Meg Sefton's Blog, page 33

Hefeweizen Jesus

El Hefe by Morgan Burke, flickr

The women watch a documentary film about a beautiful man who tragically dies. The few that sit closer to the exit in the dark cinema pub are known to each other, but they prefer the anonymity of the darkness except among the women who arrived at the theater together. There are two sisters and a gaggle of young church-type women.

All of the women have known Jesus in some form though the authenticity of their knowledge could be up for debate. All are in some stage of divorce. When the elder sister was going through her divorce, her younger sister became angry, and yet when her younger sister started divorcing, they began to more fully reconcile, having bonded through a similar experience. A woman who sat at the table behind them had lectured the elder sister about how to stay married, yet years later, she is divorcing as well.

Together, and yet separate, they watch the clips of film of the famous, troubled chef, a story of his rise in popularity, his wild boy nature which reminds them of their sons as well as men they thought they loved. They cry in their separate spaces, they eat gourmet flatbreads and drink wine. At some point or another, each has judged each another. At some point or another, under the guise of faith, each has been rejecting.

Jesus sits in the back. He watches the beautiful man on film. He cries for the man who would kill himself. He knew it would happen all along of course but he wishes people would stop asking questions about his omniscience and omnipotence: If Jesus knew the man was headed for disaster, why didn’t he stop this man from hanging himself? He knows if the women had known the fate of their lives, the path of wild and beautiful men, they wouldn’t have sung when they were young children in choir about His beautiful being:

Immortal, invisible, God only wise,
In light inaccessible hid from our eyes,
Most blessed, most glorious, the Ancient of Days,
Almighty, victorious, Thy great name we praise.

Jesus cries in the back of the theater because he really doesn’t know why the man killed himself. Jesus cries in the back of the theater because clearly, the man made a fool of himself with his last very young girlfriend and that crushed him for by then the man was old and lonely. Jesus cries as the women cry, out of catharsis, out of something personal, because of something lost: the man’s lost beauty, the women’s lost beauty, a loss of desirability.

There are no old hymns anymore, thought Jesus, And not as many people believe in Him, or not in the old way.

Jesus orders a Hefeweizen.

Jesus knows his own fate as surely as the women know theirs. The women beg lawyers to help them find a way to survive, attempting to stave off the inevitable. Jesus sees his fate clearly as the man saw his: The man, who in imitation of Kurtz entering the Congo, films a dramatic, if not actual, descent into insanity. Jesus knows fewer would turn to him, even in homelessness and plague. He knew of the coming dark.

He orders the spinach artichoke dip, a pear gorgonzola flatbread, and another Hefeweizen.

Corporeality isn’t everything, but sometimes it takes the edge off.

writers in the ring

Water Mist by Jen Gallardo, flickr

Recently, I watched an episode of the CNN series This is Life with Lisa Ling – “Women who Fight” (season 3, episode 2. October 2, 2016). In the episode, Ling covers women fighting in the MMA. One of the fighters said the motivation is not beating someone up, but being able to perform under stress, battling an opponent who is often equally as determined and strong.

When I have an idea for a story, I want to see it through to the end, to cut through the doubt and fear, ignoring voices from the past who may have discouraged me or criticized me, including my own. These roadblocks are the “opponent.” I think many writers who venture out in some way creatively, even if the stakes are relatively low, are testing their strength, their will to overcome such obstacles. You can always be a writer in your mind, and certainly that is where ideas begin, but the battle doesn’t begin until the words start to flow.

Recently, I haven’t dealt with too much internal resistance. I try to avoid situations that set me up for failure and block, such as prompts, contests, or markets that do not match my sensibility and interests. And deadlines that are too tight tend to produce creative products that aren’t much use. Somewhere is a happy medium between overload and stagnation. And so, I attempt to post some original content here. My challenge to myself is exposing original ideas out in the open. To me, it is a risk, but if I stop doing it I fear I will not move forward.

