My life in a nutshell

A 2
Dimensional
representation
of 3 dimensions;

Got to hang with Pops in Dekalb over the x-mas holiday, thanks to his purchase of a last minute airline ticket for yours truly.

And yes, I’ve become another of the working class poor, robbing Peter to pay Paul, but that’s a story for another time. Meanwhile…

As per usual, we sat around “Chateau Le Buzzy,” smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee - or later, beer - and staring out the window at the park.

Ah, the park; Dad’s lived across from it for so long – in so many different locales – it has become a truly intricate part of the myth of Buzz.

In my mind’s eye, he will eternally be ensconced in his leather loveseat, plaid robe awry, perched and peering out over a cup of coffee, through a haze of cigarette smoke, and into… the Park.

Holga 135

I don't know why, exactly, but I keep hearing the words from that old commercial roll around in my head:

This is your brain.

This is your brain on crack.*

Which has something to do with my purchase of a Holga, and the first few photos taken with it.

Enhancement? Invigoration? None of these words are quite right, but I feel as if I've regained a certain hunger - a desire to savor/taste/devour things with my eyes.

Yay!

Seriously, dudes.

*A catchy enough slogan, I guess, to have embedded a little seedling in my brain, now come to fruition. Both frightening and fascinating.

Being from TV Land, (and therefore lurking in the murky depths of the american collective psyche) I could see this little nugget lifted and re-inserted into a song - a little hook, or recurring rap phrase.

And while Rap is sometimes frowned upon for borrowing or "sampling" pre-existing musical phrases, it occurs to me the Impressionists did the same thing.

Gifted

She said it was due to my lack of intelligence.

That's why I'd never met her parents.

And while I'd suspected as much, it was both comforting and... stinging to hear the truth.

Oh, and she didn't respect me.

(pause)

The old me might've recoiled - recoiled and crawled away into the deepest darkest hole to lick my wounds.

Or maybe lashed out in an ape-like display - torn apart the room in a desperate, face-saving attempt to deny my shame.

The new me? Well...

M is a genius - a fact I can't deny - and I could never parallel many of her abilities.

And there was a time I delighted in those abilities like a child, seeing fireflies for the first time, their lights rising over a darkening field.

As a Naturopath, she is unsurpassed, and the result is that I am a happier, healthier person - for which I owe her a great deal.

Most of all, however, I owe her for her words.
Those final words.
And the truth.

***

Soon after her pronouncement, M asked me - quite sincerely - why I am such an angry person.

Humor seems the appropriate response.

"No reason. Why do you ask?" I wish I'd said, which brings a chuckle to my lips even now.

But I would be lying if I said there was no anger.

There is, to be sure, but rather than the mindless sort, it feels like a fortification, a reinforcement of myself.

It feels like... determination.

Maybe even self-determination.

What happens next - I have no idea.

But for now, I am truly grateful.

*Oh, and while I'm no Einstein, I was tested for language ability in 5th grade and found to be... advanced. The word genius was tossed around, but who knows. I mentioned this to M who said:

"Genius! What is that? 140 something?" as she flapped her hands. "I'm in the 200's!"