Bug Girl and the Raid Can of Routine

we moved into this house in december. it's a little post-war bungalow, and it turned me into a susie-homemaker. in retrospect, i think the ghosts of Housewives Past were gently nudging me along with their dustpans. i mean, i was on the verge of buying a cake platter. and maybe a crystal candy dish. i even made christmas nuts'n'bolts -- and what says '50's housewife' more than savoury recipes involving packaged dry cereal? when the step-bug came home at lunch, i would have a cheese and (soy) luncheon meat sandwich ready for him on the table with a bowl of canned tomato soup.

all i wanted to do was cook, clean, and smile fondly over steaming casseroles in my oven mitts.

mind you, the glass doorknobs, marbled single-sheet linoleum floor and retro aluminum rimmed counters really did seem to make it all easy. easy to hum and scrub, easy to bake and pinch, easy to greet your sweetheart at the door in nothing but an apron and a wink.

and i was interested to see how long it would last, this playing house. the only things i never get tired of are: doing something different every day, and lying around thinking. the perfect day involves both. it's not that i'm easily bored (in fact, i often feel that a tendency towards frequent boredom indicates a severe lack of imagination, or possibly even feeble mindedness), it's more that i despair easily. and feel easily imprisoned. and being required to participate in unchanging routine seems to bring the grumpy crazy out in me. other people can be habitual around me, and i'll often find it wonderful and soothing -- something to rely on -- but when it comes to needing to pull it off myself, well... it goes beautifully for a while, and then just stops.

"what?! you want dinner again?! didn't we just do this yesterday? ugh. you've got to be kidding. look: there's the fridge. go make yourself something involving vegetables."

"what?! i *still* have to water this plant?! it never ends!!"

i can handle doing a thing or two that i don't like from time to time, but if it's the same one or two things every day? every day? i get reduced to distracted fidgets, and then i start to snarl.

i can't tell if this is just my basic character, if it's a result of spending so much time alone as a kid, unrelied on, or if it's because i'm an introvert, or a spoiled brat. in any case, i find not following my nose is like swimming upstream. last night i spent 6 hours cleaning the kitchen because i felt like it. i was up until four. i wiped everything. if, however, last week you had told me to spend six hours cleaning the kitchen, i would have... well, i would have ignored you. and now, i may not clean a thing in the kitchen aside from the dishes for a month or more.

is this weird?

i feel weird.

why is the day-to-day so challenging for me? i'm sensing that J and i are both looking for some one to be the Routine Anchor for the team, and neither one of us seems to be able to pull it off for the other. it's a problem we're going to have to figure out. but how?

little old men are so cute i can't even stand it

i live in an area that has a lot of 'retirees' (it's called the City of Victoria, ha ha, no, but really: there are a lot of old people in my neighbourhood).

to watch them enter the parking lot (by foot or by car) of our little local plaza is to watch the heady confluence of darwinism with the miraculous.

i'm amazed (actually.) that more of them don't bonk into each other. or just fall over.

anyway, the other afternoon i happened upon J outside of the drug store. i was going there to buy pantyhose to tie the cucumbers up with, and he was filling a prescription -- home early from the hills to my delighted surprise.

we went into the store, and while performing our tasks, noticed a little old man trying to find the brill cream. the lady pointed out that it was right in front of him, only, it turns out, he hadn't noticed it because they had changed their box. he became a little worried -- if the box was different, would the contents be the same? he asked the lady if they still had any of the old ones.

they didn't.

he mulled the new brill cream over, then tottered over to the counter and bought it with what looked like worry-tinged resolve. he counted out his bit of money.

with his little purchase in hand, he headed for the door. we followed him out of the store, where he looked around, and then walked towards a blue car.

