Cafe Hitch-hike

2021-10-13

I dunno, stay tuned, right?

I'm listening to one of my mom's favorites, a song from Carole King's 'Tapestry' from the early 70s. I've been listening to that stuff and what I remember as a little one. Life sure seemed more simple. First, it was because I was a child and then because it was pre-Reagan and life really was for most people.

When I listen to that music, I think about the happier times with my mom and her family. Times at our house, in the kitchen, in the yards... Visiting Grandpa Rey and listening to my expressive Grandma Lina and smelling her Tabu perfume... I'm glad at least that I can remember these from when I was younger, and that my youth wasn't completely filled with the other types of debris I spill on these pages.

My Aunt Tish was only 19 when she decided to stay in the river valley; she got serious with my paternal Uncle J.R. and though her little town in Colorado had little opportunity. She had a good job with a local government agency, owned a van and had her own apartment in 1975. When I left home in 1992, I had a beatup Chevy and packed all my worldly possessions to retreat to a rented room near downtown. I'll never forget that when she visited, she walked me up to my room to check it out. She hugged me and shook my hand, giving me a $50 bill in the handshake. I was going to college and working. I figured I had to or else my chances at a decent life were pretty slim for what I had. I graduated from the town's de facto ghetto high school and had an address down the street from one of its housing projects; at least I upgraded the status of my address when I moved. Yep, it was more simple time when Tish started.

I remember crying on these pages about all the people I lost in my family and other social trees before the pandemic took place. I mourned about changes in my midlife, life direction and bla, bla, blah. I would had never guessed soon after I'd share a much larger collective grief about the disruptive change around us. Hah.

My moods have been up and down, but I don't think I became bi-polar. I still sleep and get tired, thank you very much. I've actually consumed far less alcohol and the botannical than usual because I felt that badly. Some other disappointments bubbled up (finally) and it was shit I've been ignoring. One was a rejected publication about one of my projects, which was the most difficult I ever pursued. I delayed my write-up because I was fried after the project was finished and then because of other distractions. It was an exhausting solo act. I was very, very, very pissed at the reviewer's initial reception, considering amount of effort that went into it. I finally said I really just better decide if I want to do the damn project again, forget about it, or submit it to other places. I'll do the latter first.

Work: I can't even. It's not because of the grief I'd normally get from my immediate colleagues. One of my favorite Grand Pubahs made it clear they're making tracks; many are crying because this GP is really good, yet we understand they rightfully want to leave. Other GPs have bailed, and we are very aware for the reasons. My building GP bailed in February, but they were exceptionally bad and we are mostly better without them at least (they did, however, leave a very big mess that the next sucker building GP will have to solve). I'd also bail, but I don't really have any places to go. Oh, yeah, and I actually like it here for multiple reasons.

I still miss Huck and I had an interesting talk with Timmy about all of that. I said some things I hadn't said to anyone. I told Timmy that I didn't need more talks with Huck for further proof of how screwed up and yet dazzling things were. I don't think there's anything more I'd need to hear from Huck to feel closure; God knows his words can't be trusted anyhow. Timmy didn't think I was crazy at all and he didn't say 'just get over it already.' I feel like Huck's presence left behind a tumor that needs shrinking before it can be safely removed.

There hasn't been contact. I told myself (and Timmy) that rekindling anything would be a losing game where I would get even deeper in hurt. I concluded to T, "you know me and you know crap has to work itself out of my head. I can't let go of certain things to save my life until it decides it's ready."

Still, sometimes I cry at the drop of a hat for what seems to be no reason, but it's part of a dynamic I'm aware of and yet blind to at the same time. When something distresses me, I automatically push it away until it resurfaces and whips me. I cried for what felt like an hour everyday these past 4 days, and today was the first day I didn't, and felt closer to normal than I've felt in-- quite a while.

The head of my meditation/ energy group says we're in the thick of a global change. A part of me shrugs and recalls historical events of plagues, crop failures, wars, or natural disasters. This is one of those times, except I think people make it worse. I then think of how various scientists talked about the concept of critical mass, mass extinctions, and other doomsday scenarios. They were pretty wrong on some of them but kind of right on others. It's hard to say what really is. I would definitely agree that humans have battered our home, the earth and its many biospheres, in terrible and appalling ways. We should be ashamed.

The origin of 'apocalypse' comes from a Greek word meaning a disclosure of great knowledge or its revelation. I don't think it means a literal end of a world as many faiths seems to peg onto it. I'm not sure if people really are learning much because people seem a lot more confused. Then again, once some things are known and clear, they can't be unknown, unseen or unheard after a certain point. So maybe worlds (as we know and understand them anyhow) do end because our understanding and perception completely changes with some knowledge, but perhaps not in some physically destructive way; that would be something we do ourselves to ourselves. I dunno, stay tuned, right?

Update: a laugh from my deep gut came from this phrase from another diary:

"English majors have a tradition of surviving apocalypses."

Many don't know this, but I actually have one and that is why I'm laughing. The kindly Prof. Hakkinen of the university's English department lamented that authors and other professional writers don't carry on so well in regular life because they are usually consumed by drink and despair. But surviving the Big A's? Yeah, I guess their keen powers of observation and wordsmithing carry them through so they can chronicle it.

Mayans did have scribes who kept notes on everything. I bet they survived their society's end (or migration or transition) and made it to the next leg to do more teaching and chronicling (and perhaps going back to being drunk and depressed when society normalized). Maybe?

downwind | upstream