still life with idiots

Several years ago, I was alone on the boat, looking forward to another New Year’s Eve without a date — the Captain was out to sea — and out of boredom, I wrote a song.

It was the night before New Year’s Eve. The song, I’ve since forgotten, except that I’d written it in three-quarter time, which tells me I’d been listening to too much Aimee Mann, and this chorus:

It’s not what you know,
It’s the things you believe
On the night before New Year’s Eve.

I was trying to capture the feeling of winding down the year and taking stock before the parties to celebrate the new year begin. Clearly, this is the wittiest, most profound song ever created about the day before a holiday. I don’t understand its lack of popularity. It had a very pretty tune.

Anyway, tonight — another night before New Year’s Eve, I’m thinking about what I believe, and questioning it. “Certainty is the opposite of wisdom,” says some long-dead philosopher, and I give him a thumbs-up. Certainty gets you into the fight; wisdom keeps you out of it.

I’m no longer certain I’ll recover from my illness. My fear is not that I’ll kick the bucket in six months, but that I’ll linger on, getting slowly weaker, subsisting on caramels from the 99-cent store and being forced to live within an impossibly strict budget. That’s the worst thing I can imagine for my situation: enforced poverty and slowly declining health.

So, on New Year’s Eve, I’m going to light some candles, put on warm pajamas, and be as comfortable as I can. Maybe do a tarot spread for the coming year, have a glass of pink Champagne. Yes, I’m ringing in the new year alone. I feel relatively well, my mind is functioning, and it feels almost luxurious to not join the throngs of dancing, drinking partiers to get showered with glitter or balloons at midnight. I may do it next year, but this year feels like a good one to stay in and enjoy the warmth of home. I’m happy to be alone.

Your excitement and/or nausea at the prospect that I’m going to detail my sex life are unfounded. The action was all in a movie starring the ultra-intense Tom Cruise and a lot of explosions. It’s traditional in my family that sometime in the days after Christmas, we all go to dinner and a movie, and I always go along with whatever the group choice is. I don’t really care, as long as I get to go, so I end up seeing movies I probably wouldn’t have picked. Whatever, it’s fun, and truly: Tom Cruise’s wig in the final scene was, to me, worth the price of admission. (Full disclosure: my ticket was paid for by someone else.)

One of the previews shown was for the 3D re-release of Titanic, and I flashed on seeing it in San Francisco, in a theatre in the Marina. I used to have a phobia about movie theatres when I lived in that city. It manifested as a neurotic fear that I would be shot in the head from behind. It kept me out of most theatres for quite a while. Interestingly, I experienced that fear only in San Francisco, cannot explain why, and then forgot about it until recently. What was that all about?

In other news, there’s some kind of drama brewing, family drama. I got a hint of it tonight, but I don’t have enough details to, say, explain it to you in the form of a one-act play, or compare it hyperbolically to a much larger drama, say, the Hindenburg. (Sorry, I’m kind of stuck on explosions. It’s Tom Cruise’s fault.) The scant knowledge is making me a little uneasy, but I will let it go, as there’s nothing I can do at this moment.

Anyway, I’m going to bed. This morning, I woke myself up speaking a single word aloud, either “swell” or “still.” Let’s see what tomorrow will bring.

(Gratuitous photo of some pretty party dresses. I had another shopping dream last night.)

I had a little quiet time to myself this evening, which I used to overthink things and irritate myself. I also reread some recent posts I’d written, an activity that should take place more often, because: damn, do I repeat myself a lot, with the added charm of thinking each time that I’ve had some startling new insight.

I’d love to chalk this repetition up to chemo or opiates, but I may always have been this way. How would I know? Things to watch for in the future. I’ll add it to the list.

After a lovely Christmas, I felt the Bitch of Christmas Yet to Come sneak up, and she’s threatening to take over. Why? Partly tiredness, probably, and a myriad of little concerns that the anticipation of Christmas easily masks, for me, anyway. Well, Christmas has come and gone, and I think I just set a land speed record for racing to the top of Mt Crumpet, heart three sizes too small.

In the midst of my grinchiness, I picked a fight (minor) with the Cyclone. Unnecessary, but he seemed like a convenient outlet at the time. I believe that’s how most assholes pick their battles. Which is not to say I am an asshole. I’m really not, most of the time. Most of the time.

