Rest beside the weary road

Normality?  Keeping one’s insanity a secret.  (Cvetanova)

Ever wondered how truly goofy you might be?  Haven’t we all . . .   And for sure, you’ve wondered about your spouse or your parents or siblings or friends.  Or bosses.  And maybe at times the whole world has seemed insane to you — it has to me.  Remember the old jest about ” everyone’s insane except you and me and sometimes I wonder about you”?

Since this is a lighthearted look at a very painful and serious topic, forgive me for the liberties I take with definitions.  “Insanity” is really a legal term.  And those in psychological circles, we being more than a little “strange” ourselves, have fought over what is normal and what is abnormal forever.  Sadly, the terms insane, crazy, nuts, out of one’s mind, deranged, mad, nutty, screwy, batty, crackers, cuckoo, loco, touched (and on and on) are more often than not used as weapons and insults — a good way to dismiss a person or an issue with whom or which we disagree.  For example, in our present rancorous political climate, how many times have you heard one side say about the opposition:  “well, that was highly creative!” 

My husband, who as I have mentioned fondly before is both a shrink and a curmudgeon, growls that  insanity is doing the same *#<**%! thing over and over again, and expecting different results –— like going back to an empty well expecting it to have water this time, a particular problem of my own!

And don’t we all have little peculiarities; weird habits, notions, beliefs; eccentricities?  — I don’t want to dismiss the tragic reality of what is popularly (and mistakenly, to my way of thinking) called “mental illness”, but I so wish we could celebrate those things that make us each the wondrous and peculiar people that we are, rather than disparaging them in ourselves or others.

How’s about, in these days of “crazy” movements, we start our own:  making words like wacky, mad, loco, weird, and yes, even insane and crazy, terms of endearment and affirmation and new possibility???

Yeah!  I like that.  I shall be a movement of one.  Join me if you like.

 

She was not quite refined.  She was not quite unrefined.  She was the kind of person who keeps a parrot.  (Mark Twain)

Our blackmail scheme was foolproof!  And just in case a threat to spill the beans to our head-hancho’s wife regarding his long-time philandering wasn’t of sufficient magnitude to get him to call off his hounds, we had some well-supported falsehoods in our back pocket that should do the trick.  And we wanted very little:  just his promise to back off and leave us in our blissful retired state.

And of course there was the not-so-small matter of my destroyed Platanthera azorica.  I was sure that with the proper persuasion he would be convinced to see things my way.

But much to our utter surprise and shock, when presented with the entire picture, our former grand and fearless leader adamantly denied any involvement whatsoever in the fiasco on the patio of the NoName Cafe.  We knew him well enough to know when he was telling the truth versus his more common pattern of prevaricating.  He left, chuckling to himself, the scoundrel.

Back to the drawing boards.  If not The Company, then who??  We’d pretty much accounted for the whereabouts of all our known enemies of old.

I sat on the patio mulling over the situation sipping a cup of tea.  Neville was preparing the evening meal, and Cuddles sat nearby, quietly chattering to himself.  What a talkative creature he is, I thought to myself, and how lucky we were that Matilda had given him to us.  I had really become quite found of the rascal.  And the patrons of the cafe loved him, frequently tossing him bits and pieces of their dinners as he screamed obscenities and choice phrases at them.

As I got up to pluck a few dead blossoms from the hanging plants, I wondered idly where he had learned  such choice language.  And such interesting . . .

Holy Mother.  It couldn’t be!  Matilda!  One of the few persons for whom I had a smidgeon of trust.  I had counted her as a friend even.

Pride goeth before a fall, the nuns always said.  Those thugs hadn’t been after us at all — it was Cuddles who was the one important enough to shoot up a patio on a sleepy Sunday morning.  They really had been after him all along, because of all the secrets about Matilda he held in that pea-brain and busy tongue.

And later, when we confronted her, she tearfully confessed to everything, begging our forgiveness and claiming temporary insanity.  Ha.  We can forgive idiocy, but the little matter of my Platanthera was still on the table.  She blanched a bit when I told her how much it was worth, but antied up.  And we promised to cover for her regarding any indiscretions, past or future, on Cuddles’ part, provided she never again try to harm him.

Later, I gave Cuddles his special treat, a thimble of Guinness.  Maybe even two, I thought.  After all, with a tongue loosened by a little stout, who knew what stories he had to tell . . .

 

 

 

The trite answer is that everything is true but none of it and happened.  It is emotionally true, but the events, the plotting, the narrative, isn’t true of my life, although I’ve experienced most of the emotions experienced by the characters in the play.  (Marber)

The following night, I asked a few friends to participate with me in my nightly dance performance at the NoName.  Our performance was superb, and we got a gratifyingly enthusiastic audience response.  In fact, the number of encores that we were called back to do enabled another one of my friends, dressed and bewigged just as I, to slip into my place unnoticed by anyone.

