Postcards from the Edge

January 31, 2005

Last night, X and I went to a first really boring meeting. The speaker was sober for 11 years, but completely bland and uninspiring. We left after she spoke, and went to a much better one. Then, on the way back to the car, X spotted something in the parking lot and picked it up. It was a bag of meth, very full.

"What should I do?" he asked.

We didn’t want to leave it there in case someone on the verge of slipping found it after us and read it as a sign.

"Throw it out. Just throw it out." I advised.

There wasn’t a trash can in sight, and we had visions of cops and helicopters swooping down if we took two steps with it. So X just buried it in some bushes and we fled to the safety of the car. I thought of Stevie Wonder’s "Living for the City," where the rube from the country gets a five-dollar baggie of dope thrust in his hand at the bus station and is immediately arrested and put into prison.

We had spent the afternoon hanging artwork at the beautiful house of X’s friend R., because today a very dear old friend of X’s who is also an art collector is flying in from North Carolina. He is coming to see the art (he knew X in a former life and knew nothing about it) this afternoon. We are both a bit nervewracked that something beyond our control is somehow going to screw things up.

I parked my car last night down the street from where there was a "Temporary Tow Away Zone" sign, having no choice as there were no other spaces available, Happily, I was indeed far away enough, but I had a scary moment rounding the corner and thinking I had parked it closer, and it was gone. It was not.

Yesterday, I managed to make it to the flea market, and bought 10 old postcards for $2, fascinated by the messages on the back. They will go beautifully into some future art piece, several are in French and from Lourdes, circa 1914. I was transfixed for a good hour, finding the best postcards. Then when I was reading Joyce Carol Oates’ "When We Were the Mulvanneys" last night, a central character finds herself in her mothers barn, full of antiques. She spends the better part of an hour reading the antique postcards her mothers sells. Mmmhhh…

I also got what I call "The Bloggers Bible" or "The Art of the Personal Essay" put together by Philip Lopate. (A steal at $3, it is a big book). It is a superbly done compilation, and I am committed to reading an essay a night. The first was by Seneca, the Roman historian, and is called "Noise." He talked about how it is the noise in your head that takes precedence over the noise outside (with wonderful descriptions of the cacophony of ancient Roman daily life). He writes that even the rich man with a quiet country estate will be followed by the noise of turbulent dreams if his life is full of inner tumult.

I, of course, then dreamt about driving. My worst dreams, because in them, I invariably can’t reach the pedals, can’t see over the steering wheel, or can’t get my hand out from under the seat belt. But the oddest part was that in the first part of the dream, before I insisted taking over for insurance reasons, I was in the back. My mother was in the front passenger seat, and a woman I have never seen was driving us around New York.

I almost never dream about completely invented characters. Who was she? Why was she in my dream? And why was she so miffed when I insisted driving my own car? (Which I did, promptly, into oncoming traffic).

Still, this is an exciting day. X’s art looks wonderful in the house, and I anticipate a positive reaction from his old friend. We are all going out to dinner afterward.

MCO 2005