Most of my ideas are self generated, but the raw material comes from my reading and experiences. The raw materials are like the scraps a quilter keeps in a special place for that moment he or she sets out to lay out a pattern. Sometimes when I have a theme or topic in mind, a month is often just about enough time to gather raw materials for a completely original story, often the kind of story set in unfamiliar territory and even an unfamiliar time. A month is often about enough time to begin making mental connections, gathering intel from the environment, recalling memories, waiting for news stories and bits and pieces from the culture and written resources, rummaging around in my imagination and dreams. However, sometimes I may complete a story seemingly within an instant, an hour or two, but I wonder if somehow I have tripped over an especially strong obsession lodged below conscious thought.

A month is long enough to make a piece that is seven hundred to one thousand words long. But often a day is long enough to produce a tiny layered quilt, a covering large enough for a doll bed, a piece of fifty words. I often need a prompt, often self generated. I spend the day or a couple of days before, rummaging for content, using the prompt as a kind of divining rod. A two hundred and fifty word piece may only take a day to create if I have given myself some lead time with a prompt or idea. I have these categories of story lengths in mind because word limits are real when it comes time to submit to markets. I have to stay fluid in a practice. Writing practice is the MMA equivalent of time at the gym. Because attention spans can also be limited, particularly for those reading online and in stolen moments, it pays to focus on the mot juste. And if an editor says they want a certain length, that is exactly what they want.

I’m sorry about throwing around a plethora of metaphors: MMA fighting, quilting, dollhouses, and even an old fashioned way of finding water. Maybe I have cheated a bit with my metaphors today. At some point, perhaps, the other fighter in me who is gaining strength — my inner editor — will come out to clean up the mess. Both of these fighters are in training and if I am doing my job, both will be equally matched.

Ticket to “Beartown,” Swedish Drama Series

Chicago Transit Authority, “See A Movie Tonight! Ride CTA Lines!” flickr

Weekends are work days for me, though I try to do some “weekend things” when possible, such as a home movie night on Saturday, complete with popcorn and a Diet Coke. I know, sounds wild, right? Ah, pandemic life. Maybe you sense some recognition when I say I am still a bit shocked the pandemic hasn’t ended yet, but has instead intensified, particularly in my home state of Florida. I unapologetically watch movies or tv series when I need an immediate wind-down from the world.

I say all of this to say: Yesterday I enjoyed watching a Swedish drama series called Beartown. It concerns a family who return to their small hometown in Northern Sweden having faced a family tragedy some time before. The father is a retired professional hockey player who has been hired to coach the local hockey team. The mother is a lawyer. The daughter is in high school and the younger son is in grade school.

Trouble is foreshadowed in a dramatic opening scene in which someone is chasing someone else through heavy drifts of snow. The one giving chase carries a shotgun. They run through a forest and down an embankment. At some point, there is a shot, but we do not know what happens and identities are obscured. The story is backtracking to what events, what pressures, what dynamics led up to this particular moment.

I like this series. It’s not sensationalistic though it can be stark. For the most part, my suspension of disbelief gets a rest. I appreciate its fairly balanced realism though some character faults are starkly drawn.

The series explores the impact of pressure in peer groups — especially youth sports culture — and in an insular community focused on this culture. And it masterfully portrays the ripple effect of violence. It concerns issues of integrity, courage, friendship, parenting, grief, group behavior, and shrinking opportunities and resources in a waning industrial town.

I think it is one to share as part of a family with older children, especially teenagers, but also possibly middle graders. It would appeal to students involved in both sports and the arts and students who may feel marginalized as well as those who are popular but who nonetheless feel insecure and under pressure.

Spoiler alert: It does portray a rape but the scene isn’t gratuitous and the subject isn’t used to portray a helpless victim or to demonize an offender. However, it shows the destructive power of sexual violence as well as cultural influences that feed this violence.