And I simply — disappeared.

For all intents and purposes, “I” was still at the cafe in the days that followed, carrying on our regular routine as always, with Neville.  Where I really was shall remain unspoken, but suffice it to say that a great deal of reconnaissance took place during this time, as well as gleaning information from former colleagues, and calling in some old debts.

What I learned seemed to point to the strong probability that the assumption that Neville and I had come up with — that our former employers were trying to lure us back into the field by making us think that a vendetta was in the works — was almost a certainty.

Pleased with my findings, I returned to the NoName, slipping in and exchanging places with my friend, again with no one the wiser.

Neville and I then proceeded to put Phase Two of our plan into effect by calling our former handler and supervisor at The Company, and telling him that we had learned of a vendetta existing that had brought about a vicious attack upon us and our cafe, and we wanted to re-enter the network temporarily in order to take care of it.  Following a lot of idiotic questioning and bogus hemming and hawing, he agreed, and suggested a meeting.

Aha!  The stage was set.  The players were in place.  All I had to do was get the cooperation of my old friend Matilda, who just happened to be the long-time paramour of our Company contact.  And as I had suspected she would be, she was as indignant as I over what had happened to us.  The fact that she was the former owner of Cuddles, of whom she was inordinately fond, didn’t hurt in gaining her cooperation. Nor did the fact that Cuddles knew all her secrets, and didn’t hesitate to babble them freely, naming names and telling tales.

With the last piece in place, we were ready for Phase Three.

(to be continued)

 

We’re always the heroine of our own stories.  (Martin)

I, Gertie, have now assumed the authorship and management of this story about my life.  I didn’t appreciate or like how that nincompoop storyteller was telling it.  Some of her descriptions, particularly about me, were unimaginably inaccurate.  Just goes to prove that what the nuns, God rest their despotic souls, always said is true — if you want it done right, do it yourself.

Picking up where the story left off, after I gathered Neville off the floor and brushed the old fart off, I went about setting the patio of my beloved NoName Cafe to rights, and coddled and reassured Cuddles until he was at least mollified enough to leave off shrieking those horrendous curses.  A second cup of tea with Neville soothed our slightly jangled nerves as we sorted out possibilities and probabilities.

We had ended our relationship with The Company several years ago, and had been enjoying an idyllic retired life.  (If we chafed at the slight boredom and inactivity, we each kept it to ourselves.)  Was this attack on us an old vendetta?  Revenge? Settling an old score?

Or, as we finally settled upon as the most likely possibility, was this an idiotic attempt on The Company’s part to lure us back to work?  Wily, astute, and occasionally outrageous operators that we had been, I am sure we have been missed in the field.  They don’t make ’em like Gertie and Neville anymore.

We set about making our plans based on this assumption: most of those in charge of The Company are halfwitted and brainless, and we went from there. Deciding we would set about implementing our plans the next morning, we retired for a rest before making preparations for the evening meal, which was to be one of our specialities, Keftedes.  Plus I was going to dance, and I needed to rest and refresh myself.

And while I did not rave on about it to Neville, I also had a personal score to settle, and settle I would:  in that ridiculous brouhaha, my rare and precious Platanthera azorica had been badly damaged and even broken.  Not that money matters with such a thing of beauty, but that plant was worth maybe as much as ten thousand American dollars, and like they always say, money won’t bring you happiness, but at least you can be miserable in comfort.  Someone was gonna pay.

(to be continued)

My alter ego does not look in too good a mood today.  (de Pury)

Following your last glimpse of our heroine Gertie as a mere scrap of a child, the reader is now invited to step into her life almost seventy years later. She and a gent of her acquaintance, going by the name of Neville, run a small Greek cafe in a city which shall be nameless.  Our heroine has declined to have her current photograph included in these pages, referring you instead back to that one taken 40 years ago, of which she is fond.  And she is also rightly pleased with her cafe, pictured above, should you wish to patronize it.  If you can find it, that is.  And of course, there’s Neville, whom she seemingly dismisses as of no consequence, altho’ I have heard tell that he is an excellent chef, and it will be his cuisine you sample should you choose to visit NoName Cafe.

As we step into their lives on this lazy and already hot Sunday morning, we find them relaxing with the Sunday edition of the International Herald Tribune on the peaceful patio of their cafe.  The smoke from Neville’s cigar circles lazily up through the untidy tangle of hanging ferns and other assorted greenery.  Colorful flowers spill from chipped and cracked terra cotta pots.  A cage sporting a bright red, green, and golden parrot hangs in the corner.

