195: Elector's Dilemma

It's Halloween and I'm already looking towards the future, towards Election Day. I guess it's because I'm watching the Daily Show. And come on, Election Day is only a week away.

It's a day when we make choices, hoping that our choices are the right ones, the winning ones. We can hope and hope, but there will be times you will make wrong choices, and you'll end up feeling like some losing character in Mortal Kombat with the head decapitated with blood gushing up like Old Faithful.

But once a bad decision has been made, is there any saving grace? Can there be a do-over?

I don't know. Probably not.

So, if there isn't any saving grace or a do-over, I guess you have to let the consequences of the bad choice run their course, and come next Election Day you will make the right choice. A choice based on facts, not on suppositions and fear.

So, people, I plead with you. Help us take back the Senate and the House!

194: Unsettled

What do people normally do when they're unsettled?

Before I start silencing my thoughts and emotions by watching TV, I'm going to make a bold statement: I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I might have made a mistake. Or maybe I'm justing running away. No wonder! I'm afraid my insecurity and doubt are gripping me so tight, I have no other choice but flee.

So, tell me, what do people normally do when they're unsettled?

Maybe when I wake up tomorrow morning, the world will be different. But for now, it's time for me to kill any form of cognition I have.

193: And There Was...

And there was a carving of pumpkins. And may I add, considering the last time I craved a pumpkin was when I was nine, it turned out pretty cute. It's a scared yet adorable face with jazz hands. Now I've a strong craving for a pumpkin pie. Anyway the thing is I was supposed to carve it at a party. Well... okay, I did make it to the party, but yours truly, true to his clumsy, inept form, arrived late... correction: beyond late: all the guests had left and the apartment had been cleaned. But it was all good because the host and I spent a couple of hours the next morning, while watching "Nightmare Before Christmas," carving pumpkins. So, yes, there was a carving of pumpkins.

And there was a breaking of a CD player. Shit happens! Yet the host blames me. Really! Totally not my fault. If I can look the other way... Fine, sure, yes, I did spill hot chocolate on his couch. That he can blame me for as much as he wants, because it was my fault. But I will not take the blame for the CD player. So there!

And there was a viewing the throng of runners. A friend of the host was running the Marine Corps Marathon and we went to it to cheer her on. Unfortunately, we did not see the friend. But there was plenty of shivering. Note to self: I think I want to run one in the future. but first, Get. In. Shape.

Hahahahaha... I'm making it sound like a lot of things went wrong this weekend. Maybe. Maybe not.

Oh, there was some unrestful nights, too.

And there was a look of "Oh, he's so nasty" followed with a shrug of "whatever" this morning.

Hmm... maybe a lot of things did go wrong. Or maybe not?

192: Slumming With A Pissant Mop

I power-walked to my office this morning. I didn’t need to wake up at 6:40 to get to work at 9:00. I didn’t need to take the subway, a door-to-door commute of 1 hour. I walked! Because since last night, I’ve become a Manhattanite, but only temporarily: I’m house-sitting for my cousin. (Yes, I am a New Yorker, but I don’t live in Manhattan. Get over it!) I get to live in her fab, two-bedroom apartment for two weeks! Well, actually, more so than house-sitting, I’m dog-sitting her sweet, affectionate, little puppy-dog, Bebe. For the life of me I can’t recall what her breed is called, but I know I’ve seen her kind in a movie before. And during the walk, it hits me: Bebe’s the same breed as the dog from “As Good as It Gets.” Now, I can be like Greg Kinnear, imitating Jack Nicholson: "Verdell. What's wrong? You miss the tough guy? Well, here I am, sweetheart! Happy to see me, you little pissant mop? How 'bout another ride down the chute?”

191: "So I Did Sit and Eat"

The rhythmic rocking of the rail car carries me across to a gilt gates of gentle slumber. With a rude jolt I awake to find an idyllic dream intertwined with reality's confusing Sprawl, now all tethered to the bedrock of Memory. There, they will stay; Here, I take my step.

Camille Paglia in her book, "Break, Blow, Burn," says that religion and sex are intertwined in Renaissance and Baroque art, like in Berlini's Ecstasy of St. Teresa. Inspired by the Holy Bible, Christian theologians interpreted the book of the Song of Songs as "an allegory of the bridegroom Jesus knocking at the door of the female soul." The Song of Songs portrays, if I remember the book correctly, the male lover as the epitome of masculinity, virile and potent. Just imagine Jesus, the hot bod lover, knocking, ready to enter the door of your soul. My mind conjures up an ever so puerile image and I giggle. But I think: if the ecstasy of knowing the Divine is akin to or is better than the ecstasy of sex, should the Church continue to frown on non-procreative sex? What if the soul is masculine?

But let's let these debates wage elsewhere. It's a dream I want to capture. The dream that was prompted by a poem I read just shortly before my eyelids amassed great weights. It's George Herbert's "Love."

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack'd any thing.

In my dream, I am at a fancy dinner party, no, I'm sitting a table across from the dinner party, gawking longingly at it, when this beautiful guy gets up from his circle of friends, walks over, and extends his hand to me. "Join us," he says, giving me a smile that can melt ice. I jump up, thrilled, to extend my hand. But I notice that I have on my unfashionable yet comfortable bum clothes, which unfortunately has a funk. Compared to the other party guests, I am inadequate in every way. As his hand touches mine, I feel my hand grow weak and limp. I'm consumed with shame.

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkinde, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?

He pulls me up and drags me to the table, he places a seat next to his and leads me to it. He sits and shifts his seat closer to mine. The chinks and clinks of utensils fade, the murmurs of jovial conversations dissipate, and all the people there turn to shadow. We are left alone, me and him. "You are hot," he whispers, and for a brief split second, I believe him. But doubt fuels me and I fall from grace.

Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame?
My deare, then I will serve.
You must sit downe, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.

The table is filled up with an array of delectable appetizers. I nibble, peck, and taste everything I can see, hold, and have. With pure abandonment. Without a care in the world, he also nibbles, pecks, and tastes. Then yet when the entrée is served up, the sheer grandiosity of it freezes me. Can I eat it with my hand? Of course not. Do the fork go to my right and the knife to my left? Oh, which fork must I use? What if I don't eat it perfectly? Paralysis. I excuse myself. On my return, the plate is gone (or was it I who took the plate away?). But he takes me by my hand and offers dessert. So, I sit and eat.

So I did sit and eat.