While the movie is Swedish and there are English subtitles, the gist of it is easy to follow and text is not rapid-fire. The filming is beautiful and the setting would possibly help stimulate interest in another culture among young viewers. It is a very fine drama.

I can picture using this as part of an in-home “curriculum,” complete with thought-provoking questions to prompt discussion, though of course it is best to screen this before sharing it with a younger audience..

For both young viewers and those who are more “mature,” there is something for all. Oh, and don’t forget the popcorn!

Ticket to “Beartown,” Swedish Miniseries

Chicago Transit Authority, “See A Movie Tonight! Ride CTA Lines!” flickr

Weekends are work days for me, though I try to do some “weekend things” when possible, such as a home movie night on Saturday, complete with popcorn and a Diet Coke. I know, sounds wild, right? Ah, pandemic life. Maybe you sense some recognition when I say I am still a bit shocked the pandemic hasn’t ended yet, but has instead intensified, particularly in my home state of Florida. I unapologetically watch movies or tv series when I need an immediate wind-down from the world.

I say all of this to say: Yesterday I enjoyed watching a Swedish miniseries. It concerns a family who return to their small hometown in Northern Sweden having faced a family tragedy some time before. The father is a retired professional hockey player who has been hired to coach the local hockey team. The mother is a lawyer. The daughter is in high school and the younger son is in grade school.

Trouble is foreshadowed in a dramatic opening scene in which someone is chasing someone else through heavy drifts of snow in a forest as well as an embankment. The one giving chase carries a shotgun. At some point, here is a shot, but we do not know what happens and identities are obscured. The story is backtracking to what events, what pressures, what dynamics led up to this particular moment.

I like this series. It’s not sensationalistic though it can be stark. For the most part, my suspension of disbelief gets a rest. I appreciate its fairly balanced realism though some character faults are starkly drawn.

The series explores the impact of pressure in peer groups — especially youth sports culture — and in an insular community focused on this culture. And it masterfully portrays the ripple effect of violence. It concerns issues of integrity, courage, friendship, parenting, grief, group behavior, and shrinking opportunities and resources in a waning industrial town.

I think it is one to share as part of a family with older children, especially teenagers, but also possibly middle graders. It would appeal to students involved in both sports and the arts and students who may feel marginalized as well as those who are popular but who nonetheless feel insecure and under pressure.

Spoiler alert: It does portray a rape but the scene isn’t gratuitous and the subject isn’t used to portray a helpless victim or to demonize an offender. However, it shows the destructive power of sexual violence as well as cultural influences that feed this violence.

While the movie is Swedish and there are English subtitles, the gist of it is easy to follow and text is not rapid-fire. The filming is beautiful and the setting would possibly help stimulate interest in another culture among young viewers. It is a very fine drama.

I can picture using this as part of an in-home “curriculum,” complete with thought-provoking questions to prompt discussion, though of course it is best to screen this before sharing it with a younger audience..

For both young viewers and those who are more “mature,” there is something for all. Oh, and don’t forget the popcorn!

fairy stories of florida: hänsel und gretel

Pinner House by Dan Tantrum (Island Grove, Florida), flickr

Once there were two friends named Monika and Kristofel. Monika was a thin beauty with raven hair. She was smart but painfully shy. Kristofel was heavy set, and had curly, carrot-red hair and blue, saucer eyes. He felt everything deeply and was always hungry. They were often thrown together because they didn’t fit in and were often ridiculed and neglected.

As they were hiking through the North Florida woods one hot July day, they came across an unexpected clearing, demarcated by a white rail fence. In the midst of the clearing sat a large white cracker-style house with a tin roof and wraparound porch.

“This is weird,” said Monika. “There’s not even a road around here.” But no sooner had she spoken than Kristofel began to climb the fence. She knew what her best friend intended to do: find food. She hoisted herself up and over the rails. She ran to his side. “Don’t,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Don’t even step on the porch.”

He easily pulled away from her thin fingers. “It’s ok, Mon!”

