Prose & Cons
hedonist
Posts: 24,524
Three pennies.
Three fucking pennies!
That was all she - the elderly woman ahead of me in the market checkout line - was trying to gather from her wallet with distracted hands, so she could get a couple of quarters back for laundry instead of random change after paying.
She acted as if I'd given her such a gift; even the cashier said it was nice of me to do.
Really? Something as simple and insignificant as that.
So I guess this is what we've been reduced to.
Giving a few coins now makes you a hero (or heroine, as the case may be). The expectation of someone helping someone else is so out the window that when it happens, no matter how seemingly trivial, it's thunderous.
Commendable.
Laudable.
And really, it shouldn't be. It should be commonplace, a reflex.
I'm glad I made her day. She made mine.
(although when she cornered me afterward to discuss the future phasing out of pennies, I had to stifle the urge to elbow her aside with an "outta my way, grandma, I'm on my lunch hour"
)
Three fucking pennies!
That was all she - the elderly woman ahead of me in the market checkout line - was trying to gather from her wallet with distracted hands, so she could get a couple of quarters back for laundry instead of random change after paying.
She acted as if I'd given her such a gift; even the cashier said it was nice of me to do.
Really? Something as simple and insignificant as that.
So I guess this is what we've been reduced to.
Giving a few coins now makes you a hero (or heroine, as the case may be). The expectation of someone helping someone else is so out the window that when it happens, no matter how seemingly trivial, it's thunderous.
Commendable.
Laudable.
And really, it shouldn't be. It should be commonplace, a reflex.
I'm glad I made her day. She made mine.
(although when she cornered me afterward to discuss the future phasing out of pennies, I had to stifle the urge to elbow her aside with an "outta my way, grandma, I'm on my lunch hour"
) Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
My Grandma always said, "Take care of the pennies and the dollars will take care of themselves." Rest her soul, she died April 15th, 2012 six weeks prior to her 87th birthday.
I guess dollars are our starting point, "Take care of the dollars, and the hundreds will take care of themselves." After all, the $100 is the new $20.
In every cloud, in every tree—filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day—I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men and women—my own features—mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!—Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
As the one living that life.
It's the age my father was when he died - twice mine at the time. To pilfer from a beloved show of mine - I saw the first half of my own life and the last half of his. And in my own words - both were / are beautiful. Worthy. Honorable.
I try to continue what he started.
I'm really sorry for your loss, and thank you for the lovely flow of your words. Rest her soul, indeed.
(what will be the new $100?)
Hers was a hard life to live; she struggled for many of those years. Yet, as time passed, she worked to ensure that things got ever better for those around her.
I hope I can do a fraction of what she did to do so much to make things better for so many.
I feel the new $100 is already a $1000.
I am sure I cannot see what lays beyond that; it is a breathless pace to maintain.
In every cloud, in every tree—filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day—I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men and women—my own features—mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!—Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
welcomes wasabi OD
at least twice a week.
Tears wiped and nose blown,
chopsticks reach for another.
I torture myself!
Till we meet again -
I declare my love for you,
spicy tuna roll.
frickin nice.
do you write often?
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
I'm just getting back into it after a break - I've missed its catharsis.
It's odd too, because liberating those words and thoughts is still therapeutic, whether typed or written by hand.
Release!
to the point of butterfly beauty
and one's very own inner torture chamber
i look forward to reading your stuff
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
Like Hedonist, I fade in and out.
For me, it's a courage problem.: sound of your own voice--a too much, never again, thing.
Hedonist, thank you for reminding me that the palate can be estringed by a plant to find meaning--
Chadwick, I have taken an extended vacation from your squirrels and have realized I missed them and their extentions of meaning.
It does not mean I will be any less skitish than they are.
Hedonist: thank you for opening my heart to the death of my grandmother. I've written pages to her/myself since your post. It's the best that I can do; especially for my mother who lost so much, as the daughter of a teen-aged mother who allowed her to cling to the only parent she had, who was the most loyal person to her through her entire life, through her last days, until the end.
Best regards.
In every cloud, in every tree—filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day—I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men and women—my own features—mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!—Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
"to the point of butterfly beauty
and one's very own inner torture chamber"
Gorgeous.
And penncee, that was sweetness, in your sentiments and eloquence.
Whether we dream or think of or speak or write to those gone, I believe it all still gets through. Perhaps that's the delusional/hopeful side of me or that energy - spirit - still exists after death. Never will know for sure...but I can say that my father has bear-hugged me as tightly in my dreams as he did when he was alive.
Maybe it's wishful thinking, maybe it's the subconscious trying to soften the scars (but never erase, as they shouldn't - and can't - be).
But it makes me realize more than I thought I already understood, that life and death go (bandaged) hand-in-hand.
when nothing would give me greater pleasure
than
dropkicking your selfrighteous moral highground ass
from here to the beginning of the horizon.
Then reason takes over, and I realize that doing so would make me as full of shit as I think you are.
So, I take pleasure in momentary fantasy instead.
(and really, it's quite good enough)
i know, i do the same thing
isn't is great
i'll give you my money
but you can't have my time
"what a long, strange trip it's been"
Love this!
1998: Barrie
2000: Montreal, Toronto, Auburn Hills
2003: Cleveland, Buffalo, Toronto, Montreal
2004: Boston X2, Grand Rapids
2005: Kitchener, London, Hamilton, Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto
2006: Toronto X2
2009: Toronto
2011: PJ20, Montreal, Toronto X2, Hamilton
2012: Manchester X2, Amsterdam X2, Prague, Berlin X2, Philadelphia, Missoula
2013: Pittsburg, Buffalo
2014: Milan, Trieste, Vienna, Berlin, Stockholm, Oslo, Detroit
2016: Ottawa, Toronto X2
2018: Padova, Rome, Prague, Krakow, Berlin, Barcelona
2023: Chicago X2
2024: New York X2
Giving it to / sharing it with things and people important to me?
