I decided during a particularly rough spot of my misery late last night, that I've being going about Thanksgiving all wrong and will be implementing a new plan of attack for next year. I starved myself all day in anticipation of the bounty to come, so essentially I felt miserable until I finally sat down with my over indulgent plate of fanfare.
I enjoyed 8 minutes of blissful palate delights. Then, feeling slightly deprived of the things I couldn't fit on my plate the first go, went back for seconds...another 5 minutes of pleasure. Now add 2 minutes of heavenly pause...... and then the weight of my purge sank like a rock into my guts and I spent the remainder of the day, miserable, stretched out in a feeble attempt to give digestion room to work magic. 15 whole minutes of my day were spent in triumphant gluttony. The rest, I'll call it what it was, misery. Obviously I'm going about the day wrong~~~
At my Thanksgiving there is no such thing as matching silverware polished to a fine sheen. I've never seen coordinating place mats nor a candelabra centerpiece to hypnotize it's patrons. Fine china would never be brought out for such an occasion (far too dangerous) and I'm pretty sure mayhem would break out if someone got cocky and tried to use place cards. Food items are not revealed one at at time in pretty little serving dishes (I'm pretty sure that sort of slow progression would cause mutiny) and I've never witnessed a moment of pause, or silent thanks, or group prayer or anything that would try to hold back the tidal wave of people frothing at the mouth. Thanks, is the responsibility of individuals at large.
When my Mother, who reigns Queen on this day, (it's her house, and her turkey), says, "Time to eat." (and no one would dare touch so much as a deviled egg until she makes her official announcement) The swell of the crowd presses in on itself and it becomes a dog eat dog world. Every soul for themselves sort of deal. Survival of the fittest. Neanderthals with manners.
The thing is, if you don't dive in right away, something could run out (one year mashed potatoes ran out, that horror will go into family folklore) , and then there is a matter of Real Estate. One must find a good chair at various eating stations located all over the house. I've never seen anyone have to sit on the floor, but there is real estate at Mom's house that feel like a beach side resort, and there is what one might consider ,the low rent district. One must stake a claim quickly and then be prepared to protect it (show claws and sharp teeth).
I love it.
I think refined dinning, the picture of Martha Stewart perfection is geared toward little families, you know 20 or less type numbers. Mature affairs hold an air of mystery for someone like me that grew up, with potluck dishes and buffet expectations. I'm not sure of the count on yesterdays fiesta, but I can say, it swelled beyond 40 family members.
The house vibrates with the sounds. Children laughing and running. I watched one little 4th or 5th cousin ( it's humanly impossible to keep track anymore) of mine skating across my Mom's travertine floors with her 'built in skate shoes', back and forth, a big old grin on her face because no one seemed to care. There's the noise of plastic forks on paper plates. And conversations. So many conversations overlapping one another that I imagine an unskilled visitor would get a headache trying to follow everyone and everything going on.
It's easy to imagine what it would be like to be a mind reader in these gatherings. I just closed my eye's, and imagined myself in a library of quiet and listened. I realized yesterday that if I didn't focus on one specific voice, I could delight in a huge array of conversations all at once. Stories, detailed accounts of recent surgeries, or births. A shopping trip gone awry, a car that broke down. God. Atheism. Elections and hope. Sex. TV shows. Books. Gossip. Movies. Wolves. Future. Recipes, And the most important, memories of someone now gone.
I realized that story telling is the principle symbol of all my family gatherings. The people who capture the biggest slice of center stage have booming voices and can spin a tale or recall family history in a way that captures a good portion of the ears around. The story tellers are animated with hands, facial gestures and often stand up to encourage complete attention. There is little family glory in being shy or the quiet one, (there's very few of those anyway) so I'm right up there narrating my own memories and stories with the best of them.
It's all a little crazy, but I fully understand now how grateful I am for such a booming, procreating family. My family style Thanksgivings, paper plates and all, would never make the cover of Martha Stewart and the notion of cultured or refined is a foreign concept to my family posse.
And that's all right by me~~
I'm feeling anxious today and typically the antidote to that feeling is writing. I've taken liberties this morning at all my normal writing stations and thus far still feel unsatisfied, so I'll dump here for a bit as well, lucky you.