He stepped up from the earth onto the porch floor, which groaned in response. “It smells good,” he said, turning to his friend, “like coconut macaroons.” He broke off a tiny piece of the white clapboard wall and there was a loud cry, as if he had pulled a tooth. But he was hungry and desperate and didn’t pay much attention. He put the piece into his mouth. As he chewed, there was still more crying, and groaning too. But he went back for more and filled his belly.

“I want to eat this whole house!” said Kristofel. “I’m starving!”

“I have one thing better,” said a pair of white lips in the clapboard.

Monika felt her stomach lurch.

“Come inside and I will feed you roasted animal flesh.”

Ignoring Monika’s protest, Kristofel entered the front door. A white witch stood in the center of a room. There were raw wooden beams holding up the tin roof, a fire burning in a pit under a giant flu. The witch looked as if she had been painted white – both her skin and her clothes – and her white painted hair stood on end in spikes. “Something told me you would come.” She smiled and her teeth were yellow spears.

Monika reluctantly followed Kristofel into the large room. When she looked around, she noticed what seemed to be little faces in the unpainted walls, faces with mouths the color of the raw wood and with wood knots for eyes. Monika felt a thrumming in her neck and ears.

“Please, have a seat,” said the old woman, indicating what appeared to be a sheet covering a hay bale.

She filled two tin cups of water from an indoor pump. The water tasted sweet and of underground caves.

A drowsiness overtook Kristofel and Monika. They nodded off onto the hay. When they awoke, they realized they had been strung together from the ceiling in the sheet, like a bouquet garni.

“I need flavoring and fat for the roast,” said the witch, clenching her teeth as she lowered them into a boiling vat of water with the aid of a pulley. The two clung together in agony as they were boiled to death and until the woods knew them no more.

In a few weeks’ time, a boy hiking in the woods with a girl came across a house in a clearing. Instinct told him to test a bit of the weatherboard in his teeth for he was hungry. A dead girl recently alive spoke an invitation with her lips from the board. “Come inside,” she said, inviting the boy and girl in to eat a satisfying meal. The lips of the dead girl sneered when he blindly obeyed. What is it about unwanted children and their hunger that makes them fools? Nothing else matters but that they should be satisfied.

The Dead Doll

The Doll King by Bradley Fulton, flickr

There was once a dead doll. Not only was it dead, it ruled a large portion of the population. But how can a doll be dead, you say, is it not already just an object? Isn’t it we ourselves who are alive? You would think this would be an obvious assertion and therefore a way to undercut absurdities. But for people who believed in the doll, and believed it alive, they lived and died by absurdities without being aware.

In fact, they spoke the doll’s language, they adopted its speech patterns and thoughts, for to do otherwise would render one powerless among those who believed. But a dead doll can’t speak or think, you say, not to mention the fact that a doll can’t live. But oh yes it can. It lives in the imagination which is where its thoughts and words reside.

When the worshippers weren’t looking, when they were all asleep, the doll’s head would get twisted around by the wind when the dead thing sat under the tree outside. It’s hair shifted to reveal another face and its hair fell into place to hide the remaining faces. By quarter turns, it could reveal four faces, and yet, they all were all versions of the same expression: anger. This added to the impression that the doll was indeed alive and always angry. Ergo, people did what they could to appease the doll and thrashed those who did not believe, who did not worship and appease.

One night, people lay before the doll little notes, written confessions regarding those in their past they had loved more than the doll, things they had believed in before they knew of the doll’s existence, acts they had committed contrary to the doll’s wishes which had to do with love, freedom, and compassion. Before the angry doll’s face, they built a little fire and burned up all they had valued, they danced around it, they humiliated and disgraced themselves in order that they might elevate the doll king who was the almighty, powerful, and knowing one.

It is said some who confessed around the fire died later that night by tiny daggers in the throat, inserted by the doll king, for they were never seen again. It is said he scrambled up their walls, into their windows, and across their beds, and sliced open their jugulars.

