13 January 2024
The problem with my being a writer, if there indeed is a problem with my being a writer, is that I do not have the time to read, research, and revel in the books that have brought delight to my creative mind — since childhood.
My childhood reading list was short on children’s books. I gave the kiddie-fiction a noble try, but after the reading aloud of Charlotte’s Web to me, and other children, in my 2nd-grade gifted class, by a truly wonderful elderly teacher, my subsequent two weeks of tears and nightmares steered me in the direction of adult-fiction.
I reacted a bit more calmly to Stuart Little, but not by much. I’d hate to have to live on the difference.
By the third grade, I was a confirmed non-consumer of children’s books; and the antipathy arose in me more because of the instructor than the bound-text of make-believe.
I’m of the strict and overly experienced opinion that the Baby Boomer women, and even a few of the men, who went into the comfort-zone of public-school education did not like children.
The gaunt, nervous Boomer gal who taught sewing to my 7th grade class of girls had conniptions over the monthly fluctuating changes to my pubescent waistline, thereby necessitating alterations to the waistband and zipper I was attempting to piece into a skirt. (The fabric was a very elegant cotton paisley in navy-blue and gold.)
“I wish your waistline would stay one size!” Mrs. R exclaimed.
“I wish you liked teaching sewing,” I replied.
Decades later, my encounters with the government-school “teachers” foisted on my own little tykes reinforced and expanded that extremely young insight into the misanthropic chicks and maids rapidly filling up the ranks of the U.S. government schools.
I thus sought reading-refuge in dictionaries and encyclopedias, books of older siblings (sometimes without their knowledge), and condensed versions of adult books, published by Reader’s Digest.
Reader’s Digest, in its original form, is no more, but so many brands, companies, and industries in the USA are no more. In one sense, it’s sad. In another sense, it’s liberating.
I can dream more freely in this vast expanse of wasteland that the “legacy” companies have left behind in their greedy wake of obscene profiteering off of the human condition. There’s an exquisite moral balance to it:
The scoundrels are getting what’s coming to them.
Of course, I don’t keep track of those Current Events, principally because The News, just like The Science, and The Weather, have become completely corporately manufactured, and like most globalist products, the merchandise is abysmal.
The Globalists have been, and continue to be, so busy buying up politicians that they’ve not noticed the vanishing of their consumer bases. I daresay The Corporation hasn’t the foggiest as to how many, precisely what percentage, of the buying public walked away from the globalist swindler-sump pumps during the past 20-30 years.
I experienced a small rant, a minor emotional eruption last week, over the dearth of decent clothing made in the USA for anyone of any age. If you’ve not honed in on a good retailer, located somewhere in the middle of Montana or Idaho, and not pay-listed on the Search Engine, then you’re likely following a tacky trail of synthetic frustration.
Just for fun, I typed “Women’s Clothing Made on The Moon” into the search engine, and the usual sicko suspects appeared, for several screen loads!
Years, in fact, decades ago, I found Cattle Kate through a catalog, a research effort that I undertook whilst compiling info, pix, and facts for my Westerns. The tale of the lynching of Cattle Kate is a delightful doozie, a hum-dinger that cannot be verified; but I’ll take it as true. The brand history wears better that way. It’s a whole lot more credible than the “Our Story” (woke-fictional) section of just about any e-tailer.
I’d long wanted to buy one of those cowboy cavalry-type bib shirts that John Wayne wore in Rio Bravo, and in other film Westerns of the Golden Age of Hollywood. I finally fulfilled that dream this past month when the shirt that I’d ordered arrived — after almost two months of being hand-made.
Yup, hand-made is the slow, laborious, often pricey road to wearing high-quality and stylish clothes; it’s always been that way.
A few days ago, I donned a Fair-Isle sweater made in Scotland that I’d purchased a year ago. I’d then hand-washed it, and dried it in the hot summer air of the garage. I waited with glorious anticipation until last week to wear this beautiful knitted garment because I’ve slimmed down, closer to my ideal size.
This sweater is a Size Large for Men. A slim fit (aka Modern Fit) is not what I’d intended to undergo after athletically pulling the thing onto my body — over a hefty cotton turtleneck that WAS made in the USA.
Yes, horror of horrors, I layered the “jumper”, and chose not to slide it onto my bare skin, the way the Male Model did on the website. Can you imagine the divine sensation of itchy Shetland wool on your naked epidermis?
Someone’s hide ought to be skinned for this brazen attempt to pull the virgin wool over the eyes of a savvy customer!
My shoulders are quite small, consistent with my overall skeletal frame. When the shoulders of a “jumper” in Size Large for a man barely fit your bird-like upper body, something has gone terribly wrong with the Fit Model.
I consequently had a small fit over the small fit of a sweater that is obviously being peddled to consumptives in the UK and the EU.
Dear Husband blithely informed me that most people just size up. I retorted that my emotional, and psychological, reward for weight loss is a purely feminine sensation; and that payoff consists of fitting into an item of clothing that had been a tangible goal.
Deciding to go with 2% spandex, instead of the standard 10% spandex, in a dress made of recycled polyester, is not my idea of celebrating the metabolic victory known as weight loss. Furthermore, I’d waited over a decade to locate and procure a genuine Fair Isle from Scotland, not some flimsy synthetic faux design made in a sweatshop and hawked by an American multi-national rip-off manufacturer.
And with that stunning realization of the amount of time that has passed by since The Subprime Spending Frenzy, the Corporate Banking Collapse, the Great Eternal Recession, the Phoney Recovery, and then the blip of a marvelous and real free-market recovery from 2017-2020:
I achieved a State of Zen.
It wasn’t a quick, or automatic, climb to the lovely nirvana of serenity, that calm acceptance of things I cannot change. My process involved combing the past two decades in my memory, and coming up with the awareness that the Corporate Excuse of “It’s the recession” for why basic commodities aren’t for sale anymore — was, is, and will always be —
the lies peddled by people who’ve no intention of coming clean on anything.
The younger generations in America, and elsewhere, have had a huge leg up on me where that smelly truth of life is concerned. I dream in spite of the cruddy facts of reality; in fact, I dream because of the cruddy facts of reality.
Typically, I see the awful truth very quickly, and then I set about to create around it, or away from it. The moment then inevitably arrives when I must, once more, confront that obvious truth, years and years later! My Muse has led me so far away from the baseline B.S. that I must re-encounter it, anew.
This type of work can be very draining emotionally. My patented phrase, “I don’t have time for that sort of thing”, doesn’t work, because I must make time for that sort of thing — to catch up with myself.
I can then return to the truly exhilarating activities of reading, writing, and even ‘rithmatic — to conclude, yet again, that the world out there, as concocted by the Corporations, doesn’t add up, and it never did.
When a dreamer such as I can compute better than the digital geeks ever did, it’s a Zen triumph!
I’m a special and a spatial thinker. My most successful relationships have always been very spatial. I intend to keep my life, and my dreams, that way.