Spring sneaking around the corners. Another fine windy morning and I wish I could run down the road flying a boxy red and blue kite. How fast the years fly past and turn us crochety and respectable! I’m sure I have a kite somewhere in the garage, the ball of string all tangled up and the crepe paper torn.
Steamed quinoa and scallions with a little lemon juice for lunch. I would rather bake and serve myself a dense moist coffee and walnut loaf (two helpings or more!), but there we are. My economies are leaving me feeling embattled and overworked this month. Some small comfort that last year’s capri pants fit so well.
Embrace your vulnerability, I tell myself while grumbling away in email about writer’s backache, the hours at a desk pounding a keyboard while my spine just dents and crumbles away. Here’s a forthright Texan on the power of vulnerability:
Both women and men could benefit from allowing themselves to be vulnerable. ‘I think vulnerability and shame are deeply human emotions but the expectations that drive shame are organised by gender. For women it’s “Do it all, do it perfectly and never look as if you’re working very hard” – which is a disastrous set-up. And for men it’s “Don’t be perceived as weak”.’
She makes it clear that there is a difference between vulnerability and laying it all out there. ‘Live-tweeting your bikini wax is not vulnerability. Nor is posting a blow-by-blow of your divorce . That’s an attempt to hot-wire connection. But you can’t cheat real connection. It’s built up slowly. It’s about trust and time.’
And there’s always perspective — that vulnerable, tetchy and quinoa-overloaded or not, it could all be so immeasurably worse and that each day is opportunity and gift. Then there’s always the great Charles Bukowski to help us see what’s coming around the next corner.
the suicide kid
I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed. but all I could do was to get drunk again. worse, the bar patrons even ended up liking me. there I was trying to get pushed over the dark edge and I ended up with free drinks while somewhere else some poor son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital bed, tubes sticking out all over him as he fought like hell to live. nobody would help me die as the drinks kept coming, as the next day waited for me with its steel clamps, its stinking anonymity, its incogitant attitude. death doesn't always come running when you call it, not even if you call it from a shining castle or from an ocean liner or from the best bar on earth (or the worst). such impertinence only makes the gods hesitate and delay. ask me: I'm 72.