It is said others were allowed to live but were largely ignored, for who can ignore better than a doll king? Who can better scorn and mock than a doll with four angry faces? He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of killing them. He would make them suffer forever before his stern, uncompromising visage.

ms. hardin reads of the fall of empire

Easy Rider, Paul B, flickr

Ms. Hardin sat upon her wingback chair by her electric fireplace and took up a book loosely based on the fall of the Roman empire. It had become a lovely book to her, so removed from her life, a place to escape her troubles, her inadequacies. When she was a girl, her mother had her read a biography of Alexander the Great. Of course, this had seemed strange to her at the time, but she had generally tried to do what her mother asked of her. It was ancient history, so what? she had thought. And now she mused, perhaps it opened up that little mental space to imagine other realms in other times. Her current reading project was a speculative fiction about an intergalactic world.

Before beginning, she looked up to notice a black hulking space in her view of her apartment parking lot and surrounding grounds. She was ground level, so she stayed current on happenings. Then she heard the scraping of shovels against sharp objects. What? She was wearing her her pajamas, but peeked discreetly through the horizontal shades. Men were unloading large beige rocks into the area surrounding the doggie poo trash can. It wouldn’t be long, she thought, before rocks would be sliding out from their place and onto the sidewalk and no one would pick them up, and people might trip, tires might puncture, their rent may go up to fund the expense of rock. What was wrong with lowly mulch? And the bigger problem was that maintenance didn’t always empty these doggie poo cans as often as they should and sometimes the dark green bags would ooze out over the side like Dali’s melted clocks. The project didn’t take long and the men packed up the black dump truck to fix up other doggie poo trash can areas.

So much of our world is made up of these kinds of things, thought Ms. Hardin, it is a wonder we can imagine anything beyond what ties us to present circumstances. She read a few pages of her book until her back and shoulder began to hurt, a familiar occurrence these days. She would order the hemp oil. Deep in the tissues of her shoulder was the skin damaged and disordered by radiation. Recently, with too much sitting in a single position, a pain would shoot down her right arm, more of a dull pain, whereas last summer during the pandemic it had been so severe she could hardly move. A chiropractor had made it better in the short term but by trying to force stubborn and frozen flesh, had created difficulties.

She looked forward to her next installment of Empire. She looked fondly at her reading corner while she sat on her couch. I’ll be back later tonight, she promised.

Elizabeta

housewife by Stefanos Papachristo, flickr

Mrs. Sanderson remembered when she first started thinking about corners. It was when she first felt the love of Lawrence. It was explained to me like this, and now I will relay the story to you….

Mrs. Sanderson yearned for the corner in her room to contain a chair. It was the room she shared with Mr. Sanderson, a hard-working man with an angular nose and a downward pointed mouth like an upside down u except on days he came back home from poker games with his friends or times out at the bar after work, and then it was a soft, stretched out squiggle.

It was on those nights that he fell asleep almost immediately that she wished to snuggle in a chair in the corner, and facing his back, which was large enough to serve as a kind of partial room divider, drop out of life with a good, absorbing book. She couldn’t read in a chair facing his face. So much vulnerability in that sleeping face. Then she would feel guilty for doing something private, something she enjoyed.

On her way home from the grocery one day, she spotted an upholstered chair in the alley of the wealthier part of her neighborhood. It wasn’t just any chair, it was the chair, she thought. And a sandy-haired young man was about to load it in his pickup when she stopped him and begged him not to take it. Could she sit on it, please, and make sure it was not meant for her instead? He laughed at her and relented, apparently indulging her, even to the point of overriding his own desire to acquire this thing, a cast off.

And so right there in the alley she sat upon the worn, auburn velvet. The curves of the back and arms were outlined by a well-loved dark wooden frame. It had the look of a country French piece, something her mother would have loved. It was hard to believe anyone could have let it go.