Can do!
If, in its stead, I can give a few coins, a few bucks, some food, and it can make a difference, albeit a small one?
Can do, too!
(zarocat, thank you!)
I hung this print on the bedroom wall more than 20 years ago, when I first bought my (now mine and his) little home.
At the time and in years since, I've loved it for showing how distorted, how...off...our self-perceptions can be. In our reflection, do we see who we want to see, be, who we think we are? And where is the truth in that muck?
Now I look at that creation (the print, and myself), and see one side of me as the one looking in - probably the one who will always feel a child, a teenager, not even close to adulthood - and the other one who actually SEES herself, for better and worse...continually smacked in the face by lessons by which to (try and) learn and be humbled.
oh and this face!
Smile-lines, cry-lines,
life-lines.
Life.
I like how there are times when I can be on either side of that glass,to reflect, in and out.
And smile.
Writing while high, excellent.
Posting what was written while high?
Worthy of saving as a draft and second-thoughting it the next day.
Still, fun as all-fuck
For whatever reason, my heart 'dropped' after reading this.
1998: Barrie
2000: Montreal, Toronto, Auburn Hills
2003: Cleveland, Buffalo, Toronto, Montreal
2004: Boston X2, Grand Rapids
2005: Kitchener, London, Hamilton, Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto
2006: Toronto X2
2009: Toronto
2011: PJ20, Montreal, Toronto X2, Hamilton
2012: Manchester X2, Amsterdam X2, Prague, Berlin X2, Philadelphia, Missoula
2013: Pittsburg, Buffalo
2014: Milan, Trieste, Vienna, Berlin, Stockholm, Oslo, Detroit
2016: Ottawa, Toronto X2
2018: Padova, Rome, Prague, Krakow, Berlin, Barcelona
2023: Chicago X2
2024: New York X2
(all the precious moments)
Easiest one to begin with - touch.
From him holding me close to the point of "jeez, dad!" - embarrassed and at those awkward ages, too quick to shrug him off. But bless him, always over-hugged with his love, pride. Extra squeezes.
He did this from when I was a child to adult.
As an adult, I reveled in it - finally understood the limits of longevity.
As a child, dancing with him to the oom-pa-pah music in the German restaurant we frequented in those precious early days...my feet on his.
He carried me, lifted me, and we twirled.
There are few safer feelings in life, for me.
Last hug I got from him was the best, unforgettable. Not sure if for the beautifully-stubborn strength in his weakening arms, not sure if he (or I) knew it would be the last...
or just that it was what it was.
Strong, beautiful, lasting.
This is the fourth Father's Day since he died, and as I've done for the past three years, couldn't wait to begin thumbing (my way) through the photo album I put together in the days after, my favorite pictures and moments of him. Heart-on-sleeve kind of man he was...and even better, never apologetic for it. Proud of it, in fact.
Everything is finite...the tangible, that is.
I'm thankful memories are what they are, and not a sense. But oh how imprints on the senses remain.
Love you, dad. Thank you.
Nice! Yet another side of the ever-so-talented Hedonist. Good job, H!
Anyway, earlier I was watching Millian...it was a case of a mother being sued by her son over some wedding bullshit - seemed like a fucked up relationship all over the place. But Millian said (to paraphrase) that to see how your husband will treat you as your marriage goes on, observe how he treats his mother...that is the true indicator.
(I'd also say look at how they treat waitstaff - I hate that word; seems sniffy, but it suffices here - I guess, how they treat others in general.)
I am so fucking blessed to live this life with a man who (despite I'm sure gave her his share of shit growing up) ultimately treated his mother with respect, candor, kindness, humor...with himself.
And as the lovely judge said, "Once this gorgeousness (sweeping motion around her face) is gone, he'll still be there for me".
Much like how I feel
I missed this one before
very beautiful
True Love
Thank you, lovely writer
Five years ago from now, I was about three hours away from knowing my father gave the finger to hurting and pain and a blessed life, and said hello to the next realm.
(it's funny, I never saw him flip anyone off or even heard him swear beyond "goddamn" and "bullshit"...but when it was his time, I have no doubt there was a heartfelt fuck-you to his disease)
This morning after my shower, I had a smoke by the window and watched my city...still dark, 5:30-ish. It's part of my ritual...rest my back, think about the day, think about work, just...think.
(and play with the cats as they seek out belly-and-ear-rubs)
He wrote me a letter dated this date but twelve years earlier, talking about 9/11, which had happened a couple weeks prior. He always noted the time on his letters too. This one was timed 5:30am (coincidentally? the time I was born, lo these many years ago).
It's a brief but honest letter. Angry, trying to reconcile humanity - yet again...but so full of love and candor. I'm still honored, touched, he respected me so much to be that open.
In the half-dark, I tried to find that letter among the many cards and correspondences I've saved from the people I love. Sometimes they're a precious and comforting touchstone.
Still, I couldn't find it. Knew it was - IS - there. So wanted to read it, to see his distinct handwriting.
But, it's OK...it's practically memorized.
I'm truly smiling as I write this last part, because as much as I (still, always) miss him, that is so trumped by the everlasting effects of the kind of father and human being he was.
Here's to love and good memories