Thursday, June 24, 2010

About Town

I was driving home the other day, as usual contemplating the deep heroic questions of life from behind the wheel. I have a few I play with regularly, like, 'what is happiness?' or 'what is purpose?, or 'geez, my thighs look big!', or 'where do i fit in, in life?' or 'omg! do i have cancer?' when I noticed a girl, sashaying up the street.

I'm not kidding that she was sashaying. She was a pleasantly handicapped looking girl in a psychedelic blue dress, ankle socks and rubber thongs. She was probably in the neighborhood of 300 pounds on a 5'5 frame, the kind of weight where every piece moves of it's own accord. And she was dancing as she walked to bus stop.

The day was glorious, the sun had finally burst through layers of oppressive cloud. The last few flowering spring trees and bushes were finishing up their thing. And when I opened my window, as if like magic, I could hear an orchestra of birds. A symphony of singing, squawking, whistling and cawing. I looked again at the dancing girl. I think she may have heard them too.

As I was watching her disappear in my rear view mirror, two young men walking purposefully, in stiff white shirts, black dress pants, & carrying briefcases & bibles crossed in front of me. They looked like they were in a hurry, religious fervor stretched across their tight, serious faces. Sadly, I somehow doubt they heard the orchestra of birds.

***

Early yesterday morning, I was down at Superstore. It was about a 33.3% morning for me. In fairness, I'd run out of coffee, the discount bread rack was low, and I was back to wrestling with my favorite deep thoughts. As I was packing my groceries, the clerk asked benignly of the person behind me, 'How are you doing?'

'100%!' a voice replied loudly & enthusiastically. I turned to have a look at who might be doing so well. Gosh, she didn't look 100%. She was a small wizened woman of at least 70, in very mismatched summer clothing, a men's fishing cap over her unruly hair, buying a club pack of sliced ham. She grinned broadly at me as she doled out her coins with bent arthritic fingers. I grinned back. I couldn't help it.

***

Last night a close friend called me from the Psych Ward, she's been committed at least 20 times in the past 35 years. She was in high spirits, having escaped the eagle eyed nursing staff, and hiding out using a private line in an unlocked Doctor's office. She wove run on tales of hilarity about other patients, hobos she'd shared smokes with out by the garbage bin and made keen observations of herself and the medical establishment. She told me they'd had her watch a documentary of sad manic/depressive patients, reflecting on the seriousness of their illness. 'What the hell?!' she commented on their glumness. 'I have the time of my life when I'm manic!'

Why not? If you have to live crazy - you may as well enjoy it.

***

Summer thought #5: Remember to look for the symphony amidst the cacophony.
Sometimes you can actually see the music.

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