Don't know how long I'll have at the keyboard this morning, so a quick Merry Christmas to all of you.
Cloudy last night, so I was unable to see the moon in all its 133 year glory, but was thinking of all of you, and appreciating Lore for turning us onto it. Hope some of you got to see it.
Squeegee, emulsion, and coater should be here Monday. Hope to get the machine built this weekend, some shirts ordered Monday also. Downsizing, of course, as I don't have the $ to buy a bunch of blanks. But it's okay. I'm *doing* after such a long time grieving Liz and my Clown. It's a kind of rebirth, and what better time for it?
A 19 yo boy moved into the house last night, making me think of Carol and her son. Perhaps a seed will be planted? It's soooo difficult to get this thing at any age, but even more difficult when so young. Is there life after sobriety?
It was cloudy when I went to JB this morning, cold, and I walked briskly, hands thrust into jean pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill. Mindy was there, wearing her "holy" jeans. Holy in the sense of having huge holes on the thighs.
Her ex-boyfriend was there and he came over, introduced himself, telling me he'd heard a lot about me from Mindy. "Good things," he hastened to add.
She gave me a Christmas Card, one line of which I'll share with you: "You are a great friend & such a classic character." Heh. Classic character, eh? Sort of *like* that.
A wonderful photograph of children on the front, dancing in the snow, black and white. From Russia, I'm told.
Amber came in last night, gliding ever so smoothly across the floor, wrapped in a long coat with hood, looking very Wiccan, telling me she could stay but a minute or so. "By the itching of my thumbs/Something Wiccan this way comes." Heh. Then this highly made-up young woman walked up, embraced Amber, and sat down at our table. Very gothic, all in black. Black fingernails, dark lipstick, various items hanging from her neck. Turns out she's 17, been away from home since she was 13.
Damn. What is with these young girls nowadays? They all look to be in their mid-20s or something. At any rate, I played the role of Father Confessor (or whatever) and listened, put in my three cents worth, and all that.
Amber drove me to Hearthstone. She was in a pensive mood, unwontedly quiet, and of course she has things going on in the backwaters of her life, just as we all do. But a lovely, lovely person.
Mindy was talking of Tourette's Syndrome, and I suddenly thot of how often I have the urge to blurt out in a meeting that the greatest love, friendship, and intimacy in my life is *not* found in AA but rather here in the Circle or there at the JavaBreak. I remain quiet, of course, but this realization is a wonderful thing for me. That I am cared about simply for who I am, that I am a "classic character."
Gothic Alison, after listening to a bit of my life's story, said, "You have a life most people would die for." Poor thing. I hastened to correct her. But it's *my* life, and I am content with it. It moves, stumbles, takes three steps backwards, one to the side. Eventually it becomes a dance, something marked out in Arthur Murray put-one-foot-here, another there. A progress, progression about the floor. At least I am dancing, rather than...spectating.
I'm rereading "The Burden of Proof," by Scott Turow. Turow is one of those writers who brings such a gift to the genre that he expands, redefines it. I love him. And yesterday finished (again!) the marvelous "Polar Star" by Martin Cruz Smith. Read him, dammit. He has one called "Stallion Gate" which I love. Both these writers can through their magic transport me into another emotional plane. Smith to an almost religious, poetic plane. Turow to something resembling loss, sadness, a bleak landscape of the heart. I suppose I need them both.
It reminds me of when I was in Altus, AR, when only Rebecca and then Lorelis were writing me, of being up in the loft drinking from get-up to lie-down, of going to the little convenience store (Circle M) and renting a few of the very few good videos they had. How many times did I watch *Fargo*?
Yesterday, Curtis was sitting in the booth, a chessboard with pieces before him, intently studying it. When I asked about it he told me the pieces were set up in a classic game played by Fisher and Spassky ages ago. He is moving through the game slowly, a move at a time, trying to enter into that very special game, those two incredible minds. He is to film the game with his video camera, making a film of the game itself. "If I can find some good arms and hands," he says. How will he create any kind of drama????
Immediately I'm thinking of how I would do it, remembering all the way back to childhood when I first remembered seeing Bobby Fisher in Life Magazine or somesuch, of reading how he was learning Russian so he could study their games.
I speak of the movie "Searching For Bobby Fisher" and we both agree it's wonderful, which pleases me. The boy is such a perfect example of casting. The word "darling" springs to mind. A darling boy. Amazing acting.
Some of my fondest memories of the time when Liz and I were together are of the two of us watching old movies. Harlow, Gable, Bette Davis, and all those wonderful dead people. Sigh. I want to do that again. Watch the wonderful ones over and over, seeing things each time I'd never noticed before. Art.
I must go now. Laundry and the making of a plan. Got the design over to Jenny last night and she said she'd have something for me tomorrow. All is working out just as it should--this my sometimes perilously weakened faith whispers to me.
Rebecca always said, "All that you need will surely come."
Truly? Yes, truly.
The clouds were gone when I climbed the steps out of the Break, the sky swept clean, the blue catching and holding my eye as a jet left its sharp, then blurring vapor trails. This time a hundred years ago Orville and Wilbur were just entering into that great obsession. They had already written to the Smithsonian. And next year they will go to Kitty Hawk for the first time. I will follow along in my mind, and, in a sense, be there. As much as one can be, this far removed.
I am still afraid today. I can feel it way down there in the bottom of my stomach, that quiet little occasional roiling when my mind touches on what remains to be done. I know that I can do it, yet there is this fear. And my dreams have been dreams of fear lately.
It would be so easy to check-out for a week, and yet it is so difficult it can't be done. I am tired of going back, admitting failure one more time. I am not jumping up and down in joyous glad-to-be-sober, but I am quietly appreciating it. It's time to do this. My life, however it may go, requires it. The best years are just ahead. I know this, I know this. And yet...that quiet little roiling down there.
Someone wants the computer, so I will go for now. I don't know if the library is closed tomorrow or not. A longish holiday coming up. So if you don't hear from me for a few days, relax. And Polonius springs to mind, speaking to Gertrude, the queen: "Stay awhile, Madam. I will be faithful."
Indeed I shall.
Stay awhile.
A long while.
I lovesya,
Dickens
