After a great feeling from yesterday, today has been....everything but.
Blogsurfing, my morning ritual with my newly acquired coffee making talents, was started, a comment or two made, and then I was off on an errand.
I returned to continue, as all habits must be done before real things can continue. Lo and behold, one of my favourite journals is now invitation only... and I'm not invited, in spite of dual linkage. With my natural paranoia...I'm the one who thinks I'm the murderer in those murder mystery games, even when I know full well I'm not....I presume I've offended. I go over my overly mothering posts and emails. Nope. I did make an anon comment, overly mothering, and admitted to it in an email. Nope. I can't sit and fret. I will, but, that's silly. So, one link on my list of links will take you nowhere. Shame, it was a clever little journal.
Next, I discover that an issue that was eating at me for the past week, something so huge it was going to cut my living in New York to moving back to the land of Utes, something I thought was fixed, reared it's head at the 11th hour. It may not be resolved after all. I may, indeed, find that my days in this city I've grown part of are over. I've cried for an hour, done what I can to mend it, scrambled to resolve things from far away, fielding calls from two sides of the US, and now wait.
A play I saw last week has kept me in emotional chaos, bringing up old wounds from childhood and reminding me why I've cut myself from two brothers to one. Why I have limited contact with my mother.
I'm a Neil LaBute fan. I've had the pleasure of seeing a few of his works on stage, and in being in a limited directors cut of another.
Last week, I saw In a Dark, Dark House down on Christopher Street.
You can look up the actors and the plot online... it's a typical LaBute...no intermission, three acts...around 90 minutes. And, since there is a twist or two, I won't be telling much about what happens.
For me, what happened was crying. Quite a bit of silent crying. I watched pieces of me scatter across the stage. Two siblings, one the Golden Child, one...well, one not so beloved. Interaction, seeking of acceptance, lurching through life, sharp wit and words that cut the air. His best work? No...I always think each new piece is his best, but, since I know the next will top it...I have to say no. Riveting? Yes. Intense? Oh, yes. As always, there is an ending that lets you draw your own conclusions, as he loves to do. We all wondered in Wrecks, what did Ed Carr say to JoJo when she was dying. What four words did he whisper to the woman he claimed was the greatest love of all times, yet, he spent his life keeping a lie to retain that love? In that play, in this one, in all LaBute's work, the underlying bedrock is love. How we seek it, how we react to it, how we reject it...what we will do for it, how we throw it away. Man's inability to understand this emotion, this word that is second only to cancer as the scariest word we know. This work, however, touched me in personal ways.... times like this, I wish I had connections so I could talk to this playwright, and ask, "What was in your head? In your heart? What drove you?"
With this hovering over me, under me, with missing my support system, with suddenly feeling I've hurt someone I don't know, with the fear I may lose my dream here.... even with mastering my coffee pot, with the words I read from people who post that mean a great deal, with the emails I send back and forth, the dogs who hover over me, knowing something is wrong...one of them sitting here keeping my feet very clean as I type... I have this achy part that won't go away.
Someone asked on another journal what happens to people who give their lives to take care of people.... you end up looking around going, "What do I do now? There is no one to touch."
But, you know, like the lady with the green eyes said, "Tomorrow is another day.".