I'm beginning to think nothing will help. I shall blame my current agitations on an extended bout of insomnia, lucky me.
I've been thinking about what Marc wrote in his comment from the below entry.
Marc from Le Trash Whisperer wrote, " I have a similar yearning for the hero's of Jane Austen novels. Of course, the question is, is what makes them so desirable the very fact of their unavailability, in that all-encompassing way?"
Yes. Yes. And *sigh* Probably.
I've been toying with your thought since you wrote it. I blame and credit writers.
A good writer understands that to reach in and toy with peoples emotions is a clear path to our hearts. Through the art of illusion that writers should participate in, it seems only natural to caress the senses of a readers most basic human condition.
~The need to be seen, cherished, protected and loved.~
A great writer will satisfy, usually after toying and teasing it out, all the needs of their fictional characters. Writers can't leave us readers hanging with the realities of life's little slices of loneliness. No one needs to taste that more then we already do.
Since I'm feeling like everyone is lucky today, I'll use myself as an example here for a moment. I'm 36, been married, been divorced, never really been single for more then a month and have had enough lovers to consider myself 'experienced' enough to blanket remark on my life's little realities.
Honestly, I don't feel like any of the men I've ever loved have actually 'seen' me. One I will grant, came close, but that book falls into the Greek tragedy genre. Seen, as in the way a writer can make their character see his leading lady. Truth is, they just never continued asking questions. They have all accepted me for what I gave on the surface, but didn't continue with a quest to know the all encompasssing. To this day I still find it remarkable only one man in my life has ever asked, "Hey, can I read what it is your writing all the damn time...." (Is it just me, or isn't that strange?)
Fictional hero's drag everything out of their ladies whether they want to spill the beans or not.
I don't blame the Men in my life for this oversight, or unrealized secondary pieces of me. The fact I don't believe I've ever felt anything that resembled all encompassing is because I remain in reality. I know love, in it's boundless glory and until I discover something different, I'll simply cherish that gift. It seems to me that people are generally happy and content with surface and sometimes the less they see the safer their own little world can remain. I understand that. Accept it. We all play off what we feel needs to be given or taken, a writer simply forces the issue and completes the whole package (i) deal.
If I was writing my own hero, for my own book of reality, I'd have my hero give me a music box that played Clair De Lune just because he thought that would make me smile. My hero would ask me endless questions and actually listen. He would ask me about what I was writing all the time. He wouldn't throw a letter or note I wrote him in the garbage. He would always put his hand on the small of my back when we were standing next to each other and every night when we slept he would let me rest my head on his chest so that even if I couldn't fall asleep, I could listen to the sound of his heartbeat.
I would think.....Such simplicity...............
Hence, Writers created unavailable Hero's on the seventh day.............
If anyone ever wondered how a plague or virus can spread through humanity like wildfire, one need only observe the general phenomenon of 'journal meme'............
This is where I grumble and curse (as only an endearing friend would) Indigo over at Scream Quietly for intentionally infecting me, despite years of my careful hand washing. I really thought I was damn near invincible. Evidently my immune system has a weak spot because here I am getting ready to do the unthinkable........a meme........(oh and perhaps I should mention, my dear friend Indigo, and I say this with genuine love....... paybacks a bitch~~~grin~~~)
And the 'rules and regulations' are as follows............
* link to the person who tagged you * list 6 random things about yourself * tag 6 new people * let each tagged person know by posting a comment on their blog * link to the 6 people you've tagged * and let the person who tagged you know that you posted. Easy enough....*
1) The Rosy and fuzzy picture:::::I'm a tomboy at heart and can rough and tumble with the boys any day. I did learn how to embrace my feminine side which can be quite sexy and fun. I'm 36 years old, but don't feel a day over 36 years old. I can kick some one's ass if there's a reason to do so and a long time ago I got an assault charge on my record for doing just that. I would never slap or pull hair. I also accumulated 13 drinking tickets before the age of 21. I don't drink, I can, but I won't....my epilepsy doesn't play nice if I have a sweet glass of wine. Growing up people called me the nickname Becky, I am soooo not a Becky and it always bugged me. (don't try it) I collect art because it's much more meaningful then a TV and costs about the same. I am the eternal optimist, a hopeless romantic and hate the word poet. Oh, and I hate the dentist. I can keep a secret, my own or others and never ever feel the desire to tell anyone. And the truth is, I don't make a great full time friend, especially if someone is 'needy', my Best Friends understand my limitations and give me lots of room and freedoms....in turn I'm loyal to the core and would do anything in my power to give them whatever their hearts desire.
