Tears Have No Manners

 Tears are the most ballsy of drop in guests.

They never bother to tell you when they’ll pop by and couldn’t care less about whether you’re ready to see them or not, or feel their hot presence. They don’t even try to go with the ruse that all they needed was a cup of sugar at the last minute for a cake they were baking. Tears just barge in without knocking and always seem to sense when you’re home, even when the lights are off.

 

Never mind they expect you to welcome them in with open arms no matter what you’re doing at that moment, and of course you always comply, because, well, simply put, you really have no choice. They’re impossible to keep out and will not take no for an answer. You wonder why suddenly they are there, and then your reality sets in and you cannot get them to leave. They also have an amazing sixth sense and somehow are aware that you really do not mind them very much, though at times it does feel like they are taking advantage of your hospitality. They plop themselves down, stay for hours at times, and you’re essentially trapped in your house. Entertaining them also can be exhausting, and you can feel quite drained when they leave.

 

The thing is, there are so many of them! They seem to reproduce at a kind of galactic rate, constantly replenishing their numbers through some strange method of spontaneous reproduction. No matter how fast or thickly they fall into the gravitational pull and eventually evaporate, there are always zillions right behind, just waiting their turn to slide down your cheek.

Moving away will not solve the problem. They are the kind of neighbors who will figure out where you’ve decamped and have the nerve to knock on your door day or night, or basically whenever they feel like it. You probably never will get rid of the tears, so it’s best to try to view them as friends and accept the situation. They may have no shame, but they really are quite attached to you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwCI6v1l3Gw

Navah Dreams Gilly

 Navah Dreams Gilly Sept. 12, 2021

 Navah had a dream last night and called me excitedly to tell me about it.

She and her parents were visiting New York when she got into the elevator of the building,

She pressed a button, and suddenly found herself lost. The feeling of being lost was a little scary, but then all of sudden she was in our apartment, and Gilly and I were both there. Yes, she repeated, Gilly was there! She felt really happy about this, and safe. Eventually her parents found her.

 Gilly, you were in Navah’s dream and that made her and me exceedingly happy, and so I am telling you because I want you to know this and be happy too. You always said I was the favorite, but you were being diplomatic, as is your fashion and gift. She was, is and always will remain madly in love with you, and I for one am soooooo happy about that. Can’t actually think of a better kind of guy for her to emulate, and if one day her chosen soul mate loves and knows and perhaps even plays music, and maybe can cut a rug too, so much the better!

 About the dream, well of course it operated on several levels. On her last visit here Navah actually did get very temporarily lost in the elevator because she jumped in just as the door was closing and off she went! Is this a ritual for kids who live in New York who all manage to go through it at some point? We yelled to her through the door for her to press the first floor or the “1” button as the car moved away, and then we ran down the stairs to help bring it back down and meet her in the lobby. The doorman, a favorite whom we loved but alas no longer works here, smiled and said that he could see her in the security camera in the elevator, it was coming down to the lobby and would be there in a second. After a very short interlude from the time she entered the elevator, an interval during which she apparently had traveled up a couple of floors, having initially pressed other buttons, she landed on the first floor, the door opened, and there she was miraculously quite okay. There was nary a tear though I did espy a tad of trepidation about the adventure. I think she was rightly a little proud of herself too, she had made it through.

 She also is making it through Gilly, she feels lost at times, and wants us to be together, as we were. But her magical thinking and wish fulfillment dream took care of that nicely last night, if only for a brief moment. It was enough however to be worth repeating in detail to her Lynnie, who always will be there for her; and for Lynnie to keep remembering in her heart and repeating it to Gilly often, and also on the blog for all the world to read and know.

Sparrow in a New Lunar Year

The life of a sparrow is precarious, yet this diminutive, adorable member of the avian tribe has sufficient stage presence to have been immortalized by the immortal Bard.

Shakespeare liked birds.

There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow Hamlet tells us at the play's penultimate moment of dramatic action.

A lone sparrow signifying meaningful, life events? How could this be?

Hamlet explains in the next line, in this greatest of all philosophical meanderings in five acts: everything is interrelated and ineluctable- If it be now, 'tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all. 

The readiness is all, what a fantastic thought; everything connected in every single aspect and movement of our existences, with timing the essential ingredient for taking action, for reaching fulfilment of our destinies! The path leads us, just follow. This is the kind of stuff self-actualizers and new age messiahs exploit and make their fortunes on, as they tell us in three easy lessons or so to stop pussyfooting around, get in touch, and live our lives 'cause the clock is ticking. Shakespeare philosophizes, analyzes and poetically memorializes these important universal truths for the ages.