This was me tonight: (See illustration)

ILLUSTRATION

But with dark, unkempt hair.

Tomorrow, I’ll have to apologize and all that, and mean it. There’s probably some overthinking I can do about that, as well. Without getting into the nitty gritty, I will just say, in my defense, that the argument I started was not wholly unreasonable. It’s just that I didn’t really have to start it on Christmas, after what had otherwise been a beautiful day. Genuinely beautiful, with sun and presents and egg nog and everything.

In other news, I was driving downtown tonight, and a black cat ran across the street on the other side of the intersection I was about to cross. I am just superstitious enough that I hit the blinkers and turned left onto a side street, so that he wouldn’t cross my path. I can’t take a lot of chances right now.

Anyway, I’m going to put my troubles down for the night, spit out this gum I’ve been chewing, and watch Murder, She Wrote until I fall asleep. I hope that you’re all having sweet dreams.

When I got home tonight, this was waiting for me:

It was unsigned, and contained a skein of mulberry-colored yarn, some lovely tea, a wonderful t-shirt featuring a sketch of bears arguing over a game of Guitar Hero, and in the toe, little candy bars. Thank you, Santa! It made me very happy.

The candy in the toe reminded me of one Christmas when I was very young. To see what would happen in the year between Christmases, I left one salted peanut in its shell, in the toe of the stocking my grandmother had brought from Denmark when I was born. It was made of burlap, and printed “God Jul,” with fir branches. I loved that stocking.

The following year, the stockings came out of the attic. Instead of the peanut, my stocking had a small hole at the toe, where a mouse had gnawed through the fabric to get at the peanut. The hole went unrepaired, and seeing it each year made me glad, thinking of my little secret experiment.

I’m in my apartment, in full present-wrapping chaos, watching A Christmas Story and just about ready to go to sleep.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, now.

And if you don’t celebrate the holiday, then have yourself a merry little Sunday, and let your heart be light.

There’s a little bit of misery at my house right now, just a little.

I spent much of the day talking to various government agencies, answering questions about my “disability.” They get very personal, those questionnaires. Ungentlemanly, even. I get through it by pretending I’m being interviewed for a fabulous magazine. At any rate, I mention the phone only because it is, especially at this time, where I’m trying to figure out how to get the assistance I need, a lifeline of sorts. At the very least, a very important tool.

My cat, not normally snuggly, is cuddled up very close to me, possibly trying to suck up, in light of what just happened. I was just drifting off to sleep when the cat overturned a glass of water and, in the ensuing chaos, my phone landed in the puddle. Now, it thinks the headphones are plugged in, and so I can’t hear it ring or talk without using the speaker. That will be very helpful when I talk to the lawyers who are helping me deal with Social Security. I guess I could just leave the headphones plugged in all the time and just talk that way, but it’s frustrating, and a new phone isn’t really in the budget right now.

I’m feeling very disheartened after talking to the various government agencies today, and unsure what to do next. It is eye-opening to see how difficult the system is to navigate. It’s a little more frightening to learn the figures, to see just how little my income from these agencies might be.

It’s so boring to talk about money. I’m just keyed up because of the intensity of the phone conversations today, combined with the reality of my situation (stage IV liver cancer, uncertain prognosis, yadda ya, I know, you know).

I’ve often wished that I could go back in time and visit myself during times when things looked dire. I would tell my younger self — or leave a note, or something — telling myself not to worry, that everything works out all right, Love, Future Violet.

Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about anything right now. I plan to calm my mind, snuggle with the cat (he didn’t intend to overturn the water), watch King of the Hill, and drift off to sleep. Oh, and take a Xanax. Nights like this are why God made Xanax.

It’s going to be ok.

Love,
Future Violet

The trees do come in threes! Today, a gorgeous Christmas cactus arrived, courtesy of my dear friend Craige. The plant is in bloom, and the pale flowers look beautiful with my monochromatic Christmas decorations.