2) Head scratch admission:::::Lets see, I have broken just about every single bone in my body. From the top of my head (skull fracture) to my broken neck (I blame the horse), to ribs (horrible minute by breathing minute torture), arms, wrists, fingers, legs, ankles, toes, tail bone (long term torture, think about it, a person is sitting on their ass alot)......the only bone that remains unscathed is my hip and I imagine I'll finish off with that one sometime down the line.
The reason for all of these injuries is basic, I am reckless and devoid of a natural fear factor. I am an adrenaline junkie who pushes the envelope at every chance I get. The physical repercussions are just a possible consequence to a rather grand time. Meaning, I could really care less if I break a bone or two, which I consider collateral damage for doing what I want, rather then cowering and never experiencing something.
3) Another Random moment:::::My only natural enemy is worms (some of you know that and if you didn't, well, it's called phobia of the irrational nature, my one and only fear)......I typically only wear the colors black and white, with the exception of blue jeans. I barely wear makeup, if ever. I can get ready to leave the house, including shower, in 15 minutes...all natural is my motto. I can't stand the noise people make when eating and I for one could care less about food. For me, eating is just something I have to do, like going to the bathroom. I haven't weighed myself in years and don't own a scale. I've never been on a diet. All my friends are short shrimps and I feel like a tree lady next to them (I'm a 6 footer in 3 inch heels, do the math) I hated basketball, much to the school coaches dismay. I have 6 pets. 3 cats, 3 dogs. Random moment over:::::
4) What I dodge::::I don't handle compliments very well. Which probably goes back to I don't like to talk about myself. I prefer to keep any and all spotlights off of myself and a compliment is like shining a light directly in my eyes. Now, I am not one to negate, meaning, I won't put down something I did that someone compliments in order to make it less significant (I hate that twisted little circle)......but other then a possible thank you, I'll change subjects, shift the focus elsewhere, or ignore the compliment completely. I'm not sure why this is, other then my Momma raised me to take pride in what I do and never depend on others for validation. I think I sorta took that to the extreme...........
5) Back to the perspective of the 3-D world::::This isn't a stellar thing to admit, but evidently from the perspective of others, I've been told on more then one occasion I scare people. Not in a boogie man sort of way, but my presence makes many people uneasy. I've been told I 'intimidate' people even when I'm being extremely nice. The problem, as has been explained to me, is that for one, I look people in the eye, sort of 'intensely' and that makes people nervous. And two, the way I move and carry myself....self assurance makes people leery. (I'm just not uneasy or unsure around people, new or known) Now, since I consider myself a nice person, this does bother me somewhat, but the good news is the same people who have told me that, consider me a good friend 'once they got to know I'm not so scary'..........Boo
6) Writing admission::::: I have a hate, sorta like, hate relationship with writing. 90% of the time I hate it. The thing is, I have to write, it's in my blood, oozing out of my brain and my hands are like possessed extensions of a bleeding tree. I would like to write because I want to and enjoy it, rather then this pressing need to eradicate the mind torture. See the difference? My only saving grace is every once in awhile I write something that someone else needed at the point in time and for a space, it feels like the torture finally achieved purpose. Oh, and like this meme, when I write I just can't pull off moderation.
Ok, I'm going the way of Alexander Fleming and injecting penicillin into this endeavor (translation, sorry Indigo, I just can't do it) and taking the low road by not tagging others. It's the contrary neurosis in me........
However, if anyone wants to cough and sputter out 6 (or random crazy like I did, damn the writer in me) masked/unknown things about themselves please feel free to do so and let me know. I'm all about snooping and voyeurism. It's the curious cat in me...................