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July 13, 2006
I Tried to Write a New Post, Really, I Did
Last night I spent a very long time writing a long post. And towards the end, I Googled a word to see if I had spelled it correctly (if you must know, it was "Radley" of Boo Radley), and somehow the whole thing got erased.
I was so frustrated. I took the laptop to Jason the Guru to see if he could somehow retrieve it with some Mac voodoo. But no. It was gone, even beyond his reach. It is so upsetting to spend so much time on something and then to lose it. And it always eats away at me: write a new post, write a new post. . . So I did. But there was nothing to show for it. Instead of trying to re-write it, I watched two episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. That put it all into perspective right-quick.
I have so much trouble writing when I am in a mood such as tonight. I don't want to write what is on my mind. Because it is too depressing, too personal and too confusing. A glimpse: I went to the grocery store this afternoon and as Ollie and I were picking out produce, I was nearly brought to tears because a heavy sadness descended upon me like a physical pain in my heart and took my breath away. And why? Because something about the smell of nectarines and peaches always makes me really, overwhelmingly sad. Can I explain this? Not easily.
I am just oddly configured, psychologically. I always have been, ever since I can remember. (And my first memory is from 9 months of age.) Not right. I know, I know, there is no "right." But it has been documented and diagnosed that I am more "not right" than the average, run-of-the-mill "not right."
Oh well. It's who I am.
Jason once asked me if I had the choice, would give up all of my internal torment if it meant I would lose the ability to create? And I wouldn't. I would give up almost anything else ( not loved ones.) But creating is as intertwined as the messed up part of me. So, you take the bad with the good.
Today a friend came over who became a new mother four weeks ago, and then two weeks later suddenly lost her mother. We were talking about how everyone has their own difficulties to deal with in life. I was not expecting this, but at one point, I felt a strange sense of awe when I looked at her. Kind of like being with someone who has just been placed in the fire. She looked beautiful to me, otherworldly beautiful... the two polar extremes of the human experience colliding right there inside her heart. And there she was, sitting at my kitchen counter, talking to me...but at the same time I could almost see her spirit on a different plane, having been hand selected to go on a very difficult journey, being given the sustenance that she would need for the days ahead.
I was so aware of the poignancy of these days of her life. A defining season, a season to which she will refer when she is explaining, years down the road, about how she became who she is. I wanted to be able to save her from the grief she will feel. But will she be given custom-made treasure during this time, inexplicable gifts that will be imparted and woven into her character, that will make this journey of grief into something she would not have chosen for herself but neither would she undo, once it is completed?
I think about her. I think about her beautiful baby girl. I think about myself as a child, and about the moment in time when we realize our parents existed before they were our parents, and that they have a life story of which we are only a part. I think about my own children and about how there is so very, very much they do not know about me, and may never know until years and years and years have gone by, and perhaps they have their own children, and stumble upon my old journals.
There is so much, so very much to learn, if you really want to understand a person. . .to understand why they are who they are. . .and the way they have dealt with the good in their life and the bad in their life. . . and all of these things make me aware that I am very sleepy. And I must now attempt to disengage from the swirling, the swirlingtwistingoverandoverandoverwrappingmeupintoomanythoughts. . .stop, please. . . stop . . .
Good-night to all, and to all a good-night.
Posted by darby on 09:11 PM | Comments (2)
July 05, 2006
Magic Raisins
First of all, I just don't understand why people are not content to read the story of Duckfoot Leafis over and over and over and over again for weeks when they check this website. But apparently, some people are just never satisfied...
I am sitting at the most beautiful, creatively made, inspirational piece of furniture on the planet ever. EVER. It is a dark brown writing desk made out of old barn wood. The planks are wide and some of them have tree knots in them, the front of it has an ancient looking door hinge ....i can't describe it except to say that it is a true work of art: genius. It inspires me incredibly. And it was made by none other than Ian Palkovitz. I dare someone to find something that this boy cannot do and do well. I don't think it can be done.
Anyway...last night, while waiting for the Newark fireworks display, I was keeping my eye on a rambunctious little group of hooligans who were running through a wooded area in the pitch dark with multicolored glo sticks. And a dear friend of mine (who was also keeping a close eye on these crazy kids with me) reminded me that it was time to move on from Duckfoot Leafis and write something new. My crisis, when I sit down to write, is that it is really hard for me to "keep it light." I usually have something obsessive inside that I am trying to process, and I find it difficult to not write about it. But it's crap that's just too personal to put out there for God-only-knows-who might stumble upon this website while doing a google search for "Duckfoot Leafis."
This aforementioned friend suggested that I just tell some childhood stories. Many people who read this weblog are those who know me quite well and have no doubt heard the story of Magic Raisins. But i am going to tell it anyway.
