I know, all of the pictures I take myself and post on this blog are cr-a-a-a-ppy, and that’s because for one, I don’t know anything about taking pictures except “point and shoot,” and two, I have a bad camera. When I turn it on, it whirrs and makes this strange kind of clicking noise, and the lens cover doesn’t always open, which leaves me scratching my head for a full two minutes over why the screen in the back is dark. It’s a double discard, meaning it was Van’s fiancee Julia’s camera first, after which she gave it to him, after which he gave it to me. One of these days when I’m a big girl I’ll buy my own camera, though maybe I should get a cell phone first. And an iPod. I have some serious catching up to do before I’m worthy of the 21st century. I’m just trying to hold off buying this stuff until the meteor hits or the Mayans were right and it won’t matter anymore.
Isn’t it funny how you can write a bunch of stuff and sound really happy when you’re actually very blue? ha ha! I find that freaking hilarious!
One of the things that gets me down, or perpetuates my downness, is when my sleep goes off. Right now, it’s really off, and I’ve been taking two and three hour naps during the day at odd and inconvenient hours, like around dinnertime or when people are talking to me. I finally found a book that interests me more than one iota, however, so that’s kept me awake a bit. It’s not interesting enough to tell you about, though. I’ll finish that puppy tonight and look for another one. I have four horror anthologies on hold at the library and will pick those up tomorrow, but along with those I want to read some other kind of fiction as well, and definitely some woman memoirs. I ADORE woman memoirs, my lord. Some of my favorites are those by May Sarton… Joan Anderson… Alix Kates Shulman…Karen Armstrong… and Doris Grumbach. I love Madeleine L’Engele, too. Lucy Irving and Ann Lamott. These authors have had significant impact on my thoughts and ever-mutating belief system and I’ll be forever grateful to them.
The other night I watched a cheesy inspirational movie called Midnight Clear. It was a Christmas tearjerker written by Jerry Jenkins, and I didn’t expect much from it and didn’t really want much, just enough to scratch my sudden itch for schmaltz. I was surprised, however, to discover some realistic and sharp dialogue (a tremendous plus for me, and a deal-breaker), but the only story that I related to out of the four that were featured was the one about the old lady who was systematically preparing to commit suicide on Christmas Eve. She represented my absolute worst nightmare: that when I’m old, I’ll be utterly alone. I liked her; she was pretty and spunky and interesting, but she was scared and felt that there was no one to care about her. Her husband had died years ago and her children didn’t get along and never came around. She was beginning to lose track of things, and felt helpless. And oh, I watched with mounting despair, yet deep understanding, as she went about organizing her papers, and cleaning her house, and preparing the poisoned tea she was going to drink at the end of the evening. The movie was set up so that the four stories intersected at different times, and it turned out that one of the men in another story was her son, and he showed up at the house right before she took a drink. It was at that point that I started bawling. She and her son needed each other, and it made me keenly aware of how important our loved ones are to us, whether they’re blood or chosen. Anyway, the really wonderful part came that night, long after the movie was over. Jesse and Torie were sitting in the living room with me and I told them about how the movie had affected me, and that it touched my greatest fear, and Jess said, “Good grief! Why don’t you have a ‘greatest’ fear that’s realistic?? You’ll never have to worry about that!” And Torie reiterated the same thing, and I don’t know, I was so grateful that I have at least two people (and I suspect Van feels the same, so that’s three) who, insofar as they can help it, will not let me die old and alone. I’m tearing up as I type that. See? — it’s a real fear. Aren’t fears weird? I mean, how they come about? But that’s fodder for another post and this one’s long enough. Love! xo