'Ff'lo (fflo) wrote,

tea with J.   and other talk.   {warning:  another rambler.}

Good J stopped by this afternoon with some work. Cause for opening the box of delicate family teacups & saucers---each one distinct, with more saucers than cups (looks like at least 3 or 4 lovely little vessels bit the dust somewhere along the way). When we found these among my mother's things, Holly showed me how to know an especially fancy teacup by holding it to the light, and some of these, it seems, are indeed officially fancy. It'll be a trick to find the place for them to reside, but I'll do it. I like them, though they contain the duel bittersweetnesses of association with the two versions of my family & the unrealized with each.

That man J is a good man. But I sorta said that, didn't I. And if you know him you knew it a'ready. I feel a little formal with him yet---not fancy teacup formal, though. Something about respect for depth of heart. How formality relates there it's hard to say. Still unarticulated in my head.

For a bit this morning the possibility occurred to me that something'd come up and he'd not make it. In recent weeks I've had a few somebody-comin'-overs in which the expected parties haven't come after all, and/or at least the plan's changed quite a bit. Items procured for the non-eventualities remain about the place.

I sense that the locus of the flavor of the falling through and unrealized has shifted for me from internal to external. I'm no rock (nor no i-iiisland, as P. Simon might have it), but I'm my rock. You know, anchor-wise-speaking. I am what I can count on best. I am by far the one most interested in me and my life.

I shan't tack on the "master of my fate, captain of my soul" bit the pre-teen me thought was deep enough to write down when I read it quoted in some hip, typographically groovy c.1970 English textbook aimed at the (generation of incredibly catered-to) collegiate youth of the day. I don't go there not just cuz it'd be too over-the-top barfy, but cuz it's not what I mean anyway, though it mighta looked like that was where I was going. What I want to say is that something's different, and I suspect it's irreversibly so. But it's all fuzzy and unformed, some kind of emotional perspective that becomes theoretical in the telling, in the very attempt at sussing it out.

Being a free agent has some parts within which I know I don't work so well. It also has its advantages. Pleasures, even, though I'm not to the point of experiencing them that (direct/visceral) way much of the time. Free agency may even have the potential to help the direct-experience-challenged get at that directness more, or better, or more often. Provided we can survive the horrible parts, and relegate them to something less than first chair in the emotional, uh, violin section of the, uh/ugh, orchestra of life.

Obliquely on the subject, at best (there's a subject here?, you ask): the residents of Tiramisu House are the best thing since sliced bread. Hell, they're better than sliced bread. I'd gladly rip hunks from the loaf, peasant-style, and sop up the soup, eschewing the sandwich, in exchange for their company. (Okay, I actually like tearing hunks of bread off the loaf like that, but that's not my point.)

I have the day off tomorrow. Plan to work on getting together a box to send to my brother's before the gathering at the end of the week. Yep, it's holiday time, a.k.a. suicide season. Here's to strength and unshakiness for the vulnerable.

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