Change Of Pace

There are a lot of things I've been meaning to tell you. But, somehow the moment passed, or the validity of that set of experiences flitted away, which is a little sad. I've always been sentimental about flitted moments. But before I go on about all this hoo-ha, I wanted to tell you how I tried to fix my alarm clock the other day. It's a little clock that is shaped like a snail, and my mother "lent" it to me years ago, but I never wanted to part with it. Anyway, it's long been ailing, even though I've changed its batteries three or more times. The clock doctors, and there were many, said they simply didn't have the parts to fix it. Something in it was off. How could that be? In all of Manhattan, not one person could fix my little snail? One after another exclaimed, it's working, it's working Miss, what's the trouble? To which I replied, a new battery was just put in, and it will work perfectly, but only for its first hour of renewed life, and then sadly, it would stop, which of course called to mind the silly but true aphorism, that even a broken clock was right two times a day. This whole clock scenario seemed like a mini story that represented my last two years in New York. Nothing fit, the parts were not there, my timing was off. And so instead of living life like a broken clock, I've decided to leave New York for a little while. What will I write about? Is this blog going the way of the snail? No. I'm just taking a little time off from my home-town. I'm going to Italy, where I can breathe for a little while. I can eat well, see well, and drink well. I got this opportunity practically put in my lap without me having to do that much for it. No struggle, just smooth sailing. I'm a little nervous, but somehow, there is a level of calm, that everything can work out there for the next few months. So I'm going with it. NY might hate me still, but Italy loves me. And so this is what I'll be writing about.

Fortune Kooky

People say that once they break a bone, any bone, when the weather is crummy, they feel rheumatism and an ache in the bone that has long been mended. I've always felt that that must be a royal pain, but also rather poetic. I don't know, maybe something about how a break in the original structure can always be felt and serves as a reminder. Fortunately for me, I've never broken anything thus far, other than a vase, or a dish or two. But my tongue is another story. It's nothing really icky, just that when I'm not feeling well, getting a cold, not getting a job etc., the right underside of my tongue starts to hurt. It's like the tongue knows. The tongue is kind of my soothsayer. Last night, my tongue told me to get some soup at the Chinese place next store. I don't like eating fake/Americanized Chinese, but who could argue with a tongue? So I got a small soup, and sat there sipping and sometimes slurping. No one else was frequenting the joint, except for a rowdy group that kept reading their fortunes out loud to one another. I felt kind of bad about sitting there, only ordering a soup, but I thought small business is better than no business. I got my check, along with two orange slices, and a fortune cookie wrapped in plastic. Geez, I could use a good fortune, a really good one. A bomb of a fortune. A good bomb, anyway. I opened it, and it read "You are heading for a land of sunshine." Well, I'll be darned! This is great. I haven't seen any sunshine lately, in the way of a job at least. What kind of sunshine will it be? A really good job offering, two great job offerings, three? What's in store? I felt happy. The steady ache in my tongue had subsided a little, like it too read and understood the cookie's message. I paid the bill, which sadly for the restaurant only amounted to three dollars, and while I was waiting for my change, I got to thinking about how crazy everything has been. How kooky! What was and is the rhyme or reason? And then I thought about the terrible fast-food Chinese place in Poughkeepsie, a hop, skip, and food-poisoning jump from my college Vassar. Friends of mine would order that terrible food late into the night, and somehow came out of it unscathed. The place was called "Fortune Kooky," which always made me laugh for a variety of reasons. I assumed that the owners were not trying to be ironic, but how could they not know, or how could no one ever tell them? It was a conspiracy of dunces and comediennes that wanted to keep the funny interpretation on the down-low. It's strange that so many years later, this funny name would pop up in my mind's eye, and how it summed up everything rather beautifully - fortune kooky. Things have been so kooky, but apparently, I'm on my way to some fortune, and sunshine.

Yelp!

It's easy to fall in love with things. It's easier still, to fall in love with people. It can be something small, inconsequential, a flick of the wrist, the way someone appreciates the air outside, or eats a plum. I have fallen in love with things and people at a considerable rate, not more than most, but not less. The "love" does not have to be remotely romantic, but it's more about, yes, what's it about? A sense of closeness, maybe proximity unmarred by a particular set of circumstances and time frame. Over my lifetime, and especially during the last two years, I have fallen in closeness with people that seemingly want to help me forward my plans, and see and take me for what I am, whatever that is. Perhaps it is an unromantic crush out of respect or admiration for the person, or for what the person does. I guess that my crushes are a little peppering of closeness and admiration. The lout that I mentioned an entry or two back is a prime example of one of my little "loves." She represented everything I wanted to be as a person, as a woman. She led by example, and consequently led me to confide in her about my last two years of turmoil. She also confessed that she went through similar trials when she was younger. I liked her so much, that I did form a professional "crush." Could I have kissed her? No Sapphic tendencies here. But. Maybe. On the cheek perhaps. Oh wait, I did, and she did me. And yet, and yet...There always seems to be a "yet." She disappointed, by not being the woman and colleague she said she was, and the woman and colleague I wanted her so much to be. Perhaps my expectations got ahead of me, but no, I can't turn them off. All humans have expectations; you'd be dead if you didn't have any. So, yelp! Yelp! Yelp! I'm crying out because I cannot understand the rhyme or reason for the things that people do. She is one in a series of yelps! She is one in a series of sharp and quick loves that abruptly fade to darkness. I have been provoked into becoming a professional yelper, but you see, I don't want to be. I just want to go about my business which is to be in business. Is that a lot to ask? But, I also have a crush on this here blog, because it affords me a way to open shop day after day, and tell you dear reader, what's happening here. I have a crush on you too, even though you're amorphous and out there. The relationship is rather one-sided, as you know all about me, and I not a thing about you. But, you care enough to read, and therefore, I have a little love in my heart.

Deep Sniffy, Damn Skippy!

Ever take a long, deep sniff like your life depended on it? It's the silent and under-appreciated wonder work of the nostrils. I don't mean drugs. I mean a soulful sniff. A sniff that signifies everything you want, and everything you lost. A sniff that takes in the surroundings, authenticates the experience, and detects triumph or trouble. Well, I have been a proponent of the deep sniffy my whole darn adult life, and never more than now, when I depend on the "S.S.S." - soul-searching sniff. Deep sniffy, damn skippy! You might inquire here, how many sniffs I take a day? Well, it really depends on how many "F.F.U's" or flake follow-ups I have to commit myself to. Today, with the heat and flakes, and all, a deep-sniffy was necessary, but not the full-on one, as I would probably fall over with an inspired, gestational snift. Oh, snuffle at the thought. I think I've turned part canine. No, no, detractors, not a bitch, but a human-being with a particular talent and sensitivity in the upper or middle region of my face. I use my nose and my nostrils to give or afford me strength, when there is seemingly none to spare. The refuse or rubbish of the crap and/of the creeps are circulating in that dead air just in front of me. Their unsparing presence nips at my heels, they're always there. And then...And then, I take leave of my own wacky personal therapy. It's nothing more than inhalation, but it clears the sullied slate. It wipes out the creeps, the cretans, the crap, and replaces all that with some sort of strange purity, space, and a willingness to continue; yes, until the sniff gets me some success. Sometimes, I admit that I'm sore with the sniff, as it hasn't yielded optimal results yet, but I have to say, that it's getting me through. And there's a long list of creeps that have done me the dirty in the last two years. But who's counting? I'm counting! Damn straight, damn skippy! I'm keeping it straight with my own personal ledger. And just in case, the nostrils, and the deep sniffy are there to back me up.