Under the Glass Bell

NaBloPoMo

Well, the NaBloPoMo never fails to make me think I should give this thing yet another try. Getting the blog back on track is a worthy goal.

So, what's new? I'm three months away from 40. The boys are now 5 and 2. The hub is his usual rock star self. We've moved up in the world a bit. I ran a 5k two weeks ago. We're headed to Hawaii for me to run a 10k in January, followed by a weeklong vacation in Hana. 

The new Joan Didion book is sitting here next to me. I'm fearful of how intense it will be, but feel committed. Ten bucks says that I'll cry at least once.

My usual existential angst and anxiety is still here, bubbling away just under the surface. But there really might not be much to do about that. It just might be who I am and how I am. I spend less time thinking about it these days.

My life is full. And yet...

I guess the yet is why I need to keep on writing. 

Do You Like the Things That Life is Showing You?

I'm sitting here watching the election results. I'm tearing up a bit because I am so goddamn proud of my country. I feel a sense of relief for my family's future. It feels like we just got ourselves back on track.

Turbid Blue and the Drug Store Too

Well, lookee here. I must be training for NaBloPoMo.

A bit ago I was thinking about deception and how oftentimes we know things, but ignore them. Or, even tell ourselves that we misunderstood when really, there is no way that we could have misunderstood. Is that our psyches protecting us from harsh reality? Or simply copping out?

There was this time, years ago, when I was out with a friend. We were just kicking around town. Bored, not sure what to do. She suggested something spontaneous...how about getting tattoos? I took a pass on that, but went with her while she got one. We'd never discussed a desire to get tattoos before. But, literally, three minutes after she proposed it, we were parked outside the tattoo parlor. (Do they still call them that or do I sound like some kind of Raymond Chandler novel?)

So, in we went. The place was grimy and the tattooist even grimier. I wanted to grab her and run, but I didn't. She chose her design and sat down in the chair. The artist got to work and started gabbing to us. She politely chatted back, dishing about the scandals and secrets of the small town. I kind of tuned out, but became alert after hearing her mention her husband's business. She brought it up as though it were just another place in town, not partly her own. I caught a look from her that said, "Don't say a word". I didn't say anything.

"Oh, John? You know about him and Ellen, right? My girlfriend is good friends with her. They think they're hiding it. Right!"

John was my friend's husband. Ellen was his assistant.

My friend did not react. Honestly, she did not flinch.

She moved right along to the next topic. My face burned and I felt white, hot anger on her behalf. I thought that she must be keeping up appearances. This guy obviously did not know that she was John's wife.

He finished her tattoo and she paid and we walked out the door to her car. It was a summer night, just past twilight and the sky was a vivid, nearly electric blue. The stars gleamed as if they'd just been turned up a notch. I see that sky as if it were a snapshot thrown before me whenever I think about that night, just like any moment when you learn something that changes your life. Those moments are burned into one's brain as a freeze frame. And while this wasn't a life-altering moment for me, it was for her.

I looked over to her, ready to catch her or scream with her or just feel with her. And she acted as though nothing had happened, as though we'd just been out for a summer ice cream run and were headed back home to watch movies and drink wine.

I must have stuttered or shook my head or something. And then, I just played right along. We went back to her house and did watch movies and drink wine. We had a lovely night.

I thought and thought and thought about it afterward. I listened for a fight from where my friend and her husband slept in the next room. There wasn't one. I convinced myself that I simply must have misunderstood. How could I have heard what I thought I heard without any kind of reaction being made? I must have been mistaken.

Again, this was many years ago. Today, I know that I heard what I heard. And I know that denial is more than just a river in Egypt. But, maybe that wasn't even it. Maybe it was more about a woman who couldn't share her deepest, most personal hurts with anyone. Not her husband. Not her family. Not her friends. She needed someone to stand next to her while she sussed it out, but she couldn't let anyone in on the aftermath. She had to know the truth of the situation and sought out someone who would know it, but couldn't bring herself to bring on an aftermath.

I know that I heard what I heard. I later learned, from her, about secrets that she kept. Secrets large enough to make me question if I ever knew her or if I ever really would. If I could turn back time, I would stop us in that parking lot, under that brilliant sky and ask her what that tattoo artist meant. Even if she wouldn't or couldn't give me an answer, at least I would have tried.

This. This. This is a house of cards.

The day after my last post, I was to head to New Orleans for a conference. My cold was still pretty bad and I tried to take a later flight, but no dice. So I landed in New Orleans at 10:30 on Monday. I'd never been before. I stepped off the plane into the warmest air I'd felt in a good six months. It was stifling, actually, but once I got downtown, it felt breezy and nice. I checked into Hotel Monteleone.

But before that, I, along with a couple of business associates, hopped into Diana's cab. Diana being a very chipper New Orleansian, who had nothing but goodness and light flowing through her veins. We asked about the hurricane recovery and she said that it had been a rough year, but that the city really hoped to see a big difference in the coming year. Insurance companies held up a lot of funds, but hopefully, things would be soon be worked out for many who were stuck.

As I rode the 20 minutes downtown, I sucked on my lemon mint riccola and looked out the window. I saw house after house where you could still see a visible waterline zoom by. Suddenly, I had a million questions. How far back had the water come? How long did it take to drain? It's funny how it seems to all make sense, or actually, not make any sense when you are physically standing there.

We eventually drove by the Superdome. It felt creepy and sad, even in the spectacular sunlight.

We reached the hotel and decided we'd meet back at noon to venture out for lunch. I checked email and then we ended up at Brennan's. What a glorious lunch. One of the best I've ever had. Glorious can be a dopey word, but it really applies to this lunch, believe you me. I had a pasta with bordelaise sauce and an amazing salad. I wrapped it up with the banana's foster, which was invented at Brennan's. Holy shit, was that good. I've never been a huge fan of banana's foster, but now I get it.