"oh god. he's not going to drive is he? please don't let him be the driver." we whispered to ourselves.

when he walked, he lifted his feet fairly high, then put them down almost where they just were, making his progress slow.

he arrived at the blue car and stared at it for a moment, his legs still "walking" but his body not going anywhere. he looked around again, still walking on the spot, and then headed across the body of the parking lot, towards another blue car. cars slowly went around him. people with their walkers slowed to let him pass. we spied on him from behind the florist's outdoor arrangements to make sure he was alright.

he arrived at the second car, this one with a waiting driver, opened the back door, tossed in the little plastic bag containing his brill cream in the shiny new box, and then lifted and replaced, liiifted and replaced, liiiiifted and replaced, lifted... lifted... and ... got his leg in the car. then the rest of him. then they were gone.

and that was the cute little old man. and that was his Brill Cream Outing.

part of me is sad that when jay is a little old man, i won't be able to watch out for him, because i'll be a little old woman.

women and witches

last night my fever broke. i awoke at 1:45 am to a heavenly lack of pain. my pelvis no longer felt like it was being slowly split in two, and my eyes no longer felt like they were trying to escape through the back of my head. i was no longer freezing under three blankets and the july heat.

what a revelation it can be to only feel mildly ill. i sank into a deep and restful slumber.

today i just have to blow my nose and nap a lot.

part of me wonders if i had a bit of sunstroke along with a garden variety headcold. at the market on sunday i got quite burnt, despite repeated slatherings of sunblock, a hat, and an umbrella.

at the market i also started to think about witches.

i've been thinking about witches for a while, but more often these days. my recent spurt of witch contemplating started at the retreat i went to with my mum last month. on one of the nights, a bonfire was lit, and all the women (myself included) started to groove around the fire. it wasn't some new-age, or neo-pagan, or enviro-feminist bonding ritual. it was just for fun.

light a fire and watch women peel half their clothes off and start to dance. it's that easy.

no wonder we were pegged as witches.

is it possible that the witch hunts of early modern europe were simple a result of women liking to dance around fires?

;-)

but seriously, at the time i removed myself and thought, "wow. to an outsider this could look pretty weird. especially if that outsider were a guy who hadn't gotten any in a while."

but anyway, back to the market and the sunstroke. the thing is, bringing one's wares to market is such an age-old activity. it reaches back through the generations, this ancient profession of mine, as do the petty politics that arise when people's character (or lack thereof) is brought out by the stresses of not having a good day, in terms of sales. some people tend to despise those next to them who are doing well, some people look to every external circumstance they can to blame their lack of sales -- "i'm not in my normal spot, that girl was standing in front of my booth for too long, i don't have my usual neighbour, that man is talking too loudly, i didn't bring the right tablecloth, my new neighbour's sign is too flashy and his table is too big so i have to move a foot over and now my stuff isn't in the sun", and so on. others are lackadaisical -- feet up, dreaming of beer all day long in the heat, regardless. or philosophical, "sales come and go -- who can explain the whims of the masses? tomorrow may be better." others get depressed and don't come back.

and i started to think about the infamous witch hunting craze that really started to take off in the 15th century in europe. and i could really see how, if we were as deeply superstitious and uninformed, the same thing could happen now. there are always those who look for others to blame, no matter how ridiculously. (i lend you my pot, you refuse to give it back, i yell at you, then coincidentally, your crops get blight in the next few days, and suddenly i'm accused of witchcraft. (that's how it worked, mostly.)) we may think we're smarter than that now, but i wouldn't put it past a few of the market vendors today to watch one of their fellow craftsmen burn for the sake of getting rid of a rival, but under the guise of righteousness. it only takes a few bad apples to rot whole the barrel.

some days at the market i feel like i'm participating in something medieval.

