Life is like a song, like Simon and Garfunkel’s The Dangling Conversation.
“It’s a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.”
I sit under cover on the deck and watch the clouds move over the sky. The thunder roll in. Darkness washes over me and beyond. The raindrops fall pitter patter on the roof, running down the pipe and drip drops into the tub below. I am cocooned in the moment. I sit and drink my tea, thinking of nothing, suspended from the ‘borders of our lives’.
I have been reading Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. I have been trying to write and live by one-inch frame after one-inch frame. It is slow going, I tell you. But where is the fire? I am RETIRED after all. I have all the time to dangle my feet, drink my tea, sip my wine and sigh and sigh.
I try not to let wrong tenses, misplaced commas, periods and dangling participles set me on edge. However, that neighbour of mine has managed to irk me time after time. I find myself clenching my jaw and grinding the teeth. But I have not yelled. I am doing well.
Perhaps it is I who is mentally ill. It is all a matter of perspective, you know. I am so glad for Anne Lamott who says that most of her friends are walking personality disorders. Isn’t that a wonderful line? It gives me hope that I am alright and maybe interesting. I have been called eccentric before.
“Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
“Can analysis be worthwhile?”
“Is the theater really dead?”
It is hard to speak of things that matter. I am still embarrassed by my own passion, afraid people will laugh at my seriousness. I am afraid to succeed so I try to fail. I am no passion flower but a bud about to drop. I am a dangling prepostion, a participle or whatever you want me to be.
The conversation is coming to an end. My words are slowing down. I love the tap, tap of the keys as I slowly sip my wine. I am slow to learn my lessons but I am using more care. Time is passing, the minutes and seconds are ticking with each tap of my keyboard. I bid you farewell till our next conversation.
“And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You’re a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.”