I walked back to the hotel feeling light and happy and sated. I walked by shop after amazing shop. I was tempted to play hooky on the work that I had to go back to the hotel and do. But, I was good and went and did my bit.

I had a client call at 4. I was waiting for them to buzz me at about 2 minutes till when my phone rang. I saw on the caller ID that it was my mom, but it didn't make sense to me as to why she would be calling. She actually didn't know I was in New Orleans, so was thrown off for a second. And then she told me that my aunt had passed away that morning.

I couldn't understand what she was saying. It didn't make any sense. My Aunt M was only 60 and in perfect health. This could not be right.

I don't remember the rest of the conversation. There wasn't much to say. I hung up and felt like I was sitting in a completely different hotel room than I had checked into. That's not such an odd phenomena after one hears shocking news. I remember about eight years ago, my friend T called me at work to tell me that our friend, F, had been killed in a drive by shooting. I was looking out through a set of blinds when she told me and at that moment it was like my vision changed and I was no longer looking out into a courtyard. Rather, I was just staring at long rows of green space formed by the metal slats of the blinds. I had to blink hard several times to get my perspective back.

There was no shaking it off or blinking to get my perspective back this time. This couldn't be. Aunt M...what to even say? She had an energy about her that was infectious. She was full of such unconditional love. She was comfort. Period. You thought of her or went to see her and you felt comfortable and comforted. I grew up two miles away from her. Her youngest is my age. She had two other kids both a couple of years older. And my uncle? They were a couple that were just joined at the hip. How could this possibly be? I still don't get it. I feel gypped. We all do. Completely ripped off.

So I called B. And he tried to get me a flight out of there to get back to Chicago that night. Ever been away on business and then had a deep personal hurt inflicted on you? Christ. You don't even know how to act. I had to notify those I was with, of course. And let the conference sponsors know that I wouldn't be speaking. There was only one flight I could get, which was leaving in an hour and a half to Dallas. First class was the only thing available. I'd have a two hour layover in Dallas and then would make it back to Chicago after midnight.

I started to get worried. I was obviously in some kind of shock because I couldn't remember what it was that I was doing. I had to actually write down the airline I was flying and where I was supposed to go. I made a point to put the paper in my pocket because I kept losing things. I found myself just wandering around my hotel room instead of booking it to the airport.

I got to the airport and had time leftover. I wandered through the stores and bought a couple of books and a stuffed monkey wearing a shirt for Baby C. I bought coffee w/ chicory for B. A colleague of mine just wrote an article for Playboy. So, I bought it. Once on the plane, I sat in first class with my sunglasses on to hide my red-rimmed eyes, sipping chardonnay and reading Playboy all the while hacking my post-cold cough. The guy next to me must have thought I was a piece of work. I welcomed the distraction of reading though.

The Dallas airport really feels like Texas. So I went from the foreignness of New Orleans to big, brash Texas. I sat in the food court, eating a pretzel dog with strawberry lemonade talking to B on my cell openly crying and saying, "How in the fuck did I get to Texas?" I bought C a stuffed pony and managed to catch an earlier flight. B and C picked me up at the airport at 11:30. My own little family. They were there to take me into their arms and bring me home. I squeezed C so hard that he squealed.

The next day went by in a haze and then that night we drove to my parents house. It's a three and a half hour trip. Rarely can I cry around my family. I've done too much care taking for them to afford myself that luxury. That's old shit, but still the status quo for me and them.

My dad cried more in front of me in the past week than in all the time before. It made me really uncomfortable. It scared me. It is so much easier when things stay the way they always were.

I'll write more about the funeral later. That day is an entry in itself. That day. That town. My sister. This entry is more about grief, sudden grief and what sudden, unexpected death means.

This. This. This is a house of cards. If my aunt M can just drop down dead with no warning, anyone can. My mom, my dad, B. How can life be like that? Why must we live under these circumstances? Who thought this plan up? I could go off on an existential mind-fuck right now, but honestly, I don't have the energy for it. My take away is that I loved my aunt. I miss her so much already. We can't take anyone for granted. I have to fix things with my sister. I need to spend more time with my parents. I love everyone. Everyone loves me.

I am on a Lonely Road and I am Traveling Traveling Traveling Traveling

...looking for something. What could it be?" To finish Joni's thought.

For a few years, the bulk of my dreams have a couple of common threads. And that has intensified over the past few months. 1) I am always in some kind of building of gigantic proportions. Usually has a very gothic and overwhelming feel. Or, it can be some kind of large, old farmhouse or outbuildings. If it's the farm thing, it's usually my grandparents' house. 2) The other common thread is that I'm searching for something. Sometimes, it's something physical, like set of sheets for a bed. Or, I'm searching for a certain room that I cannot find. Other times, I'm searching for a person. But I"m always just going from room to room to room. Looking, looking, looking. Sometimes I have my husband or good friends or my parents along with me. Other times I am simply alone.

Another variation on those dreams is that I'm in a huge swimming pool, filled with people, and I'm trying to get through. Sometimes the floor in a large room will fall away and we're all suddenly dropped into a swimming pool. Interesting, in that I used to be very afraid of swimming. I'm less so these days.

Hum. So you don't have to be Sigmund Freud to see that I'm looking for something. In many ways, I think I'm searching for my identity. I'm smack in the middle of my 30's now. (I'll be 35 in a few short months.) Who am I? Mom? Wife? Business woman? Certain doors have closed, as they have for all of us in our 30s. I have a hard time with that one. I wanted to be the whiz kid with the whole world open in front of me forever.

On that note, I have to run.