I'm watching a sparrow go for a miniscule morsel of croissant on the pavement as I have my coffee outside. Why imbue so much significance to such a little, winged creature and its essential role in the unfolding of the melancholy Hamlet's fate, and ours?

Simply put, everything counts. Every action and reaction mirrors and plays a part in our journeys, no matter how insignificant. The final destiny being mortality, it's best to act now on whatever fate has in store for you, and play the hand you've been dealt to the fullest. You play it, all the while knowing we all must walk through the state of being while living in the shadow with our knowledge of our mortality, those nice, comforting images of pretty still waters and green pastures notwithstanding. Existence is temporary, unpredictable. Therefore, embrace your life, and your fate!

The sparrow of course knows nothing of any of this as it hops about my chair while I sit in a cafe dispensing tiny dots of croissants almost as small as atoms to this little mendicant,  who hopefully if fretfully is checking out the territory. If the bird could sip your decaf cappuccino in some manner, it would gladly do that too. It's survival by tiny offerings of breakfast muffins.

The cafe is typical, an iconic mix of New Yorkers clustered around a few small tables on the sidewalk, trying to forget about the pandemic and the world and the weather and all our losses, young, old, intense, relaxed, hopeful, alert, calm, neurotic, sad, whole generations of A to Zee-ers, lone breakfasters, many glued to laptops and phones. It's also the land of opportunity for a tree full of sparrows shading the small tables, a magical place wherein the streets are paved with gold crumbs from every imaginable, pastry worth chirping about. 

I think about the life of a sparrow and how shaky its time here really is, how it can change on a dime. For this miniature though cuter member of a former flock of dinosaurs, even the gift of flying is not enough to create a secure existence, free of anxiety. I mean, they're just so small and vulnerable, anyone can see that! Much like us in the great big universe of existence both visible and invisible, known and unknown, tentatively trying to make sure we don't collide with something much bigger and unhappier. The world and nature are indeed complex phenomena, full of disasters and miracles, and mysteries.

Claudius questioned if there was a method to Hamlet's madness, we question if there is one to our own, chaotic lives and moments of intense challenge in the face of our losses. If Einstein really was onto something in his final thoughts about intelligent design, I'm still not exactly sure how sparrows fit into the plan; however as I sit here tapping out my  thoughts, the fliers just keep landing, cautiously, hopefully, exploring further in the quest. Everything in nature as we understand it through our limited senses is connected through a silver thread of simply being, continuing to be, having consciousness, whatever that may mean. More Mystery.

So put it all into your thinking caps, you questioning Hamlets and Ophelias of the ever evolving human condition, because the other characters in the play often do not appear to be addressing the question, of meaning that is. And much like that ill-fated, thinking, betrayed, couple in five acts, the universal grief at our own condition often may be enough to drive one mad. We "play" at being temporary, wandering guests at the inn of the world, while outside our cozy nests a storm threatens to rage and occasionally makes good on that promise. But still we are told to keep on traveling.

At least for sparrows, pastry keeps them safely in the moment, for a split second.

Routed, Part Two

(Some Days afterward. . . .)

I'd been planning to replace the modem for years. When the internet went down once again, and I learned much to my chagrin that no, there was no worldwide or even neighborhood outage for someone else to take care of, and that this calamity basically had to do solely with my own service, it was clear the time had come to update the technology.

The thing was ancient, an original, I could not tell how old it really was but it had outlived several desktops. And unlike the young 'uns, I did not own seventy-two "devices" so was prompted to act fast. The cable place was not that far away,and hopefully this would turn out to be just a small inconvenience. 

So after just having stumbled in the door after hours of chores, with no thoughts whatsoever of ever leaving the house again, at least until the next day, suddenly it was time to jump back into the car. Like all fantasists, I actually saw this event as having an upside and spoke about it to my husband with real enthusiasm.

Isn’t it great? The Optimum location is so convenient! It’s less than fifteen minutes up the road- we’re so lucky.

We'd fallen victim to misplaced, unbridled optimum-ism. So after unloading the packages, making a quick bathroom stop and skipping the tea, we ran back downstairs and headed north again. Miraculously, the store was not crowded. New modem in hand, we sped back home.