(some days, it feels downright roman.)

i guess, what i'm saying is, i get how these things can happen. the witch hunts, as terrible and unjustified as they were, make sense to me sociologically. perception is everything and sadly, we usually only have two eyes to see from.

pretty plastic people meet hairy granola

i recently came upon this ralph waldo emerson quote:

"The world rolls, the din of life is never hushed. In London, in Paris, in Boston, in San Francisco, the carnival, the masquerade is at its height. Nobody drops his domino. The unities, the fictions of the piece it would be an impertinence to break. The chapter of fascinations is very long. Great is paint; nay, God is the painter; and we rightly accuse the critic who destroys too many illusions. Society does not love its un-maskers. It was wittily, if somewhat bitterly, said by D'Alembert, "qu'un etat de vapeur etait un etat tres facheux, parcequ'il nous faisait voir les choses comme elles sont." I find men victims of illusion in all parts of life. Children, youths, adults, and old men, all are led by one bawble or another. Yoganidra, the goddess of illusion, Proteus, or Momus, or Gylfi's Mocking, — for the Power has many names, — is stronger than the Titans, stronger than Apollo. Few have overheard the gods, or surprised their secret. Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood. All is riddle, and the key to a riddle is another riddle. There are as many pillows of illusion as flakes in a snow-storm. We wake from one dream into another dream. The toys, to be sure, are various, and are graduated in refinement to the quality of the dupe. The intellectual man requires a fine bait; the sots are easily amused. But everybody is drugged with his own frenzy, and the pageant marches at all hours, with music and banner and badge."

you know, i think emerson is bang on.

mum, delving into the beginning of the new age movement in the 80's, told me, at what must have been a rare and impressionable moment in my otherwise stubborn and contrary youth (regarding her at any rate), that when something/someone bothers you, the bothersom thing is probably just mirroring something inside you that's really annoying you.

so i spent a long time trying to find my inner condescending snob because i hated this in my french teacher, my inner control freak, my inner nag, my inner suburban plebe (woo! that sounds like my inner snob coming out!), rather than just experiencing my own reactions to the world in a straightforward and full-bodied way. eventually, i started to think this "mirroring" theory was crap and a navel gazing distraction from living simply and fully.

then, when we moved into this little house where we are now, i noticed our neighbours on the other side of our back yard (next door to our silly landlords). they were a couple. she, blond, thin, little "outie" bellybutton peeking out from her flat, bikinied body, given to talking on the cell phone while sunbathing on her deck, and looking glossy and well-groomed, even first thing on sunday morning in her bathrobe. i think she must have that kind of hair that always looks brushed. (as opposed to me. my hair never looks brushed, so i've stopped bothering.) anyway, he was dark haired, and ridiculously muscular (for a normal person, not body builder). an anesthesiologist. given to that big-muscle-big-penis swagger -- legs slightly opened when walking, arms held slightly out from the body as if biceps were getting in the way. he bar-b-q-ed a lot. opened bottles of wine every night for dinner, popping the corks carelessly without apology into our yard if it was sparkling wine. they didn't have any clutter and were really tidy. little banana republic people. sometimes they screamed at each other inside their house. i could hear them from my garden. once i called the police because i heard banging and thought i heard a threat.

anyway, my habit is usually to consider these sorts of people (and there i betray my snobbery again in believing that people can be thus "sorted"), my habit is to consider these "sorts" of people "asleep". unconscious. (as opposed to i who am, relatively, "awake.") even though i've only described the aesthetics of their lives to you, it isn't about aesthetics, because i love nice things, too. excellence, good quality, a bit of style -- i can really dig it sometimes -- it wasn't aesthetics, how they looked, it was about how in love with how they appeared that really got to me. how attached they were to being fit and young and conventionally stylish. it was about being distracted from what i would consider to be the more worthwhile pursuits of connection, and creation of meaning, and care and investigation. of putting people and the earth before anything shiny. and so i sat there in my thrift store clothes, eating my beans and rice, talking to the worms and feeling virtuous.

but then i thought, how arrogant of me -- what if they just don't care. what if they aren't asleep at all, but are really another type of human than i am. with different wiring. what if they know about our impending environmental disaster, sweatshops, child labour, and the ravages of indifference even on our well-heeled streets in this pretty neighbourhood? what if they know about introspection, self discovery, poetry, good literature, original art and the importance of seeing the world from the heart, but really Just Don't Care?

maybe they're just different from me. and that's all there is to it. "awake" in their own way, and different.