Our intrepid couple lounge in two rockers, occasionally sipping tea from the mismatched cups and pot sitting on a table between them.  Sunlight filters in through the tangle of plants, creating changing patterns of light. It is oddly still, with just the occasional chatter of the parrot or the clinking of cup and saucer breaking the silence.  Finally, with a bit of a grunt, Gertie gets to her feet to begin watering the flowers with a watering can which sits nearby.

A slowly cruising nondescript car on the street suddenly speeds up and gunfire erupts explosively onto the patio, shattering the peaceful quiet of this slumbering neighborhood.  Neville dives for cover, tripping Gertie with his cane to get her down, too.  (It would appear that both seem to pull significant looking weapons from places of concealment on their persons as they go down.). The parrot’s cage crashes to the floor, with wild curses erupting from the ruffled and angry bird.

The gunfire ceases as abruptly as it began.  Water squirts from the bullet-ridden watering can, as plants continue to topple.  The shrieking of the parrot is deafening.

“Shut up, Cuddles!”

“Up yours!  Up yours!”

As Gertie gets to her feet (with a spryness that rather widens our eyes), she straightens her wig, and shakes out her overly voluminous skirts (far too much clothing for this hot day in our opinion).  For a long moment, she stares thoughtfully at the street with narrowed eyes, and then turns her gaze to Neville, still trying to sort himself out from the jumble of greenery and broken crockery.

“Get up, you old fart.  What d’you think the chances are they were after Cuddles?”

(to be continued)

With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,  you’re too smart to go down any not so good street.  (Dr. Seuss)

A dark shadow moved across the entrance to the alley, and the small child sank deeper into the piles of garbage from which she had been foraging for her supper.  She sighed with relief  as the shadow passed, and examined with interest the half-eaten hamburger she had just pulled from the debris.  Her mouth watered, but she was naturally fastidious and carefully picked off the other garbage clinging to it before swallowing it eagerly.

Nothing more to be found in this pile.  But as she made ready to move on to another promising looking corner, she heard footsteps returning and crouched down into silence.

“Don’t fuss so, Sister Constance.  I’m sure I heard something move in this pile, and you know we promised Sister Joan we’d drop off this dry cat food for any strays we came across.  I won’t be but a minute.”

“We’re already late, and we have the reading before evening meal.  It’s probably rats anyway, and they’d be a fine supper for Sister Joan’s silly cats.  Come on!”

A beam of light from a flashlight slid over the piles of debris in the alley, and the child was just readying herself to run when a long dark arm seized her shoulder.

“Mother of God, it’s a child!  Child what are you doing here?”

The two women clad in the black habits of the nuns who ran the mission on the corner looked enormously tall and bat-like to the frightened and angry child.  She twisted and kicked, but to no avail as strong arms pulled her from her hiding place.

“Saints preserve us, it’s but a scrap of a little girl, Sister Bernice.  At least I think it’s a girl.  She’s so filthy, it’s hard to tell.  Where’re your parents, child?  Where do you live?”

The child struggled and kicked the nun who held her as hard as she could in the shins, but the determined and alarmed sister hung on, pulling her toward the light of the street.

“We’ll take her with us to the mission and get her cleaned up and some decent food into her and then we’ll see if we can find where she belongs.  Come along, Sister Constance, but dump that cat food in the alley before you leave.”

The second complaining sister and the resisting child were helpless in the face of Sister Bernice’s determination.  Besides, to the little girl, who knew little other than that her name was Gertie and that no one was to be trusted, the promise of food was an alluring prospect.  She could always make good an escape later.

Six weeks later, the strong grip of Sister Bernice once more guided Gertie against her will, this time into the kindergarten classroom of the neighborhood Catholic school.  The sulky, angry face of the child did not speak well for her future success in this endeavor, and Sister Bernice sighed in forbearance.  But at least the child had cleaned up well, and dressed in the drab plaid uniform of the school, she looked little different than the other children.  True, she was nothing to look at, with her dark red hair braided so tightly that her eyebrows were quirked into a permanent question mark, but she was neat and clean.  No one had to know that she evidently had no parents, and was only a small step away from being a complete little savage. The last six weeks at the mission had not been easy.  But Sister Bernice was determined to civilize Gertie come hell or high water, and the Mother Superior reluctantly agreed.  They had fed, clothed, churched, and housed her, and had been able to thwart, albeit with difficulty, her numerous attempts to escape.

Gertie was pushed into a wooden desk, in which she remained only because of the strong encouragement of Sister Bernice’s powerful arm.  She angrily ignored the curious looks of the other children, and when a small hand reached out from across the aisle and touched her arm, she spat at the slender boy who offered her a greeting:

“Hey, hey, there’s no call for that!  Altho’ that was a zinger of a spit wad.  My name’s Neville.  What’s yours?”

