You Had Only to Come and See Me

“I was there. You had only to come and see me.” Isabel Archer, Portrait of a Lady

Word Raccoon’s Log: 6:47 AM, My Sunporch. Wearing: Pity the Fool. It’s a robe. With a backstory. Hold your horses.

Playing: “Landslide.” But not in the sad way. Not really. At least not this morning.

Last night I sang along to “Landslide” until my throat was raw. Girl, if you’d seen the post (since deleted) that I saw, you would have, too. I’m beginning to despise social media.  

Stevie Nicks says:

“Can I handle the seasons of my life?”

I will, but I might ruin my throat while doing it.

Last night, my son was unexpectedly available for much-needed hugs and dinner, and he grinned and finished my sentence when I asked if he minded if we went for…Chinese. He’s not the biggest fan of it but he is a fan of me, so he, his father, and I ate what is one of the only real meals I’ve had this past week. I haven’t cared and haven’t noticed I didn’t care until yesterday when Barry and I were watching a cooking show.

“I think I want some real food,” I said. Well, it was steak, so probably any meat eater would’ve started salivating. And before you go assuming Barry’d be the one grilling, some days it seems as if we will slap battle one another with spatulas and tongs to decide who gets to. (No grilling utensils were harmed in either this post or real life.)

We have very different grilling methods. But that’s another post for another day.

Earlier in the day, Henry James held me together as I listened to Portrait of a Lady while cleaning…I wonder if Henry James ever imagined someone would be listening to his book while wearing rubber gloves.

I’m not a big fan of audiobooks unless I’m doing something else while I listen. This was just right for keeping me situated inside myself. I fully intend to switch back to my physical copy next week. BTW, hadn’t meant to listen to more than the preface, but I couldn’t not.

The last thing I remember hearing last night was an exchange between Isabel and who was it? Sorry. So specific, LOL. I’ll have to re-read it – I was drifting off. It’s been a long time since I’ve read it.

Anyway, the gist of it was the woman with Isabel was horrified that Isabel might not know how to comport herself in her current situation. And when Isabel said she should like to know what other young women might do, her companion asked if it was so she could imitate it, and Isabel said no, so she could decide if she would or not. That’s a delicious distinction.

Oh, Isabel, you beautiful, independent, woman. We’re the same person.

I could write reams on mindless compliance vs. well-considered decisions. And don’t get me started on manners…I could write even more!

Etiquette as a guide to making everyone comfortable and, to an extent, signal the expected, sure. If you’re at a State Dinner. If you’re in church. If your grandmother has come to visit wearing her pearls. Of course if you can manage it without compromising yourself. But mindless, nitpicky “use this fork or be branded a rube” nonsense? Stop it!

(And yes, I do know which fork to use when. But sweetie, if I am sitting beside someone who uses the wrong one, I’m going to do the same because that’s the greater kindness to them rather than embarrass them by pointing out that they’re not using the “correct” one.)

Superiority signaled by the lifting of an eating implement is surely an inferior sort, am I right? That says nothing about your good qualities and everything about your bad.

And think of the monuments dedicated to “the dignified.” Wait…that’s not a thing?

Damn right it’s not!

The soul does not carry a copy of Emily Post’s finest work.

And it’s not that I won’t allow others their tiny, comforting rituals (I see you pulling that cape of decorum around your shoulder, your face. You’re not Dracula, darling! I see what you’re trying to hide with it, and may I say, there’s no reason to, babe), it’s when others bind and entangle with their manner of manners that I chafe and want to call for a pair of scissors.

Following the rules of living is not…living, my precious bird.

Not that I’m passionate about that type of thing or going full tilt Word Raccoon on you. There’s a phrase about even a king must…WR, stop! We get the point!

I reckon death makes you think of unusual topics heatedly, at unexpected times.

And lest it be misunderstood, I’m not embracing anarchy or foolhardiness or rebellion, though perhaps of the smaller kind I am. Just tiny, freeing acts overthrowing the unelected governor of your soul, babe.  

The muse can dig through the layers, but why make it? Wipe away the dross. Have a napkin, sugar. It’s linen.  

A peal of laughter just came from somewhere in the neighborhood, and it was glorious. So free, so spontaneous. It’s early yet, so I’m surprised but delighted to hear it.

A friend sneakily dropped by a gift and two cards yesterday.

Someone said she is sending flowers to our house today. There will be plenty of lovely flowers at the funeral home, I assume tomorrow, so it will be nice having them at home, too. It’s so thoughtful of her.

The messages, texts, cards, and subtler, drive-by condolences continue. I feel them all, even if only out of the corner of my soul’s eye. Something in me senses them, and I huddle them to me.

Oh, yes, the “Pity the Fool” robe backstory. So a couple of years ago I ordered a velveteen holiday jacket. Bold gold. It was long, stately, and I thought even after the holidays I might wear it occasionally on a night out with boots and jeans as a statement piece.

When it arrived, it was a glorified robe, and I now wear it as such. It’s gold, like boxer-robe gold, and it’s so tacky it makes me smile every time I see it. So now my neighbors get to see it, too, when I wear it (over my clothes) on the porch.

You’re welcome.

Here’s hoping this warmup has summoned the muse. I’d like a good writing session today. I have had some Coke Zero and I am ready to shadow box the world.

And if I start singing “Landslide” again by noon? So be it.

After all, I’m already wearing my robe.