DOWN A BRUISED ROAD TOWARD BLIND DECISIONS

 96 of #100daychallenge

Trying to fight off a toxic mood. I worked hard on a class tonight, which was the last of this series. Sadly, only three people showed up. I suppose this is just another day in the life of a yoga teacher and part of what you have to be flexible about. One preps for one thing and finds another is what is needs to be taught. At least I can use this class next week, if I even have any students. The next session starts Tuesday and I will have fewer students this time around. One of them will be my neighbor, Sally, and that will be nice. The others didn't come this week, so I have no way of judging their enthusiasm. I know I should not be discouraged but I am.

As I finally, after getting Janet to Dominoes (!!!), sat down to write, my freezer would not close. Even after jettisoning some things, I could not get it to latch. Nor did I have the time to really troubleshoot it as I needed to write the class. So I was grouchy and not in a light mood. Then I got a last minute text that I needed to pick up a friend who had a stroke and can't drive anymore.

And he is a story unto himself. I neither want to slag him nor gossip, but one sees the cost of being poor and growing old in this country with not much family. He self isolates (I raise my hand here, too) and spends almost all of his time looking at social media. And why not. I spend time every day looking for a little dopamine rush on ebay and etsy, scouting Vera Neumann needlepoint and stitchery kits (I have an adequate supply now). I just want the visual stimulation. I do this the way your car might idle, waiting for a direction to zoom into. And sometimes I play solitaire but it doesn't do it for me. I get stuck in an overwhelmed neutral.

But we weren't talking about me. We were talking about my friend who is losing control of his hands, who has lost his hearing, who doesn't bother to bathe or wear clean clothes and then comes to class. He's musty at best. His beard is unkempt and his hair is whorls of cotton candy. He is visibly depressed but too disorganized and proud to seek appropriate health care, although he qualifies. He doesn't always pay attention to my instructions, but other times, he does try although I can see it is hard for him. I am unsure of what to do. He has an older iPhone he doesn't know how to turn off and he kept getting texts today. His social skills have deteriorated to the point where he didn't remember the grace to apologize to the other students. 

Whew. I came home very concerned and therefore cross as I deflected my feelings of sadness. Even the salad I was going to eat for dinner was soggy so I moved on to a gin and tonic. 

I finally addressed getting my printer up and running. , As I bought it about six years ago, I don't have any CD-ROM or serial number so no luck getting help. I have scarcely used it so should work fine, but then there is that out of date thing. Well, I managed to get it plugged in so there is power, and then I ordered the replacement cord that got lost in the shuffle of painting this room. So, a little bit of progress on one bugaboo in my life. It sure would be nice to be able to print. I almost bought another printer, but convinced myself to cool my jets and see if I could make this one work.

McCoy thought he would keep me company at my desk.

THE PROPHETS

I keep pushing this

wheelbarrow full of ambition

down a bruised road

toward blind decisions like roadsigns

in a language I cannot read

with my brother the general

and my frenzied companion

the inner voice I have come a long way

but the dead do not

wait they do not give a damn

about any of us

I search for this lost faces

in a field of broken mirrors and find

only my eyes shattered

as usual vacant as usual

and all the time the dead

know that they are doing

they attend classes in forgetting

and come out with diplomas of silence

from nests in their ripe mouths

the aisles of teeth open like wings

and fly away

I shout to them across the distance I

tell them the worst thing

that can happen has happened

but they rise out of themselves

laughing silently watching

their fingers drip from their hands

letting them go

— Richard Shelton, Selected Poems, 1969-1981, University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, 1982