Are you sure you would be willing to part with it? she inquired of the young man as she ran a hand around the smooth wood of the arm, not really opening herself up to hearing an answer contrary to what she sought, but trying to soften the forcefulness of her covetousness.

I think you should have it, said the young man, smiling at her. You look at home sitting there.

And the way he said it made her blush, but she smiled. Would you like to help me? I just have a little car. I don’t think it would fit.

Lead the way, he said, and hoisted the chair into the truck bed. He secured it with rope.

She started her tiny box on wheels. She watched him. So cute. And strong. But she was forty! She laughed and shook her head, adjusting her sunglasses up on her nose, something she always did before putting the car in gear.

At home, the young man took the chair up to her bedroom. Where to? he said, looking around her bedroom though it was obvious there could only be one place it would fit. He set it down lovingly, gently in the corner.

Mrs. Sanderson brought her hands together in front of her face, like saying praying a small prayer of thanksgiving. She smiled and flushed. She hadn’t brought home anything new for herself for years.

I think you should make sure this is the right spot, the young man said, and held out a hand to indicate an invitation to sit.

She sat. It felt marvelous!

Now pretend you are my husband, she said, and lie upon the bed. What was she thinking? she demanded of herself. I want you to lie facing the opposite wall with your back to me and pretend to be asleep.

He did as instructed.

Can you see me? she said, pretending to read.

Of course not! I’m sleeping! he said.

And she laughed. He had played along marvelously. What a cute, cute boy. Then she felt ashamed.

Well, thank you for humoring an old lady, she said. You have really made my day. And she reached into her purse for her wallet. I should pay you.

Please, he said, standing and holding out a hand. Don’t. This was fun, Mrs.?

Sanderson. But call me Betty. Or even Elizabeta. That rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? But it is a secret identity. And she laughed.

He had blue eyes that crinkled at the edges. His nose was not a sharp angle like her husband’s but a gentle slope.

I’m sure you have a lovely lady to go home to, she said.

I don’t.

Well, my family will be home soon. This statement deflated her suddenly. It wasn’t true, but she didn’t want to venture too far out on this branch.

My name is Lawrence, he said, taking her hand and holding it with another on top as if he were holding a frail bird. When I put your chair in the corner, I remembered a famous architect. Have your heard of Gaudi?

She shook her head.

In putting your chair in a corner, it made me think: Why do we have corners? I mean, this area could just as easily be a curve, not a sharp construction. Gaudi built great things with many, many curves. Had he built this room, perhaps your corner would actually be a curving wall and you could sit in your chair like you were sitting in an embrace.

And he smiled.

She felt her face warm and redden. She withdrew her hand, but smiled at him. What an interesting man he was, and rare.

Maybe you will go to Spain someday and see his buildings in person, he said.

Oh boy this is a deluded idealist. But she smiled. But she knew too he probably knew this would never happen.

Lawrence, I thank you for helping me. Simpler is better for the send off, it sent a powerful message. Hopefully.

Elizabeta, it was my pleasure, he said with a playful bow. I’ll see myself out.

The air was charged after he left. The colors seemed brighter, more distinct.

When her husband came home later that night she put her arms about him and kissed his wavery, drunken mouth.

I love you, she said.

What’s this all about? he said, not disagreeably, but somewhat amused and puzzled.

I just wanted to let you know. I’ve made a pot roast if you’re still hungry. It’s warming in the oven. I’ll be upstairs.

She sat in her chair in their bedroom. She heard him banging around in the kitchen. He often ate out when he was out at night and so she had stopped providing a meal. Maybe he was eating her food tonight out of pleased gratitude. Or maybe, simple politeness.

At last the television blasted away. And there it is, she thought, smiling. Sports highlights, news.

She picked up a novel about a young man visiting a sanitorium in Germany, one of the greatest of European modern novels, but one that required a constant soaking of concentration and admittedly, she didn’t always have the focus required.

