Small Talk, Big Talk

What do you call someone who can make anything political? Like, you could be having an innocuous conversation with someone, all small talk, and then they go off into the weeds?

“Nice cool breezy weather we got today, yeah?”
“Not as cold as the day we finally get all of them dirty sumbitches outta Congress an’ string those motherfuckers up to twist in the breeze!”
“Dude, is everything OK at home?”

Have we all just lost our sense of smell? Have we forgotten how to read the room and decide what’s appropriate? Have we got so self-absorbed that we don’t care what someone else has going on?

Are we all age 3 again?

Infallible, Inconceivable, Inconsolable

There are four professions in which one can never, ever be wrong (especially when they are wrong):

  • Cop
  • Politician
  • Preacher
  • Teacher

This week I talked with a teacher I tangentially knew at a bar, and we found there was some common ground between us. As the chatter went on, I said something that she didn’t think was correct, so she put on the brakes as we hashed it out. Went so far as to look at her phone long enough to find something that supported her claim; even got others involved.

I know my experience taught me one thing, her experience taught her something else. But I was wrong, because she couldn’t possibly be wrong. She’s a teacher, and teachers tell students what’s up.

Having no other graceful out, I referenced the conversation we were just having before our argument, wished her well, and did the Irish exit. So I’m stupid and wrong.

Why does this burn me still?

Mute

“The unexamined life is not worth living.” I’ve seen this platitude festoon an abundance of freshman blogs and journals that ramble on before their eventual abandonment.

Judging from the state of my life and the state of my own blog and journal, I’ll go on to say that the examined life isn’t that much farther advanced.

My internal voice has been rather quiet of late, overpowered by demands and voices coming through the earbuds, interrupted by external factors that I pull near. I spend little time these days staring at nothing for long enough to get bored and have thoughts solid enough to write down as conversation. It’s all panic and need. I hope I’ll carve out space enough soon to exist with no-mindedness.

Until then, there’s just this mental senioritis of being so over it and not wanting to feel. I bring in too many anesthetics.

I need aesthesia.

Three Weak Ends

Every year, no matter what job I have, I make every attempt to take the entire week of Thanksgiving off. It costs 3 days of PTO (if the job has it, which my current one does), and I get an entire week off.

You’d think this was great and wonderful and is an entire week of rest and wandering, but you’d be wrong. Invarably, for me, Thanksgiving vacation is really three weekends crammed together.

First weekend is recovery from the work week, trying to be an adult and do adult things. But all the while, I’m having to plan, prep, pack, and get ready for driving to Texarkana to spend time with family.

Second weekend is spent with family, bookended by driving. Lots of driving. So much driving. And the destination is full of all the allergens and inconveniences and reminders of why I left Texarkana. But I get to spend precious time with my family.

Third weekend is recovery from the travel. First order of business is to wash every thread of fabric I took with me to rid of the smoke, dust, pet hair, mold, whatever. And then sit in a daze in my apartment, woozy from the drive, wondering what I was doing before I was interrupted by a cross-state trip. And then trying to do adult things again while preparing for the return to work in the days ahead.

I tell my mother that going to Texarkana is not a vacation. She laughs and shrugs, and says there’s nobody else she can get to fix this-and-that, or help her clean whatever, and so on. But at least we get to talk and do things and plan meals and visit my sister’s family. So there’s that.

But, y’all, I’m tired.

If You Understand, or If You Don’t

Remembering the time in the dorm, late spring 95, on a 3-way call with Pam and Karen having a really good chat and smiling, when I loaded my CD player, put earbud to phone, and played part of Enigma’s “The Dream of the Dolphin”, and they loved it. That was a special moment in time.

I miss those ladies.

If you understand,
Or if you don’t.
If you believe,
Or if you doubt.
Remember the shaman
When he used to say,
“Man is the dream of the dolphin”

Enigma: “The Dream of the Dolphin” (The Cross of Changes, 1993)

I miss knowing Pam is walking on this earth. I hope her family has picked up the pieces and continued walking for her.

As long as someone remembers, we live.