OK, annoying for sure, but these things do happen, it will get solved. . . 

It did not get solved. Although the modem was relatively “easy” to replace once you figured out the horrible rubic’s cube tangle of twisted, dusty wires as you crouched uncomfortably on the floor near the back of the computer, there still was no internet. By now we were fully exhausted, soon to feel downright idiotic due to a growing suspicion about our own, incredible stupidity regarding the initial "diagnosis."

It’s not the modem!! Of course It’s not the modem!! Ugh!!! We are soooo stupid!!! It had to be the ROUTER all along. . . .  So, so stupid. It’s not the cable company, or Big Tech,  or magical implements of invisible communication made to self destruct, or outsourcing, or the tactics of unbridled greed designed to confound you into spending more time and money. It’s our own stupidity. . . .

Mercifully the sun still had not set, but the rush hour was bearing down and we were starting to feel slightly crushed by these events. Nonetheless, we jumped back into the car, made our way back up the parkway through now crawling traffic, and stumbled back into the house with a new router.

Great!

Not great, not even good.  As it turned out, this was just the beginning of a new circle of hell. . . .  

A frustrating hour or so later after a long and totally unsatisfying “conversation” with a disembodied cable company voice from possibly halfway round the world (as in, “can you repeat that?” or "say that again" and “I can’t quite hear you” and "we have a bad connection" or ‘what plug?" so "plug goes where???” or “do you have a supervisor” repeated maybe a dozen times to an unintelligible “associate”), we still had not solved the problem and had begun to resort to babbling. Complete, rational sentences now became a thing of the past. How quickly things fall apart!

As evening closed in, having skipped dinner and been totally routed from any glimmer of relaxation or peace, in the end we decided we did not need wireless in the house anyway. Why bother? We spent far too much time in front of screens as it was. What was the point of watching TV, cutting your toenails, making grocery lists and surfing the net on your phone while talking on your landline- and all at the same time- simply to feed a tech addiction. . . . From now on, we only would connect directly, either through the cable via desktop or very sparingly by carefully using phone data, and then only when absolutely necessary. . . .

So when we arrived back at the store three days later, totally defeated, fed up, somewhat disheveled, and extremely pessimistic, there was an incident going on. A customer was screaming at an “associate” at the top of her lungs. She too was disheveled and exuded a kind of hopelessness. We felt her pain. In truth, her crazy actions mirrored our every impulse. If they had threatened to lock us in a cage together with our most horrible fears incarnate at that point, it might not have been worse; while waiting, once again we paid silent homage to Orwell.

A guy at the counter listened wearily to the saga of useless pilgrimages and tearing-out-of-hair “conversations” that no doubt he had heard so many times before, then asked a question:

Did the person you spoke with tell you to turn on the router before installing?

Turn on? 

Person? Phone? Router? Switch? Person? Router? Switch? Turn on?

We were stunned, but not totally surprised. He handed us a shiny new router in a spiffy plastic bag from right off the shelf, with instructions on where the on/off switch was located, and bid us farewell.

Now of course it all seems like a bad dream, but these types of nightmares tend to be recurring, and the PTSD does linger . . . , 

Yes, this can and most likely will happen again, but remember, you are not alone. Just like the pandemic, we are kind of all in it together.

Routed!

 

Routed! A Several Day Tech Nightmare Encompassing Calls and Trips

Day One-

I’ve been routed. Upended. Totally ejected from my comfort zone.

The cozy if predictable blanket of a daily routine safely cosseted in virtual reality, one in which you turn on your computer and just connect up, was gone. The familiar, colorful google logo that usually appears, so evocative of an imagined and mythical childhood that assures you all is well with the world, no matter the truth, failed to pop up; the prospect of aimlessly surfing the net, no matter how pointless or irrelevant the websites, no longer an option.

 Ugh! Routed

 No one ever wants to wake up, press the button and find that horrifyingly simple yet heartless message in uninspiring black and white, flatly informing all ye who enter here, to this particular, oncoming, technological hell, that despair truly does await because you no longer are part of Cyberland, and therefore have no internet. Also in the offing are disbelief, denial (there must be a worldwide power outage, this could not be simply my computer!), frustration, annoyance, wasted hours, endless, truly irritating phone calls to reps on the other side of the globe, or worse, trips to stores, because you are disconnected.