When I was a little kid, my mom only let us have sugar on holidays. And our school lunches consisted of a glob of gelatinous grape jelly and a smear of peanut butter on whole wheat, a brown-spotted mushy banana, a thermos (which perpetually had a hint of mildew smell to it) full of New Castle tap water, and a box of Sunmaid raisins.
Every day at lunch during third grade, I would look around the room and see happy kids with Little Debbie StarCrunches, Twinkies, Ho Hos, Hostess Blueberry Pies....peanut butter and fluff on white bread...even now, the envy pulses with hot blood through my veins....but onward with the story.
My desk was next to the desk of my friend Amy Seng. Amy was one of the Lucky Ones. On occasion, I had spent the night at Amy's, and I had scoped out her mom's pantry: a veritable Mecca of tasty snacks and treats, all individually wrapped in their boxes, waiting for their turn in Amy's lunchbox. Every single day, I was forced to hear the crinkle of that plastic wrapping as she opened her StarCrunch, her Butterscotch Krimpets, her Ding Dong. And with every crinkle, my heart would sink a little deeper into my stomach, and a stronger loathing for little red boxes of Sunmaid Raisins would invade my being.
Maybe it's universal, but in my school, kids would trade snacks. Lunchtime would come and the classroom became Wallstreet of Treats; a red ticker tape going across the top of the chalkboard, the kids clamouring to make the best trade. There was an unspoken hierarchy; everyone knew who had the best snacks. In the hierarchy, I was a pariah. So much so, that while other kids proudly splayed out the contents of their lunch boxes all over their desk, I hid mine in my lunchbox, furtively taking bites and then stuffing the shameful thing back into it's place next to Mildew Thermos.
One day, I could take no more. I was so overcome with a lust for a Little Debbie StarCrunch that my judgement was impaired, and I blurted out, "Amy! Do you want to trade me your StarCrunch?"
Amy eyed my lunchbox. "Whadya got?"
The hit was hard to my gut. I was instantly overwhelmed with the reality that I had not thought this transaction through. The moment of truth was upon me. What was I thinking? Uh... what'll it be, Amy? A mushy brown banana? Mildew water? A clot of jelly seeping through stale bread? or a box of raisins?
The seemingly lesser of all the evils, the box of raisins was the only option that was even utterable at that point. I put on my poker face. I couldn't back down now. "I got these raisins, Amy."
Brace yourself, here it comes.
"Raisins?" she sneered. "Yuck!"
Heads turned to look at us. Stuffed little mouths stopped crunching their chips to hear.
Shitskies,as Dad would say.
Then, a miracle. A little drop of golden manipulative genius: a thought.
"But Amy...." I moved in closer, as if I was sharing something so intensely personal that we had to be only centimeters apart. I whispered, "These are magic raisins."
"Magic raisins?" queried Amy, picking up the box. "No they're not!"
I knew it wouldn't be easy. I knew it was going to take a little work. I knew I had to kick it up a notch.
"They are. They're magic." I reached for the raisins. "And you know what? I want them back."
I took the box. I dramatically closed my eyes and popped a raisin into my mouth. I let the power of the magic raisin take me away. When I opened my eyes, I saw that Amy had been watching me with rapt attention.
"Can I try one?" she pleaded, obviously moved by the magical experience I had just had.
"No. These are my magic raisins. I changed my mind. I don't want to trade, ever. Never!"
Um, was this really going to work?
"Please! Just let me try one!" she begged. "I'll trade you my StarCrunch!"
I cannot believe this! Score! Bring it on home, baby. Close the deal!
"I don't want a StarCrunch. They're not magic," I said, with a new confidence that this was going exactly where I wanted it to go.
"Please! I will give you my StarCrunch and my Fritos."
"Well..." I paused, furrowing my brow to show the internal conflict this was causing.
"Just this once," I aquiesced. "But only because you are such a good friend. I will trade you."
Amy quickly made the trade. My magic raisins for her glorious, coveted StarCrunch--and Fritos on top of that! How lucky could a girl get?
Actually, a girl could get even luckier, as I was to find out the next day. Every single day, at Amy's insistence, she would trade anything remotely good in her lunch box for my magic raisins. It was an incredible rest of the year. I felt a little guilty about the transaction, but only until I bit into the sugary goodness of whatever Amy had brought to school that day. Besides, she seemed happy enough. She swore she could taste and feel the magic, and I wasn't about to press the issue by asking about details, for fear that the precarious racket would disintegrate.
I enjoyed the fruits of my manipulative and conniving behavior until I went through a very unusually intense stage of being overcome with guilt about all of my sins to the point of near hyperventilation, at which point I confessed, crying, asking Amy to please forgive me for being so wicked. That was not before I had consumed months and months worth of the Seng's hard-earned supply of treats for their daughter's lunchbox.
One day in the future, the Seng family very well may open their door to find an anonymous truckload of Hostess and Little Debbie snacks delivered to them. As restitution. If they do, I'll let you know. . .
Posted by darby on 12:44 PM | Comments (16)