Sunday, April 25, 2010

Dancing in the minefield; what could possibly go wrong?

Somewhere down the line, I began to take myself far too seriously.

Please, refrain from portraying some kind of cartoon shock, with the eyes bulging out, while flags shoot out of your ears, while a rousing Sousa march starts playing at 78rpm.

And please forgive the reference to 78rpm. I keep forgetting that a lot of people who read this never dealt with the 78's, which was pretty much the greatest part of my Father's music collection. You ain't heard nothin' 'til you've heard The Firehouse Five play Two O'clock Jump.

But I digress.

It's not a new idea that I take myself too seriously; the phrase has been uttered on many occasions in my presence, dating back to...well...before I could drive. But that seriousness of character was tempered, somewhat, by the fact that I was aware that tragedies need to become comedies in a hurry, or there's nothing to stop up from throwing ourselves onto the pyre.

Lately, though.....there is a conspiracy against my happiness.

Its beginning is a little insidious; when you work in a place where a small mistake and a large mistake are treated with equal weight, i.e., your ass is handed to you after being turned into something resembling cole slaw, you tend to take every....little....thing seriously. You have to, in order to survive. But, as you all well know, if you live under fire for long enough, you tend not to trust the cease-fire. Quiet makes you nervous. No news, as they say....is not necessarily good news. In fact, after a while you begin to think that no news means that you are about to be demoted, or just let go.

I live in a world where you can't be wrong.

And that, in itself, is wrong.

I've said this before, and it bears repeating: In order to combat a creative enemy, you need to be creative. You need to be able to see things in a larger picture. And this is where we fall down, and I blame the military minds that not only populate the upper echelons of the organization, but the lower levels of "command staff" as well.

I wish I could tell you. But I can only say this: Random is good; random is unpredictable. But to plan to be random defeats the purpose.

But, if you've been following along this year, you know that the first five months have been a little hard. I recently sat in a vet's office, unable to control myself because of lack of sleep and a preponderance of grief, just repeating over and over how tired I am of grief. And it comes at the strangest times....I'll find an old recipe in my Mother's handwriting. I'll find an old cat toy under the couch. I'll get up and start the process of feeding, before I realize I don't have to do that quite the same way anymore.

Add to the mix my Father's recent surgery to put in a pacemaker to his poor unmended heart, because shortly after we left him in Florida, his heart began to stop for ten to twelve seconds at a time...which nobody, including him, seemed to notice......and the fact that I wasn't there, AGAIN.

It's a wonder I want to get out of bed on any given morning.

Oh. Wait. I DON'T.

But, as they say in the theatre, the true sign of a professional is somebody who does his job, even when he doesn't want to.....well, off I go. Thus it has been, thus it shall ever be, until my heart stops. Apparently.

Off I go.

A fine day to you.

2 comments:

Kizz said...

I am so sick of funerals and yet, like the music, they show no signs of slowing.

Gertrude said...

So much on your plate Clemo.
I wish you joy.
Everyday.