 And when this unsettling, hugely unfair upending happens, quite often it’s the very router itself that’s the culprit. This previously dependable dispenser of hypnotic, virtual wave lengths, an item you purchased a quarter of a century ago, that took hours of fiddling and a technician to set up, had seemed immortal. Oh, the betrayal. How can I now use my phone while watching TV, reading and washing dishes at the same time without using up all The Cheap Plan data???

 Admittedly the little contraption now is ancient technology and barely slips through walls, but for some inexplicable reason mainly having to do with really bad memories of the initial installation long, long ago, its quiet, ineffective little presence still managed to falsely convey that all was as it should be in the universe.

 Until it wasn’t . . .

 (To be cont’d. . . .)

Innoculated

February First, Twenty Twenty One was scheduled to be the Big Day.

 After weeks of increasingly half hearted attempts to locate a rare Covid vaccine during a “rollout” that wasn’t, I tried to remain philosophical, took precautions, but vowed not to be hyper vigilant, crazy, overly fearful, abrasive to others because of some perceived danger. Then, one morning as I listlessly played with some sign up websites, expecting absolutely nothing in return, a “slot” suddenly appeared.

 This unexpected gift of medical fairy dust did not entirely erase the cynicism of knowing that people were jumping the line, pushing those who actually “qualified” to the back if not trampling them altogether; yet it did imbue a teensy bit of optimism. Then I learned it was set for the day that would bring our first huge blizzard of the season- so much for the “luck” of finding a way to get the potion into my arm. . . .

 In the darkest hour of the night before, as I fitfully tried to sleep amid the scraping and grinding of an army of monster plows outside the window, I was determined to see it through. At 7:30 a.m. I got in touch with a member of a self described “skeleton crew” at the vaccination site, and she urged me to come on down.

 I was off to see the wizard! Snow was accumulating fast under a freezing, gray sky, but a rash act of cancellation could mean waiting months. So I skipped the shower, pulled on the Uggs, grabbed the snow shovel, and found my car in the process of being quietly buried. The winds were fierce and icy and those ear splitting, grinding noises notwithstanding, most of the main roads still were not visibly plowed. The vax center was not local but on the other side of town, thirty minutes away on a good day. A radio voice euphemistically described the situation as “a scene from Currier and Ives.” Actually driving it was more like a death-defying dance on slippery surfaces caked with ice and snow at 15 mph.

In essence, I was willing to risk my life on treacherous roadways after a year of doing basically nothing but getting food into the house, incessant mask buying, compulsive hand washing, lots of intermittent worrying, a series of ill conceived baking episodes, and watching people begin to behave strangely.

 The GPS crapped out and refused to continue “talking” right before I arrived; a huge, snaking medical compound winding around several snow-blinded streets proved too complicated for its tiny computer- but eventually I found myself in one of the weirder though now familiar sci fi settings of modern medicine, a bit like a cheap Star Trek set.

The towering buildings all looked alike, but were mainly empty due to the storm. After locating the address, I was directed to the second floor by a lone front desk guy who did not bother looking up from his phone. When I got off the elevator there were no signs or numbers, but an exceptionally long cat walk overlooking a parallel, equally deserted lower level; there was lots of glass on both sides, an empty fitness room with dozens of workout machines, a dizzying row of deserted offices behind more glass partitions, and a seemingly endless walk to forever with no idea of where I was headed. It also appeared I was the only person there.

Had I actually died from the virus and now was in some sort of high tech limbo on my way to eternity?? Oh for the homey ministrations of Dr. Koulak! The kindly neighborhood physician of my youth who lived across the street and had shocks of wild, white hair, reassuring eyes, a caring, comforting voice and that little black bag full of medical goodies and other mysteries.

 Koulak would tap your knee to test the reflexes and make you jump with a start and a giggle, or kindly jab you in the tushy with antibiotics, as the situation required. He called my seasonal asthma “rose fever.” But it all transpired in a one on one, a continuum of concerned interaction to help you through the smaller and larger medical plagues of childhood. I’d had my share, from whooping cough to scarlet fever, chicken pox, measles, rubella and really bad ear infections. There was no internet, no mass media, polio was rampant and as it turned out I was allergic to penicillin. But for some reason, this cold walk through a sterile corridor to nowhere, in the confines of a large, newish, boxy, impersonal, shiny and multi-use building that seemed made of cardboard left me feeling as if I were stepping off the Earth's cliff into an alien galaxy.    

