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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Potlucky Demons
Later That Same Evening I just got back from Sunny's going away potluck. And it was good--though, of course, I could eat next to nothing there. (I brought a big salad with me and had some fruit salad and pickles.) I ended up talking though, instead of stuffing my face, which is what I would have done at a potluck before. (I used to, at gatherings like that, feel like a recovering alcoholic must feel when they go to a party where alcohol is being served. I always used to pay attention to where and how much food was around. Sometimes I still do. Tonight for example, I found myself watching the desserts, and though I did not touch anything, I can tell you what there was to be had. (Brownie bites and key lime pie, just in case you were interested.) But instead I focused on socializing, talking a lot to J'me and Judi and Sunny and Martin. I also met Sunny's new girlfriend, a woman from Boston named Laura. She bought one of my cups that I had liked but put out for sale because the glaze had bubbled. (This is one of those potter's things where I cannot abide a piece that is otherwise fine but which has bubbled glaze. I hate it, it ruins the piece for me, but your average non-potter seems not to care. But it was a sale anyway.) I gave Sunny a piece as a remembrance of me, a piece that featured the face of The Aka Demon with an Ohm written in oxide on the forehead.) I talked a very little bit to Karla, the woman who annoys me very much. (That should be her Indian name) and to Martin, mostly about his kiln. (And you want to hear a potter's potter story? Well, Martin bought a gas kiln for five hundred dollars five years ago, and he has yet to pick it up. He's never fired it. However, he waxed gladly on about what a beautifully handbuilt kiln it was, with mortared bricks and two inches of insulation. And it is so sturdily built that it can't be moved from its present location. Now that's potters' shop talk in a nutshell.) But the big surprise of the evening was The Entitled Woman's coming over to ask if we could not be angry with each other, if we could be friends. And I was so taken aback by this (I had been waiting for her to come and confront me about some little bit of further revenge I took on her without saying anything to anybody), that I found myself being grateful to her that she was big enough to come and do this, that I put my arm around her and gave her a hug. The hug, of course, was barely reciprocated, but that's fine with me. It was a gesture that will have to stay in the moment. But the interesting thing about The Entitled Woman would really have to be the glimpse that I got into her private life this evening. Her husband (but not her adopted, anorexic daugher) came with her. They came in separate cars. He did not once touch her nor did he make eye contact with her. They did not converse overmuch. It was like they were ghosts to each other, and it made me very sad to see. I was able to see some of the emptiness that her life must hold and how this creates some void in her spirit. And a million "healing mirrors" would not be enough to make that better. But lest you find all this needlessly sentimental, I have to say that I still don't like the woman. (I could relate some little story about how her contribution to the potluck was a single jar of pickles that she dumped out and cut into tiny pieces. But it would be wrong of me to bring up her cheapness, so I won't tell about it.) I still would gladly rise to meet any challenge she issued, however small. I would still resort to being Bitter, Hateful Sublingua in her case, in other words. (And that might be giving too much power to her, but I don't care. It's so rare anymore that I find petty things over which to be enraged, so I'll take even the paltriest of excuses.) Being And Nothingness I once asked one of the kids (a twelve-year-old boy who I call The Tuneless Whistler) who works in the studio what he would make out of clay if he could make anything. "Nothing," he replied. He was serious in that he wanted to be able to represent Nothingness in clay. I said to him, "You don't know how much I appreciate that answer." Find Gratitude And It May Someday Return The Favor I am grateful. I am grateful for The Entitled Woman and her husband and their jar of pickles. I am grateful to Martin who said of my impromptu bean salad, "It was really good! I thought it was going to be some of that boring vegetarian crap, but I really liked it!" I am grateful to Judi's stories about her dearly-departed pet pig Myron. I am grateful. I am grateful for Sunny, for Laura, for the sale of an imperfect cup. I am grateful. I am grateful to Spineless Boy who gave me a spineless smile as I came in. I am grateful to the Spineless Boy Lookalike, who gave me the eye. Twice. I am grateful. I am grateful and it brings me some peace. I am grateful and it brings me some insight. I am grateful.
More lies:
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