I’m a time traveler at heart. The first place I’d go visit is Paris, 1889.
La Dame de fer, or the Iron Lady as the Eiffel Tower was nicknamed, stands brand spanking new, serving as the entrance to the Exposition Universelle. I’d meander down the Champs de Mars, the Trocadero, and the Quai d’Orsay on the left bank of the Seine.
I’d be smacked with anti-P.C. culture shock strolling by the “Negro Village,” a major attraction with hundreds of indigenous people on display. I’d probably try to sneak photos of Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley in the
Wild West Show with my digital camera or catch a glimpse of French composer Claude Debussy at the first inspiring moment he heard gamelan music from Java.
But the first person I’d want to find is Vincent van Gogh. Now he’s someone I’d want to sit down with at a sidewalk café to share a snootful of grande woodworm Absinthe. If
la fee verte (the authentic green fairy, not the synthetic one), were to be released, I’d like to ask him what really happened with his ear. However, the answer might be disappointing and ruin the mystery.
I’d like to tell him not to kill himself, that he will go on to become one of the most beloved artists of all times. Then again, what would happen if he listened to me and history didn’t turn out that
way at all? He’d still be steeped in alcohol, turpentine and poverty, but angry with me.
I romanticize the past, caught up in the illusion that people were kinder, more genteel, but truthfully, it’s the costumes, the fashion of the day that thrill me. What I’d really want to do is go power shopping and get my hands on some authentic steam punk togs.
I understand that human drama is human drama, but if that’s true no matter where you go, then let’s talk setting. A divorce, an illness, or a difficult time paying bills is much more interesting in a French villa than, say, a trailer park.
Speaking of white trash rash, I had a weird day on Saturday. Groom asked what crevice in the earth opened up nearby and why all the escapee’s decided to come to Market? Anyone who knows me understands that I have a thing about hygiene. I tend to flush toilets with my toes, wash my hands before and after everything — well, you get the picture.
So it was with consternation (a sudden, alarming dread resulting in utter dismay), that I witnessed a hairy beast lumber into our booth and, while gawking at the jewelry, stick his claw (okay, hand)
inside his pantaloons and scratch the becooties out of his behind, only to sniff his fingers afterward. I almost wretched.
This class act was followed by a ferret-faced gentleman proffering strawberries in a helium, high-pitched voice. “For you,” he said staring, his eyes set close together like a cartoon. When Groom politely took two, I was thinking back to last week’s question where a man pulled two strawberries from his nose, and decided to take my own advice.
The gnome started licking both hands from the base of his palm to the tips of his fingers. While I was silently bargaining with God for him not to touch anything, Groom calmly said, “Just so sweet, you can’t help yourself,” which appealed greatly to the strange little man with the helium voice.
I seem to resist everything while Groom has an ability to go with the flow. I heard a racket outside this morning and the first words out of my mouth were, “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it.” Turns out I was right. As I sit down at the computer to drivel, one of my daymares is coming true. A large, glorious historical tree is being murdered next door.
Sure, one measly limb falls off during a violent storm and a rain gutter gets dented and the next thing you know, the chain saw massacre is unfolding. Men in hard hats and suspenders are milling around the property, testosterone and stupicles all atwitter, comparing whose tool is longer or has a bigger diameter.
A cacophony of dueling saws rattles the windows. Deafening, buzzing roars try to drown out the spirit of the wounded tree, but I can still hear it. I was just curled up on the bed in the fetal position, mourning the loss. And don’t even get me started on the willows….
I love trees. I adore them. Wandering through the forest, I feel as though I am in God’s cathedral. I read somewhere about one tree’s roots intertwining with a skeleton buried nearby, the mutual limbs entangled like lovers. That’s exactly how I’d like my remains to rest in peace.
My mother called the other day and told me batches of beautiful trees were being taken out near where they live. I was bereft. I had a tanty, I keened.
My mother called the other day with news that one of my classmates had died. “Really, when?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
I asked the next obvious question. “How’d she die?”
“Don’t know that either,” said Mother.
“Well, how did you hear about it?”
“Hmmm, someone, although I can’t think of who it was, told me.”
I called my girlfriend, who I’ve known since junior high and began the conversation with, “Do you remember Jane Doe?”I didn’t have a chance to say another word before she exclaimed, “Jane Doe? That wench? She was the most vile, heinous, nasty person to me at school, oh she was evil, a horrible human being, why?”
“Um, well, I just heard she died.” Apparently this was not bad news.
“Really? How, when?” She wanted to make sure I was not kidding.
“Mom told me, but I don’t know anything past that. She doesn’t even remember where she heard it.”
My mother called the other day and said, “I can’t help but notice you had more of a reaction to the news the trees were killed rather than your classmate.”
“Yes, but the trees didn’t do anything to me or my friends.”
Maybe it was time for this neighboring tree to go, I don’t know. But as energy reflects energy, perhaps the tree and I are already intertwined. I am experiencing a death of my own. I am being recalled. I have always wanted to know my purpose, to have a passion that I could throw myself into, but instead, I am split in many ways, carrying around a mass of conflicting energy. This resistance does more harm than good and I’m weary of it.
It should be no surprise to me then, that I often encounter heavy resistance in others. In my bumbling attempt to discover a purpose, I have been attracted to the study of energy, healing and miracles. I’ve witnessed several spontaneous healings up close and personal and these experiences have left me desiring more. Eagerly, I have tried to share information on pain-release, but I am consistently met with protective anger.
Recently, I met a man with a very large bump on his arm. Since we were already discussing health and healing, I made a casual comment that Groom’s similar bump on his elbow went away after some energy work.
The man immediately covered the protruding lump with his other hand, as if it were a precious thing, and said quite sternly, “This isn’t going away, it’s mine.” And that sums up the human story. This pain is
mine.
Oh, people will be quite patient with those that inflict it, calling them possessive nouns like my stalker, my persecutor, my
whatever, but heaven help the one who tries to lessen it. People react strongly to pain-snatchers.
While resisting the resistance, Groom offered me a different story for the soundtrack outside our house. “What if this were a hundred years ago, Sweetie, can you picture the yells and verbal assaults of the dock workers? Can you picture their unwashed bodies, the hoots and hollers as the ship comes in and the barrels roll out? We’d be so excited, looking forward to the merchant’s shelves being restocked with all kinds of interesting things.”
I think about that. I’d have all kinds of patience and allowances for the romantic setting of the past, but wince at every sharp sound and vagary troll in my daily environs. I bet Mister van Gogh was smelly, unkempt and off putting. Sure, I want to buy him a drink now because I know of his brilliance, but what if I had been a neighbor? Would I have rolled my eyes and recoiled when I saw him stumbling down the street or clenched my fists in frustration when he fought with Gauguin — again?
Resistance is futile. Pain connects us. It is not my job to disconnect. Bad puppy!
Au revoir, beautiful tree.