Also arrived today: an unexpected book. And when I describe it as unexpected, I do not mean only that I did not know it was being sent. Everything about this book is startling, from the lurid cover showing a long, black-stockinged pair of female legs in high red heels against a background of red velvet, to the title (“Fever in France”), to the contents. On first glance, it appears to be a romance novel. I couldn’t account for its arrival until I looked at the aforementioned title page and read this statement:

Fever in France

Violet Veronica White
&
Jeff Barris

It was then that I recognized the handiwork of my best friend Sue B. Violet Veronica White is, of course, me. Jeff Barris was the vice-principal in charge of discipline at the high school we attended. He was stern and impersonal; not someone I had previously considered in a romantic context. In the book, he is described as driving a white Pacer, which I think we can all agree us the sexiest of all cars.

I’ve only begun to read the book. I have to stop every other page or so, as the narrative is not only absurd, but deeply graphic, and makes me laugh out loud, and then shudder.

When I thanked Sue B for the book, she said, “Well, you’ve been dreaming of Paris and a new romance… I just took a little poetic license.” The first chapter has Mr Barris and me joining the Mile High Club, described in vivid detail, so I’m curious to see where this poetic license takes me.

Reading lurid descriptions of myself performing distressing sexual acts with the former vice-principal of my high school reminds me of a story an actor friend of mine once told me. While Googling his own name, he came upon a site devoted to amateur erotic fan fiction, starring himself. This revelation led to a barrage of questions from me, many of which he was too discreet to answer. When pushed, of course I pushed and so would you have, he reluctantly revealed that the woman who had written the stories spent a lot of time describing what she was wearing in each scene. I was unable to find the site when I looked, which I think is a real shame, but there you have it.

And so, now I have my own Parisian sexcapade experience, thanks to Sue B. She really does know me well. My fictional self even listens to Jonathan Richman, a nice detail. Sure, it’s distressing to read about myself having passionate encounters with the man who almost didn’t let me graduate from high school on a variety of trumped-up charges, but that is what erotic fan fiction is all about: bringing the fantastic to life.

I’ll get her back. I’m not sure exactly how, but I’ll get her back.

In the meantime, y’all be careful what you wish for.

I have a weekly lunch scheduled with my uncle, his girlfriend, and his sister (my aunt, duh). We meet at various restaurants in town, and it’s invariably very merry. That is the best word for it, really. It’s one part talking, one part laughing, one part gossip, and two parts eating food. Today’s lunch took place at a restaurant whose dining area is dominated by a larger-than-life-size silver art deco statue of a man extending his arms. Startling! I did not photograph it, to spare your dreams.

Lunch was delicious, and afterward, my aunt and I went shopping. She is big on shopping the local stores, which I support. I am taking it one step further this year, by shopping from my own home. It’s as local as I can get, and I have a lot of stuff. Plus: economical. I probably won’t go as far as the grandma in Christmas Vacation, by wrapping up my cat, but I don’t want to rule it out. I’m on a lot of opiates.

My aunt and I wandered into an antique store, where she found some items she liked, and we admired a wonderful tinsel tree with a very natural shape. Seeing it reminded me that I’d neglected to get out my old aluminum tree this year. It’s in storage, along with my wedding china, my chandelier, and my previous cat, taxidermied into a fierce, Grizzly-like stance.

My aunt bought the tree, and presented it to me at the car. Delight! And surprise! I took it home and found a place for it, like so:

The key to taking good pictures like I do is: A) use your camera phone and B) shove all the dirty laundry and back issues of Town & Country out of the way, for maximum elegance. (No charge for this free lesson. It’s the season of giving.)

I have so far been given two surprise small-scale Christmas trees (Chelle’s graces the front hall table, where its lights shine beautifully for Kong to bat at). Don’t these things, like celebrity deaths, come in threes? I think so, too. I am just so happy that my apartment looks so festive, thanks to kind friends and family.

It feels cheerful and warm, if typically disarrayed, and I have Sue B’s gift I wasn’t supposed to open early but did, a beautiful Agraria fragrance diffuser in my favorite scent, Bitter Orange, by my bed. The box came in the mail with the return address reading “Gump’s,” and it never occurred to me to delay gratification. I ripped that sucker right open, for maximum elegant behavior.

And isn’t that the real spirit of Christmas? No. It is not. I’m sorry: I have no real wisdom to impart. I’m just happy about my two trees, and my fragrance diffuser, and this chair, and this paddle-ball game. That’s all I need.