.”  They are physically smaller, with a slight difference in proportion, but I find it is equivalent to racism that they are considered “not normal.”  They have brains, just like the rest of us, which, is of course a very fine insrtument when it is well-used and well-treated.  They have emotions, which can be hurt, by anything, and it is literally true, because any slight tone applied to a completely innocuous set of words changes it into “hate propaganda.”

As I found myself thinking about these things, at the speed of thought, I became scared and angry, and walked more quickly ahead, which was not entirely needed as the two behind me were already out of range of hearing within a few blocks.  The two young men might have actually turned at one of the corners.

I am, myself, considered by many, to be of average height, size, appearance, and intelligence.  I think that if I have this reaction to words, opinions, and thoughts, that there is a whole world out there that reacts the same way I do.  I am blessed with the gift of the gab, and I can talk about things until the cows come home, so, I think that I am also speaking for all those that hold the same opinion but perhaps cannot speak for it.

I believe that the world can change, and it takes only each person doing what it is they can.  I also became afraid when I heard what was said behind me, but I did what I could, taking the pen in hand , and wielding it against their weapons…  the opinions they voiced.  And as each person I can get to read this, to think about it, and then, in turn to do their part, the world will change.  It takes each person, to change the world.

“Elysium” — Thoughts I Have Commuting To Work

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The man smokes beside me, inside of a smoking prohibited shelter.

The smell wafts further in because he is by the open frame.

The smoke bites my throat, a threat with every breath.

Time passes with equal opportunity for survival or for death.

I don’t like it  because it has a smell.

I don’t like it because of the cancer.

Children run just outside screaming and laughing that sirens go by without stopping.

The street in the summer has people on it burning from the sun.

But people hold dollar ice creams, sucking on them like ice cubes of sugar.

Boys wearing the gang colors of a faded Miami, in tank tops that hang on their biceps

Fill the street as dusk drops on the street and the rooftops.

I remember chewing gum and sunglasses, both I use to keep me thin.

The beautiful are models, filled with certainty about the world where they occupy life as if it were space.

In summer it is too hot, so that the rain that falls is warm.

In winter I can’t feel anything but bound up.

There is no place I can be except in between, a place that I just fall into.

Elysium is absolutely perfect because it started existence as a hope and is created out of a wish.

It is a bet whether we choose to go there, or forever miss our chance when we rely on others to take us there.

It is a secret everyone knows but can’t prove is true.

The man smokes beside me, inside of a smoking prohibited shelter.

He bangs his cane loudly on the metal legs of the chair.

And I get up and push past him to escape the crowded smallness of a room with glass walls.

Perfection is always believed to exist despite the marred definition of the Greeks and the Romans.

I brush, lightly, slightly, the frame, only feeling its hardness and its immovable force, regretting my bruise.

I do not inhabit a lake of canoes and mountains.

There is nothing there.

The trees don’t talk, the water is senseless, and I have no where to drop cigarettes and ashes.

The beauty of the beach is beautiful at night, the waves rushing loud.

It is cold enough on the sand to bury the dead there, their bones becoming shells.

The Sun, the Galaxy, and the Universe

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The day is suddenly hot, and heated, underneath a sun making droplets of water float.

An umbrella stands, open, greeting the sun and holding it dearly, close.

I swear damp cigarettes smell like wet grass, attractive amid simmering tar in a square kettle.

Time is still, almost quiet, because it plugs my ears, making me oblivious to anything not natural.

If I want to remember today, because I moved up in class, I will remember the cost of the ticket, like a tattoo of ink on my skin.

There were many pretty girls just graduated from school, and boys who lent them their sweatshirts.

They gave up on their curves to stay warm, toes bare, ice smoothies sweet and cold, sucked through straws.

As luck is always one chance in a million, envy glares, sure that the result and the reason are wrong.

I love the look and usefulness of a white pickitte fence, something even the smell and dirt of a pig farm cannot swallow.

We are oblivious to the speed of the universe; in a vacuum, there is no stop, no wait.

For something so peaceful, we are the loudest noise, rambling like a pin ball trapped as a marble.