 At the end of the lonely trek I found a repurposed office that had been converted into a vaccination center; everything was spiffily clean, the staff was professional, impersonal, and a little harried. It was not crowded and I got my shot.

 Now I have an appointment to return for the coveted second dose, an occasion that should warrant cartwheels at the prospect of all that protective, germ killing serum beating back those vile, nasty little coronas.

 And yet the whole process, from beginning to end, was revelatory and mostly not in a happy way. From the first inkling of mass casualties to friends and family revealing their own phobias, fears, extreme self protectiveness and distancing maneuvers, and neighbors or strangers blithely stepping over others to obtain the vaccine, or shoppers hording all sorts of basic goods, to the vendors who gouged on medical and food supplies, the suburbanites who vowed they “would not leave the driveway” and of course the horrible realization that no one was home or in charge at the government, there often was that disquieting feeling that it really was every (woe)man for him/herself. . . .

 This dim reminder of human weakness is enough to seriously deplete your sense of humor- before remembering that is, that this is all we really have to get us through.

 Seen any good sitcoms lately?

 

Storyweaver's Farewell to 2020

 Storyweaver Says Goodbye to 2020 

 In the beginning, we cowered before every other human being, masked or unmasked, reticent, scared, leaving plenty of space in between. Virus Armageddon Part One, The Reckoning. Fear of catching the plague, and the very, very worst year in a long time.

 Then came the sanitizing of boxes of Cheerios, being afraid to leave the house, go shopping, take a walk, get your teeth cleaned, even smile at someone from a distance. It was simply never to see your family or even to touch your own face again for fear of contagion, and maybe scarcely to breathe.

 Eventually we became enveloped in the Curse of the Masks; all you thought you saved on going to work, the movies, a restaurant, outings with friends or family, a life, quickly was spent on a bevy of sanitizing wipes and cheap, annoying one-time-use, paper thin coverings being manufactured in what seemed like the billions. The thin ear loops would snap even before you left the house, your only other choice those flimsy cloth things you had to continually wash. By hand. . . .

 Continual hand washing of course precipitated hands dried and chapped by all the frequent hand washing. And if the hand washing didn’t finish off the hands, the profuse hand sanitizing completed the job nicely.

Eventually, when the weather warmed, a new activity arose: consuming meals on the sidewalk, under a plastic tent as people hurried by and/or stared or passing dogs did their thing- the only alternative eating "out" in your car. Lunch, breakfast, even dinner on the pavement or while driving, especially during those months when it stayed lighter longer, became a Thing. These days you barely can stuff that yogurt or slice down your gullet before the sun starts to set. It’s cold outside, the days are shorter, car “dining” more haphazard, we’ve had our first hefty snowfall. 

So we prepared.

My glove compartment now looks like a small pantry of paper goods, plastic utensils, and tiny bathroom cups for sipping. The dash is my new table. The back seat holds packages of trail mix, the floor cradles bottles of water, both plain and sparkling. The trunk is packed floor to ceiling with extra grocery bags and backup toilet paper. There's a small paper towel section.

 While on foot I see others eating in their cars too, through their windshields, sometimes while I'm waiting to cross the street. They eat parked and drink moving- the latter usually through those sippy cups with black lids for grownups. Most people do not look particularly comfortable with this arrangement, though occasionally you will find a solo driver cozying up to a  tepid frappuccino and/or bopping silently to some beat on the radio, like a car mime.

 I’ve tried to make up for this sorry state of things by consuming as many jelly donuts as I can to get in the mood of the season, mainly the new type with the vanilla cream in the center. How could we ever have forgotten how good these are? Don’t get me wrong, the traditional ones with the actual jelly filling are still great too, but the new variants (yes, there are chocolate filled)  are something to behold.

One late afternoon of a Sunday during the crisply cold Christmas weekend, just as the winter sun was starting to ponder its inevitable descent, I decided we needed to treat ourselves. With the dial on WQXR and the soothing strings of a classical and tranquil melody filling the car, I gave in rather easily to what's now become a totally guilt free pleasure. Slowly, languorously we each consumed a whole milk decaf latte (better froth, for sure!) and two small though quite exquisite chocolate rugelach. This, bien sur, was a high tea-  we were transported. And if  it all means becoming a pastry sociopath, then so be it. We do what we must to survive. 

 But I’m fine. Really.

Just another New Year’s of eating out, really.

Au revoir, 2020. . . .