But In her chair in her corner, all sound dropped away. No other sights were visible but the world the author opened to her. She didn’t hear her husband come into the room and drop into the bed. She didn’t hear him ask about her new position in the room or the new furniture. If he had asked her about these things, she didn’t remember responding. And if he had asked her, he wouldn’t later remember asking because of his drunkenness.

The next day, she found a grocery bag on her front stoop. In it was a huge picture book full of the outlandish architecture of a Spanish man: Gaudi.

She was, she thought then, the mysterious Elizabeta of secret worlds, keeper of the marvelous and strange.

July 4th

Marla by Amy, flickr

For a few minutes on this 4th of July, I miss the smell of gunpowder drifting through the woods. I miss the time that I, as a single, newly divorced mom, set off fireworks for my son in the foothills of Tennessee. My son, without men around who could have afforded better and who would have known how to handle explosives, only watched the ground in disappointment. But I myself knew I set them off, I myself knew I tried, I myself knew I had balanced the enormous cost of food for a week in the Tennessee wilderness with a few minutes’ worth of popping noises. To me, the sound was glorious though the show was lackluster. It was the sound I created. I was making my way. And my son is fine now, well recovered, a man attending fireworks shows with views from mountaintops, not down among the underbrush, frustrated over dying fuses and the bait and switch nature of products sold under a large tent roadside.

At my central Florida home a few years ago, the first home I owned, a home where my son lived with me every other weekend and holiday throughout his high school years, the smoke from the 4th of July fireworks drifted through the woods, and I was not the cause of the explosions, but I was just as pleased. I owned a home. It was in fact a place I could barely afford to own and will never be able to afford again. But that was enough for the 4th, that and enjoying the noise and the gunpowder smell from my very own balcony with a view out over the dense woods.

On a 4th of July years before the divorce, I sat on a beach with family and in-laws all of whom shared ownership in an an ocean front townhome. I watched the children – my son, my niece, my nephew, and talked to my sister. I thought these summers would go on forever. I thought we would all return to this place. And I thought I would always be able to sit on the bed of the master bedroom on the top floor of the townhome in the afternoons and look out over the Atlantic, the horizon unbroken, the water an incredible blue and green with white strips of waves. But fortunes change, properties are sold, families fracture and reconfigure, and naive beliefs are rendered obsolete.

In my fifties, I think I am learning stoicism. Tonight, I don’t even search for the fireworks or the smoke I hear outside of my apartment, I don’t even bother to make plans with relative strangers to eat in parks, sharing food we don’t even know if we should be sharing because of deadly viruses.

I don’t know if this alteration inside of me, this stoic kind of stance, is my due to my surface knowledge of a philosophical practice or if it is due to emotional burnout, like the eroding effects of water wearing and wearing down sharp edges. I can’t decide if the change is good or bad. I can’t decide if I am actually detached or if I’m in denial. I am beyond old feeling, stress over the old triggering realities: cancer scares, debt, job prospects, school failure, ageism, technology snafus, catastrophic weather, crumbling buildings, pandemics, democracy breakdown, church homelessness, loneliness. As I write this I hear the popping and booming of the fireworks not far from Disney and I think, someone around me has hope, someone out there is looking at exploding stars and smiling. Their children look on with wonder.

Having watched an instructional YouTube video about stoicism which uses Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club to illustrate what it means to be free, I am getting the idea that Tyler Durden, the founder of the club, might kill me if he could on this 4th. But why is it young, healthy Hollywood stars are used to illustrate mad genius? Give me a seventy year old – rough and wizened – and I suspect we’d get another view. But if you have to kill me young Mr. Durden, go ahead.

Music for July

On this mellow, rainy July 1st afternoon, I am listening to a playlist I created a while ago. I have recently changed it to keep things fresh. I have been listening while reading a novel. But this would also be nice to put on while preparing dinner, studying for school, working from home, or watching a summer storm come and go. I hope you are faring well and no matter your 4th of July plans: Peace. — Margaret