(to be continued)

 

“. . . Maybe there’s an easy solution to this. Maybe Captain Fabulous has an alter ego.”   “What’s an alter ego?”   “It’s a superhero’s true but secret identity, you know, the way Superman is really Clark Kent.”    (Paraphrased from Cuthbert Soup, Another Whole Nother Story)

A portrait of our heroine-to-be in forthcoming episodes, name of Gertie:

-A woman of substance, heart, courage, and uncertain age (since she never gives the same age twice, or is vaguely indifferent to the question) . . .

-Her manner of clothing also appears vague and indeterminate — colors are never quite clear and she appears to have on multiple layers, which makes her seem to be a doddery old lady and clearly disguises what is still a considerable degree of agility.  These floating draperies also serve to hide a variety of tools of a perhaps nefarious trade; it should be noted that the umbrella she always carries is really quite remarkable with regard to its hidden capacities.

-Springy and unruly white curls are frequently disguised by an ill-fitting red wig, from which the white curls protrude in a strange, corkscrew manner.  She has a penchant for long glittery beads which in and of themselves are quite functional.

-While Scottish by birth, she is Irish by temperament, which perhaps accounts for a regrettable tendency towards embellishment and exaggeration.  She is more than a little fey, and Tarot cards often spill from her pockets.  Her Scots’ frugality and practicality combine with a certain superstitious flamboyance to create an ever-changing gypsy-like quality, and an ability to never be pinned down.  As I have said before, a master at being vague . . . her failing hearing, and the fact that she frequently removes her hearing aids when she doesn’t want to hear someone, enhances the effect.

-In general, therefore, a doddery old lady persona that is not all that meets the eye —  oh, and did I mention her razor sharp intellect?

-A few more details perhaps?  She has a parrot who lives on her plant-festooned front porch and curses richly.  She never tells anyone where she’s from, altho’ at times she lapses into an Appalachian American southern dialect.  She has a questionable past, for which there is little documentation.  She has a sardonic and a bit of a twisted sense of humor calculated to mask an overly soft heart which she feels makes her fragile.  She distrusts most people and all technology.  Pieces of string, rubber bands, eyebrow tweezers, and  chewing gum serve her well.

-And did I mention that she lives with a gent to whom she may or may not be married?  — strange how I forgot that.  Neville’s his name.  Perhaps I will leave that for another day . . .

(And perhaps the astute reader detects a strange discrepancy between the photograph at the beginning, and the description of our dear heroine?  Please!  Gertie has her pride, y’know.   This photograph was taken 40 years ago, and, Gertie feels, accurately depicts her essence.  Or at least one of them.)

 

“You used to be much more — muchier — you’ve lost your muchness.”  (Mad Hatter)

Is your tail draggin’?  Do you have a hitch in your git-along?  Did your hotdog bun bust just when you got ‘er loaded up?

Yeah, I’ve had those days, too.  In fact, I’m having one today.  My muchness has taken a hike.

Who even knew there was a word like muchness??

Time to soften the edges, lower the lights, and become one with the dusty world.  And maybe get in touch with my alter-ego Gertie.

Have I told you about her yet?  No?  Well, that’ll be for next time.  Right now, the dusty world and I have a date . . .

there are no happy endings, endings are the saddest parts, so give me a happy middle, and a very happy start.  (Shel Silverstein)

When there is no happy ending, make one out of scraps.  (a quilter)

When the calendar year is very young, we (or at least I) have a sense of possibility, of expectation that maybe this time we’ll get it right, whatever that might mean to us.  A blank slate lies before us, only waiting for adventures, accomplishment, possibility . . .  travel to exotic places, new or improved relationships, creative accomplishment, wealth, health, happiness . . .  the proverbial happy ending is gonna happen.  We’re gonna have that svelte figure, become fit enough to run that marathon, write that novel, find Mr. or Ms. Right, find that great job, our friends and family are gonna shape up and treat us the way we oughta be treated, plus even better, we’re gonna be kind and understanding and  . . .

In a perfect world . . .

But there is no perfect world.  And what I have learned is that there are no happy endings.  But who wants to hear that, especially when your last nerve is hangin’ on by a mere shred . . .

We are broken, evolving, “growing” people.  It is a broken, messy world, constantly changing, transforming, “becoming” . . .  Moments of incredible beauty exist side by side with instances of unbelievable ugliness and horror and stupidity.

That is the way IT IS.  This is life, with all its potential and all its tragedy.

And in the midst stands this tiny figure that is me/you/every person, saying, “WTF???”  That is called, by the way, a moment of existential angst.

And maybe the answer floats back from someplace very far away, or as close as your next breath, “you have this moment, embrace it, this is the incredible gift of LiFE.”   You have, no matter in what “prison” you may find yourself, the gift of choice about how you will think about, or perceive something.  You have this MOMENT.

And when there is no happy ending?  Maybe it’s not about the happy ending.  Maybe it’s about the story.