Monday, May 25, 2015
It’s difficult these days for me to feel comfortable writing anything that’s not part of a welter of comments and posts; to write something that’s not tied by however slender a thread to some fuzzily defined consensus of my friends on Facebook. Well, that’s not exactly true—I do write contradictory or curmudgeonly posts, but only when I know I might have secret support. I might, for instance, gently mock some absurd “New Age” idea, especially if it’s just a “meme,” and not actually composed by a Facebook friend to express her deep convictions.
Facebook aside, there’s this huge VOID. Yes, the void. The abyss. But it’s a very foggy one. For all I know, the drop could be about five feet into some mud. Or, it could be infinite and cold and full of meaningless stars. There’s not much within me these days to get me motivated; and I can tell that what is there is merely intellectual—a few thoughts to keep me clinging to future possibilities of interest. But there is no real emotional need, yearning, repulsion, or discernment between one or another activity, or even between one or another person. Well, that’s not exactly true—I do have my preferences. Even when I’m just “hanging out,” I rarely do it with more than one person, or for more than two consecutive hours. That I can be with my husband for days is a given; it’s a condition, not a challenge. Yes, I take him for granted, and I am grateful to be able to do that. I do try to occasionally show him I care.
With retirement envisioned to happen in less than a year now, I’m no longer invested feelingly in work. I have neither the bursts of compassion nor muffled fits of fury that I used to have. I just want to get through the day. This is not really “me” anymore.
And my body is slow and achy; it’s no longer eager. It wants to lie down all the time. It wants to eat, drink, and be slothful. My mind wants to avoid stress or focusing.
I have a hazy sense of “unfairness” regarding my mother being gone, just when she was beginning to mellow, and to offer loving that wasn’t conditional (nevertheless with religious admonitions attached). It took long enough! I supposed I’d become a little more receptive, too. One of the last things she said to me was, “You guys were an interesting bunch.” Faint, but welcome praise, at long last.
I have a lot I can do. I can watch pretty-good new series on the computer. I can take up Scene Study classes again, and am trying to do so without paying by just being involved in the one scene from “I Love You, I Love You Not” with 14-year-old Sue. I can think about my collaged-artifacts art project that I hope to do for next spring. I can consider starting that book about my mother that I so wanted to write immediately after her death. But these days I don’t have any strong feeling of wanting to do anything. And that makes me worry. I hope it will come back—some kind of wanting—however ludicrous or inappropriate it might be. Better some crazy, rickety bridges across the abyss than just standing on its edge, staring and wondering, and ultimately being utterly bored by the fog with which it’s apparently filled.
Posted by Marylyn