Archive for July, 2017

I’m not going to shoot myself.  I don’t own a gun. If I did own a gun, I would not have lived so long. I don’t intend to buy a gun.

Four days ago I lost my prescription eyeglasses, and though I can “get by” without wearing them, I have engaged a precarious balancing act as I lurch along dealing with my incapacity to afford replacement glasses. My eye doctor has explained my sight malady is not correctable with better glasses offering more magnification. The condition is macular degeneration. The most I  can do to delay further dimunition of my sight is to take an over-the-counter “vitamin,” which I’ve been taking twice a day for the past year, and it is sustaining sight. I recently passed my eye exam, and am “street legal” for driving day and night.  But pervading my life for four days is an “overtone” like a constant ringing in my ears (though my ears don’t ring) of shame for losing the glasses and failing, over the passing of the days looking everywhere under the sun for them and not finding them. And with that overtone has come growing incapacity to think rationally and positively. This blog post is an example that, I feel, confirms my incapacity for  rational thought.

Over the weekend I metaphorically shot myself in “the future” as I departed an arts fundraising event in which I had been a featured, named, participant. It was an event which I thought, at first, would be a long-hoped for boost for my efforts (over the past 20 years) to earn significant recognition. I believed, as the event concluded, that I would have come home more satisfied with myself and the support shared by the few acquaintances I knew at this event, if I had performed one hundred forward somersaults in fast succession on the lawn at the event. As a result of my disappointment there, I  walked away from a new acquaintance, a professional, positive thinker whose friendship I had earlier vowed (to myself) to nurture. In doing so, I wrote the “death sentence” to my 20 years of aspirations and the likely end of my efforts to recite my favorite poems written by internationally acclaimed poet Vachel Lindsay.  Leading up to that “shot,”  for a full half an hour, I pondered my  intention to go home sadder, more disappointed with that person,  than I imagined I would leave, literally an hour earlier.  I understood that I had the power to leave bitter or affirmed. I could “board the peace train” or I could hurl myself onto the tracks as it departed, and leave the bloody mess of my wrong decision on the tracks for all to see as I dove home.

In the brief face-to-face with new acquaintance — no harsh language, no gestures with arm or finger, no raised voices  — for the duration of the encounter, I shot myself in the future.

I drove home with no rushing, used my turn signals even for lane changes, even though traffic was sparse at 9:05 in the evening. I didn’t lurch the vehicle into turns, and I didn’t slam the door after I entered my living room from my front porch.

This morning I awoke with my mind and heart awash in a tempest of sorrow.

I considered my options, probably could have found a way to “leave the shambles” if I had thought that was what I should do. There was some wine left from last night, but I’ve not touched it; don’t intend to touch it this evening when I return home from a day at the airport.

What comes next I don’t know. I am determined to spend time productively at the airport museum today. The “closed” sign will be posted in the lobby of the business which hosts it so I can concentrate on making the day worthwhile. I believe my time with Lindsay is over. So is my “arts presence” on Facebook. Anything I share about the arts with be shared here at Honey and Quinine.

Life goes on.
Live long . . . . . . and proper.

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