i don't know, i still can't decide, but in the meantime i read this emerson quote and i'm humbled again: i may have gotten to the point where i'm not beguiled to distraction by dishes that match my place mats, but righteous indignation seems to have my number every time. anything can be a fix if you identify with it enough, eh?

turns out, what annoyed me about them was something inside me, too.

so where does that leave us, i wonder? i hope that, underneath it all, there is some sort of basic reality that it wouldn't be a deception to fall in love with.

dying

as those of you who know me can attest, i have some death issues.

in a nutshell, i have a hard time letting go.

preemptively.

before people are even anywhere close to being dead, i mourn their inevitable demise.

it's true. with actual tears, sometimes.

people and things in the full vibrancy of life pierce my heart with sadness because of the truth that they, in all their multifaceted, quirky, unique and aching beauty, are not eternal. this crushes me. that anything can be taken away at any moment (and i know for a fact that it can be) leaves me at such a loss, so vulnerable and fearful feeling -- i think to myself that it can't actually be like that, that i must be missing some crucial part of the scenario, because if i'm not, it's a terrible design, and is just too difficult for me. i love things too much. am too attached. i'd make a terrible buddha.

so, what is this hoarding? where does it come from? i think it might be a strange form of greed. i think i've always gathered too much to myself. i'm a pack rat when it comes to everything from pretty baubles and books to memories and emotions. i gather, collect and keep. i just can't let go. i have transit stubs from my last trip to toronto. receiving bank statements and junk mail stress me out because i feel funny tossing them, but don't want to keep them. it actually mildly stresses me out. i can't throw things away. (why can't i throw things away??) and why can't i enjoy pleasures in a relaxed, unpanicked fashion?

quick -- eat all the shortbreads -- you never know when you'll come across them again.

what terrible lack have i experienced, or imagined, that has left me grasping like this?

must have: olives by the jar (can't eat just one), five scarves (all pretty, couldn't decide in the store. need them. mine.), boarding passes and receipts from journeys abroad (mustn't forget anything. keep all memories. all.), hundreds of books (can't just borrow them, need to OWN them. mine.), weird found objects (pretty! sparkly! might come in handy! gather, gather, keep, keep.), terrible photos i'll never look at again (mustn't forget any experiences, no matter how unphotogenic. and what if i need them for a collage?), and it goes on and on.

but hoarding life exactly-as-it-is-at-any-given-moment is like grasping at water. all this clinging has left me frustrated and insecure. it doesn't work very well.

that i do this is so embarrassing, but there you have it.

i grab with my teeth, both hands and ten toes to keep life from getting away from me, but it just keeps moving along, oblivious. like a father with a three year old wrapped around his leg, life can move very easily to the next room with only my small weight trying to stop it.

sometimes i think that if everything would just stop for two seconds -- just stop -- so that we could all truly realise, as a group, the impermanence of everything, we would begin to cherish it properly, and i could relax. other times i think, if only i knew for sure that there was an afterlife, then there would be no last good-byes, just see-you-laters, and i could relax (yay! i wouldn't have to let go!). and still other times i think, if i could just stop dithering and dive into life with unfettered gusto, i could come to death tired and worn and happily needing the rest, then i could relax.

don't get me wrong: i know my fretting isn't helpful. i know i'm probably missing the point. i'm just stuck.

a few weeks ago i heard an original song performed around a campfire. it was about death, and in it, the singer sings that now that she's finally going back to where she came from, the stars look so beautiful, her lover's eyes look so beautiful.

and i cried (of course.) and realised that since that time fourteen years ago when a terrible accident left a two person hole in my family, i've been dying. the accident shocked me into seeing that i'm dying. and the stars look so beautiful that i want to keep them all forever. and the little brown mouse, the scabby pothead glass painter, and these mittens, all of it. i don't want to let go and i don't want to leave. why do i have to leave?

how do i stop dying while i'm alive? it's getting in the way.

* * *

i think i'm going to go throw some stuff out now and see if it helps.