PINK SATIN PLATFORM HEELS ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD by OrB Weaver

~When the stars align correctly, Cronehenge receives a message from OrB Weaver.~

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PINK SATIN PLATFORM HEELS

ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

 

              It was a very long winter in Southern Delaware.  So, its early summer and I finally get out for a drive early one morning with no specific destination in mind: just to relish in the cool morning air after days of wet heat.  I leave the house at a relatively early (for me) hour, around 7 a.m. to beat the heat.  And oh, it’s Sunday.

              This is rural Southern Delaware in an area commonly known as Long Neck.  It is half way between Millsboro to the West, and Lewes to the East.  Now, I very rarely have the need (nor the temper for the tourists, those morons) to go to Lewes, and so my primary route of travel is on the same road, but in the opposite direction.  State Route 24 runs from Lewes to Millsboro, where it crosses Route 113 and becomes something else on the other side at some point.  Three years and I have not quite figured out the country roads.  Anyway, I run the miles mostly between Long Neck and Millsboro to 113 for doctors, my library, Lowes, Fulton Bank and lots of family restaurants.  It’s the best way to get from one side of the state to the other, but ... it’s two lanes, mostly passing restricted (which stops no one), but with quite a few areas that allow passing for brief sections.  As a result, it has the highest fatality rate of any Delaware state road.  That’s quite an accomplishment.  Misplaced, but notable.    

              On this particular morning there was quite a bit of fairy fog lying in the low field areas and in low-lying woodland.  The sun was shining, reflecting off the mist, and everything was covered in soft sparkles of light.  Just as I move into a curve into an area of woods, on the side of the road I see something ...  no, two things ... lying there, obviously discarded from a vehicle, two platform high heel satin strap pumps in what the ‘50s used

 to be called “Titty Pink,” and omigod, it was a note from the Cosmos.

First and foremost, now I know there is at least one other person as totally spontaneous and psychotic as I am.  Hooray for my side.  Bless you sister, I wish I knew who you are.  But it will have to be enough to know that at least one time, in an absolute fury of independence, I can see  you in my  mind’s eye, a word, a look, a ‘tsk’ pointed towards you, you took OFF those ComeFuckMe shoes and heaved’em out a car window, because you had come to the end of the line of ridicule, abuse, torture, hypocrisy, or because the wedding was such a flop, you  actually felt some blame, so you tossed them to restore some balance in your universe.  I threw my shoes out the car window at 70 miles per hour, bright forest green satin, the guy behind me in the semi was surely waiting for the body.  But that was my freedom gesture.  And shoes make a statement.  Shoes are like ... “I’d rather go barefoot than walk one more foot in these shoes that I wouldn’t wear if it weren’t for you ...”

              So to say I had an immediate kinship with the former owner of those magnificent shoes (think Joan Crawford, think early Bette Davis, or Lana Turner), because shoes say it all.  And she was certainly giving some man a big  FUCK YOU.  The only reason we wear those tortuous designs is because it is part of female DNA, programmed to believe that shoes actually sell sex.  And, yes.  They do.  And we allow it to continue, because even if we accept it’s bad for us, it’s always been fun to be bad.

              You go, girl, you of the pink platforms.  I almost went back and retrieved them, but I thought, no, that’s none of my business and I shouldn’t interfere in what was so obviously a very strong signal to someone.  So I left them there in the hope that everyone will wonder and everyone will have a story, but you have sent a clear message of being just plain fed up.  You get mad enough, anything’s possible.  Even something good.

              Or, of course, you might have just hated the shoes. 

 

Orb Weaver

July 8, 2015

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT...by Orb Weaver

by Orb Weaver--an old friend who wishes to remain anonymous--
about the effect of daily knives in the heart

 

 

Do not go gentle into that good night…

 

 

This has been a wretched week, not just for me, but certainly for all of humanity.  Wars rage on throughout the Middle East, and thousands of Yazidi refugees perch on a mountain in Iraq, their only crime their choice of religion; the streets in Ferguson, Missouri are blazing in retaliation for yet another shooting of an unarmed young black man by a white police officer; half of the continent is flooded, the other half is in drought and/or on fire; and Robin Williams finally lost his long battle against depression and addiction.  To me, that was the worst of the lot, the rug pulled out from under one of the brightest stars in the universe in a cosmic vaudeville-like stichk, but without the laughter to break the fall. 

 

 

No one saw it coming.  Really?  I was shocked beyond speech, yet not surprised.  I have watched his manic antics for over thirty years, laughing until I could not breathe, and yet … and yet … there was something else there, something sad, something scary, that he struggled to conceal, to fight, to push under the surface.  His genius was undeniable, like others before him.  Richard Pryor.  Freddie Prinz.  Andy Kaufman.  Lenny Bruce.  John Belushi.  All of them absolutely bat-shit crazy, and Robin was their King.  Without exception, they all suffered from depression and addictions, and in the end, they all lost their battles.

Let me tell you what I know.  I know about depression.  I know about addiction.  And I know that I could never explain it completely to anyone who has not experienced it firsthand.  Knowing someone who suffers from either or both doesn’t count; not even if they are a blood relative, not your brother, your sister, your mother, your father, your child.  Because all you know or see or experience is the fallout from the illness.  And that won’t explain it for you, because you’re probably tired of dealing with the family drunk or the neighbor nutbag, or your teenager who just seems to be in a rage all the time, for no good reason.  Your only question seems to be “Why?”  It’s like riding a Harley; if I have to explain it, you wouldn’t understand anyway. 

I was diagnosed with clinical depression in my late ‘teens, although I know I suffered from it way before that, as far back as elementary school.  Happiness didn’t exist for me but people didn’t understand that.  I was smart, I was talented, I was a loser.  I had hints of personality disorders.  It was the ‘60s.  Enough said.

I’ve been on medication for years.  A couple of times I’ve attempted to wean myself off the antidepressants and the sleep meds, to no avail.  The affliction is truly worse than the cure; and at my age, all I want is to get through the day, and sleep through the night.  If I don’t take the meds, I crash, very quickly.  My brain chemistry goes into freefall.  I spend days in bed, in the dark.  I withdraw completely, from friends and family alike, with no explanation.  How do I explain what I don’t understand?  I cry.  Or I laugh inappropriately.  Everything in the world seems lost, without redemption, and it seems pointless to keep struggling.  I have had one very close call with suicidal ideation; I spent several hours late one night, by the water, with my .38 pressed so tightly against my forehead that the barrel left a red, circular indentation that lasted for days.  Even though it’s long gone, I can still see it when I look into the mirror.  It’s a constant reminder to me of just how bad it can get.  I believe that was a Waterloo moment for me that for some reason I was able to overcome.  I do not think about the next time.  I am a total work in progress; an hour at a time.

I have learned, through the years, that most folks consider depression a self-induced pity party, and tend to offer suggestions in the line of “Shape up,” or “Things will get better,” or, my favorite, “Count your blessings.”  I have also learned to ignore these directives, because while I believe them to be for the most part well-intentioned, they are also worthless.  If Robin Williams could not save himself, what chance have I?

And so, I compensate.  I use the good days to be creative, to try and be functional.  I read, I sew, I quilt, I listen to music.  I sit on my porch and listen to the owls and the peepers and all the things that go bump in the night.  I go sit by the ocean and pray for dolphins.  And I get by.  I wish that someone, somehow, had been able to save Robin, not by reaching out, but by reaching in. 

Forget about trees for a while; hug someone crazy instead.