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"Boredom is your imagination calling to you."
~Sherry Turkle I had a conversation recently, that turned into a discussion, that turned into a debate, that turned into an argument... and it was all about 'what IS boredom?' Ah, if only I had that quote at my disposal then... it would have left a truth bomb on the conversation (that turned into discussion that turned into debate that turned into argument).
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Sometimes words come out in my first language. My primal language. The language where I hide, which is also the language which I expose - Hebrew: אם יכולתי לומר
את כל מילות האהבה שבעל פי שבספרי שירה שבתורה בלי בהלה הייתי חונקת אותך כמו נחש מלטפת אותך כמו אם מנקה אותך כמו קופה מיואשת רק אם יכולתי לצאת מהבידוד שבתוך תוכי האמונה ש לי לא מגיע .אהבה של אגדות In my dreams, I chase happiness.
I hold one of those nets to catch butterflies with, and every inch of happiness that floats by... I snag it! I grasp it! I hold on to it for dear life! That elusive creature wants to roam free, but when she is caught in my net, I am in charge. I am the commander in chief. I own evert inch of her. When I awake, I wouldn't recognize happiness if I saw it. The only holding on I do is trying to hold onto the dream of chasing happiness just a tad longer. In the in between space is where I live. That is my most comforting of homes. That is where I can hold on to the chase while look forward to the stark reality that there is nothing to chase. Because anything that moves away from you is just the currant doing its thing. Happiness isn't 'elusive'. She's no 'floater.' She isn't something to catch. She is just her authentic self, whether you choose to spend time in her presence, or not. She is that twinkle in your eye when the little things happen and remind you that none of it matters. And all of it matters. And also - a whole lot of hapinness rests in between. I, woman.
I have body, mind, soul. I swim with mood every passing month. I sweat in heat. I wrinkle when I smile. I feel pain. I feel joy. I feel passion. So when the world's men tell me that my body is not my body. That I am a vessel and nothing more. That I better sit pretty and shut my mouth because I should be lucky to be allowed a seat. When they tell me that - I get stunned. I choke. I suffocate. And then I tear up. Tear apart. Open wide. And what comes out is decades long rage that is running in my body. In MY body. It fills me inside, like a child, knocking on my belly begging to come out. And then I roar. I protest. I yell. I give birth to all my despair. To all MY body's tenderness. And roughness. And achiness. And I shout out to the world that I will no longer sit pretty. I will no longer shut my mouth because I should be lucky to be allowed a seat. I yell for the world to get its heart out of its arrogant ass. To get a grip on reality. Not the made up one but the real one. The reality that you see in your mother. The reality that you see in your sister. In your daughter. In your wife. In your friend. In YOU. I, woman. I have body, mind, soul. And they're mine. Mine. They're all mine. Every day I wake up with the soft melody of my phone's alarm clock.
Then I turn it off just to turn it on while my eyes get adjusted to the new day, and browse through the daily news and listen to my current podcast episode or chapter in an audiobook while I turn on my electric toothbrush and then proceed to cut some celery and make juice in my juicer. I sip on my juice while I open my laptop and check my emails and browse through my calendar. I then turn my filtered shower head on, take a shower, blow dry my hair with my diffuser, and head out to walk where I proceed check the amount of steps I've made on my phones' Health app. I would spend some hours do some work on my laptop and take breaks escaping into social media or various youtubing or internet browsing. ALL WHILE CONNECTING TO GADGETS. Gadgets. Gadgets. Gadgets. And more gadgets. Our lives in these times are governed and constantly include some form of technological dependency. In most cases - the phone and the laptop. We are all addicts! Living in a gadget-infested world. Eager to connect and yet by connecting digitally we disconnect physically. Gadgets. Gadgets. Gadgets. We think they'll make our lives better, but we grow so dependent on them that we become their employees. Their everlasting help. Their elusive servants. Gadgets. Gadgets. Gadgets. ***
If I break one rule Before I die It would be To love The world Despite its fuckery. *** how can I say the words
or write them when even singing at the top of my lungs serenading 'till dawn isn't quite right a form of an expression when a heart is so tender and distrustful of Love. how can I tell you the words that define that inner bustling beat of everlasting yearning for touch in a world so sterile when my finger tips are numb and my insides are hollow how can I run to you my love if I have no feet and my breath is all swept away and my limbs are broken aching to be carried how can I love you my love when I have no more love to give how can I. OH, the little mysteries in life... The muddy, meandering, marvelous little mysteries!
I am talking about the invisible miniature laundry helpers who steal our socks in between loads. DUH. Those little rascals have a thing for my favorite pairs of compression adidas socks. The ones that I get in white with a dash of color. The ones that I now must forever wear MISMATCHED because those little devil crime-doers exist just to annoy the crap out of me. Me and everyone else who ever uses a laundry machine. I remember back when I didn't believe those little nasties existed. I actually blamed myself for the sock mystery! Can you believe it!? 'Oh no, I must have forgotten that one sock in that one bag when I went to that one place. It's my fault. Must be. ALL my fault.' I was delusional. Of course they exist. How else would you explain the sock mystery?!? 'Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved.' An old woman's voice rings in my ears. My voice perhaps, years from now, when I am wrinkly with saggy boobs and terrible hearing. When I no longer solve the mysteries of the world. When I no longer believe in the miniature laundry helpers and their affinity to adidas compression socks. I hope I never become her. I hope I always believe in the miniature laundry helpers. I hope I always thrive to uncover the marvelous little mysteries of the world. If you follow me
For a moment To that willow tree And sit under its weeping embrace I will tell you a secret A secret so sacred that only the willow can hear it The willow and you If you follow me For a moment And sit under its weeping embrace. I will tell you my secret like a story So grand It was straight out of the bible With all its stakes and romance and fire and horror I will play all the parts And narrate with my deepest sincere voice And I will hand you a program Written in the weeping leaves One that gives only highlights Because when I would have told you my secret Under the weeping willow No program long enough Could contain A secret so sacred That I will only tell you One of these days Under a weeping willow When I build the courage To lead And when you build the courage To follow me For a moment To that willow tree. When one is young, youngish, younger than sixty something, and one adopts a CAT - one isn't afraid of commitment. More so, ONE - in this case - moi - welcomes commitment with open arms. After all, the commitment to adopt a cat when one is young, youngish, younger than sixty... is the willing and open invitation to lose. To love and then to lose. To liven up and then to let go. To lure and then to lament. A cat lives... what? Ten, fifteen years? eighteen if she's lucky? So when one AKA moi adopts a cat, one says 'Hello. I'll be your mama. We'll get close. I'll take care of you. I'll feed you. I'll clean after you. We'll snuggle. You'll kiss me every morning. Sometimes you'll puke, and I'll clean it up. Sometimes I'll puke, and you'll just stare in dissatisfaction because you are a cat and not my caretaker. But you'll love me. Because I'll feed you. And I'll love you. Because you're fluffy. And adorable. And mine. And then one day you'll die. Or you'll get sick. And then you'll die. And I'll be left here, alone. Without you. Grieving you. Remembering you. Smelling you still because a cat's scent takes years to wipe off. To wither. To wander off... So hello, cat. AKA my hereby commitment to love. To loss. To litter."
If one says they have a fear of commitment, but they have a cat, you should know: one's a LIAR. |
AuthorIn April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling. Categories
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June 2022
Header Art: Daniel Landerman |