There is an admonishment which popular psychology will whack you with: “Live in the moment”. Irritating. Do state the obvious if and when I am in love with you. In which case you may utter rubbish, pass go, collect your fee and give me some housekeeping money.
If and when (more likely) I am NOT in love with you: DO NOT [state the obvious]. There is only so much gravity on the greasy pole of my esteem before you plummet.
Where/when do you live but in THE MOMENT? Ask anyone with a tooth ache. They will not remember the past. They LIVE the moment. The future a long distant memory.
However, this being the moment after the one before, and I do not wish to be a dentist despite the fact that they rake in outrageous fees when the unfortunate has no choice but to trust your steady drill: The Now being when (yesterday) you find yourself with an eye watering, nay blinding, backache to be restored to your former glory. I am no mathematician yet will hand it to the accountant of fate: One moment you are not quite so good (British understatement). The next you are back to Square One. You feel exactly as you did before ill befell you. I grant even the misers among you that you will appreciate that short lived moment, the trinity of relief, gratitude and happiness. Stress on ‘short lived’. Next moment you’ll take it all for granted. Again. I have no idea where I am going with this. Nowhere being my best guess. And that proves my point. We are back to Square One.
Some of my elders, youngers and betters may have something to say to me. Sternly.
I am fighting a battle. A battle between being impulsive (ie not living with a thought for tomorrow) and rationality (thinking about consequences). It’s a raging battle. Amply supported by foot soldiers like optimism, despair at three in the morning, and generally trying to work out what the hell is going on.
If I were a cheese I think someone should ripen me.
If I were a pear (particularly avocado) I’d buy myself on the market, with misgivings, and – on returning home – put myself into a brown paper bag in hope to ripen. Make that over-ripen. Inedible on the day you fancy a pear. Missing that little window of perfection.
No one wants to be a banana. If unattended and not eaten a banana will brown.
Probably best to be an apple. Though someone might choke on it. And a hundred years later a minor will kiss you. Which, these days, is, technically, not possible because you’d be done for leading someone, one hundred years younger than you, astray. The fault in the argument, and defense lawyers know this, that Sleeping Beauty didn’t ask to be kissed.
Yes, its’ a minefield out there. Going to do some severe filing now. Lest the apple of my eye will choke on the mess his mother is going to leave behind – at some point in the future. That’s what I hate about “the future”. There is a always a point. When? Future be what it may but it’s no logistics expert. You can’t expect people turning up at some terminal with hope in their heart. What you do in England is turn up at a train station. Your heart already sunk.
Happy Monday to you too. And it’s already thirteen minutes past three British Summer Time.
One of the blogs I frequent (sorry, can’t link since momentarily forgotten which one it was) recently mentioned crystal balls and the future.
Don’t. Go there. I did more than twenty years ago. I was waiting, at some boat show cum fairground, for Fiona, a colleague. She phoned and told me to see a woman in a tent to while away the time till her arrival. Why did I listen to her? Five pounds later (1989 prices, UK) my life changed. Not that I realised it at the time. Everything went well. Time passed pleasantly, till my fortune teller set eyes on a particular line in my right hand. That was it: She dropped my hand, looked at me aghast, wished me a happy life and asked me to leave NOW. Since people often look at me either aghast or bemused I didn’t give it much thought. Till years later: When one of my many assignments’ briefs was to look into palmistry. I do not know who to curse more: The editor who assigned me. The palm reader. Or myself.
I, naturally, bloody studied the subject from the wrist up. By way of comforting you now: Don’t believe everything you find on the map: By rights I should have had as many children as I had (in truth) miscarriages. Which suits me fine – since both I and my son are “only” children by nature. Which makes us both more compassionate to other humans than a lot of those who had to fight not only for daily survival in the midst of siblings, but their fair share of affection from their parents.
Yes, so that was brilliant and has confirmed my view that, in order to ensure your anxiety has something to feed on, you may as well go and see a palmist. Tarrot readers (and, yes, you guessed it, Fiona sent me to one of those as well) are harmless by comparison. Though how the old woman knew that the most beloved woman of my life (my maternal grandmother) had died when I was eight beats me. How is that possible? And no, I did not give out any clues. And no Fiona didn’t brief the clairvoyant beforehand because she knew nothing about me other than that I like Sauvignon Blanc, a grape which will go with everything, even Thai or Chinese.