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 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.
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.
My niece is a riot. A radiant, rascal, rambunctious four year old riot.
And she asks tough questions. Tough, troubling, tingling questions. The kind of questions a spunky four year old would ask.
So when she stared deep into my eyes and asked 'what is your favorite thing that you ever lost?' I could only give her my most sincere and deepest answer: 'Time. My favorite thing I ever lost is TIME.' Boom. Bam. Bingo. Don't we all wish we had just a little more... time?
Personally, I would have given myself a ten for that answer. An eleven. A twelve. A trophy. A Nobel prize. But this four year old riot had other plans: she frowned, rolled her eyes, and stared deeper into my eyes when she repeated: 'NO. I said THING. What is your favorite THING that you ever lost?' And my zen moment of enlightenment went to shit. Went. Withered. Wallowed. I had to stumble on an answer that would satisfy the little rascal's need. She's a material girl this one, living in a material world, and how dare I stoop down to the level of philosophy or dare I say Buddhism with this future influencer?!? Or future rocket scientist. Or future president. The future is grand for this materialista.
So I smiled back at that little devilista materiallista and talked about some made up music box that barely played music anymore but had a ballerina who twirled around even in silence. If only I could have had that music box back in my life... but alas. It's gone. Gleaned. Grifted. Truthfully, it never existed, but when a four year old riot stares into your eyes - you do what she says. You do what she says.
I take pride in never having had a fever. (wowza grammar!)
Correction: I TOOK pride in never having had a fever.
It's all over now. Enter madame Feverosa in all of her wham glam no-thank you ma'am.
Boy is she a draaaag. A dud. A doorknob. A determined attention seeker. I'm no psychologist, but methink she has some kind of a personality disorder. One that starts with 'histrionic' and continues with 'personality' and ends with 'disorder.' Solely because madame Feverosa makes me hysterical. Sure, I'm too tired to seem hysterical, but inside? Inside I am upside-down, body fighting to not be completely swept away by her sheer power. The cough is unbearable and I realize it is a cry for help or a plea for madame Feverosa to find another victim for her scandalous ways. A pathetic plea that goes nowhere. She is dedicated to her will and her will at the moment is to flush me over and turn me into a couch potato. Correction: BED potato. I am attached to the bed as if I was strapped to it. Hours go by. It's daylight out there, but my bed is my straight jacket and I won't leave its side. It's a symbiotic relation because that's how madame Feverosa wants it to be. And in her hysterical way she always gets what she wants. Our first encounter is epic, though thankfully - brief. She winks at me on her way out and announces: 'you'll never forget about me.' And I never will.
The landing is rough. Jarring. Jolting. Jinxing any possible chance of imagined possibility.
Reality bites is an understatement. It's more like, reality chews. chokes. Challenges.
I find myself drifting into resignation. Into retreat. Into reason. And the enemy of joy is reason, is it not? Perhaps not. What do I know about joy, anyways. I am no child. Children are the messengers of joy in our world. Children and perhaps also dogs. Yes, dogs, with their wag, their wonder, their wailing. Once, they too were mad at the moon, and like wolves they howled, like humans they wandered timid, tender, toying with the idea of letting go. The landing is rough. Reminding me that my home is broken. Here, there and everywhere. And flying high in the sky doesn't repair a broken home. Flying high in the sky is only a thing of itself. And every thing of itself has an end. A conclusion. A point. A book end. I, too, shall have my book end. But for now, I land.
In 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.
Header Art: Daniel Landerman