Flotsam: November 2009 Archives

I never used to get depressed at holidays, but if this last year is anything to go by, that's changed. There was nothing really wrong about today - I went to a friend's dinner party. The food was good; someone I know and usually like made a not-terribly-nice joke at my expense, but other than that, there wasn't anything especially wrong.

And yet, I left feeling vaguely grumpy and wishing for...

Well, I think I was wishing for Boywich. And maybe this is why holidays make me sad. I don't know if it's specifically him I am missing, or if it's just that feeling of belonging to somebody. Our house was a magnet for something, even though moving in with him wasn't the best idea I ever had.

Years later, gone from there a long time and living a completely different lifestyle, I feel like I'm on a magic carpet in mid-air, only not fun like that sounds. I feel like I'm dangling when I ought to be grounded.

It's not very comfortable.

Maybe it was because most of the people there today were married. My one single female friend left early - perhaps because she wasn't necessarily having the greatest time, either, though she made a good show of it if that was the case.

I kept falling asleep sitting up. I think I just wanted to be elsewhere, and my body was prepared to take me there, even before I left.

When I got home it was immediately apparent that wherever elsewhere was, it wasn't my apartment. So I got on my bike and took off. I rode through cool air and deserted streets, and thought, this might be my one true love. It might not be a person at all. It might be this simple, two-wheeled, me-powered machine.

While I was riding I was relatively happy, except for that one moment when the stupid men standing in the middle of the bike lane responded to my friendly "heads up" with a nasty retort, and I wanted to turn around and shove them, bodily, with my fist, out of the bike lane and then give them a lecture about being courteous to people who are simply trying to make sure they don't back into oncoming traffic and get hurt.

Instead of doing that, I took a different route home so I wouldn't have to see them again.

I came home and swatched some sportweight, and discovered that there really isn't enough of it to make a whole sweater (and it's not anything I can get more of), so I read Barbara Walker's thoughts on sleeveless sweaters that can have set-in sleeves added later and came up against the usual invisible/provisional cast-on barrier, and closed the book and put down the yarn and wondered how I could possibly rejigger the properties of matter so I can turn 750 yards into 1150.

Kitwich has no ideas on the subject. But you know, she's here.

When someone started to make noises about going around the table having everyone recite what they're thankful for, instead of falling back on my prepared speech about my cat, I flat-out refused. I said, Oh no, I'm not going to play that game.

I don't know if that killed the idea, or if it was only ever a joking suggestion, but in the end I didn't have to lie. I don't like being prodded to emote, especially to emote some kind of greeting-card tripe. It's all well and good to be able to appreciate the little things in your life, but it should be spontaneous, and if you're having a bad day, or a bad year for that matter, people at dinner parties should just let you be the way you are, and not try and force you to be something else because it makes them more comfortable.

I had just had an interesting conversation with my mom about this very thing - interesting because she agreed with me, and I wouldn't have expected her to. I liked being able to talk with her like that, honestly, and to have her respond in kind. It felt real. And we laughed, because for both of us, Thanksgiving is just a harvest feast, and trying to slap an emoticon on it takes the fun out of it.

It's just about the food. And by the way, I don't like pumpkin pie.

Well, I am grumpy and exhausted and knitting something pretty. It's a present for a friend's sick mom. No occasion, other than a way to say, "I'm sorry you're so ill and I really like you and I wish I could make it go away but since I can't I am making you something very pretty and soft to wear in hopes it will cheer you up now and then in a small way."

I believe these sorts of gestures count. Both because I have to, and because I know that when I feel shitty a small kindness will often feel big. It will feel like the universe apologizing to me for things being so shitty.

Anyway.

I can hear Anthony Bourdain on the TV, and I am annoyed with him. His whole job is a frivolous, luxurious endeavor dedicated to showing off his rockstarness, and even though I don't usually feel that way about him, at the moment I am annoyed. I am annoyed by the fact that it's trivial, when there are big things to deal with, and the whole venture seems shallow to me.

I'm sorry, Tony. It's just a mood. I usually like you, and I usually think your intentions are good. I think you know your job is trivial, and you try to make up for your good fortune by showing off interesting cultures, etc. But tonight I just can't get it up for you or your silly little show. I am waiting for Sherlock Holmes to come on so I can look at that evil, ugly Moriarty.

There is deep loneliness at the heart of my life, and I usually just ignore it, and solider on, and often take a certain amount of pride in doing so.

Chalk it up to having watched a well-done version of Pride and Prejudice. Damn that Jane Austen. How dare she open up my heart like that? The bitch.

Riding over the bridge tonight on my way out to dinner, I looked across at the Empire State lit blue and white, at all the sparkling tinkertoy towers, and I thought, on the face of it, my life might be just a little bit glamorous.

The reality of it is no different than anyone else's daily drudgery, and I never usually think this way, but looking at the bare outlines, at the view I see as I cross the river, at the picture I must make weaving in and out of traffic, small person on an elegant bicycle with an angry, intent expression on her otherwise pretty face - well, if I were reading about me in a novel I might develop a little crush.

I never imagine what I look like from the outside, and maybe that's best, since I'd probably just focus on the imperfections, but that little glimpse of my life as a story fragment was interesting. It looked fetching, or intriguing, or something. Evocative.

Blue lights on the bridge. I'd like to record the sound of pedals and chain sometime, the sight of those bridge supports flashing by, the view as I turn my head north to look out over rippling water, that sudden glimpse of the Statue of Liberty in silhouette, almost blocked by a big digital clock on a billboard.

Not everybody sees this every day, I remembered. Look. There's a water taxi below you. A lot of them lately, running right underneath, white wakes billowing out behind.

After dinner I ate a very large soft-serve ice cream cone and laughed like a little kid - it was so tall.