Trying To Read The Signs

Sunday, February 16, 2014

     I once described my personality as like a tuning fork: however lightly struck, it sounds.  There's no phlegm in me  --I think I'd be happier if there were.  Instead, I know elation, but downcast moments, too.  I long ago decided I would not medicate myself to alter my mood --it would be too boring.  I believe that learning to know myself better is at least as good for me as anything that would dull my low moments' bite.  So as long as I can forego drugs, I will.

     Today I had an interesting experience in this regard.  I passed a restless night, sleeping fitfully.  So I could get a bit more rest, I played with the alarm to give myself a smaller margin of time to both walk Beau and get to Mass.  I made it to Mass on time and after breakfast with a friend who also goes to the 8:15 a.m. service, dutifully gave Beau his first long walk of the day.

     I tried to rest for an hour, but found myself lying on the bed, swamped by sad thoughts --which led to tears.  I'd set the kitchen timer for the hour, it's soft "tick" a soothing constant.  By the time the ticking stopped, I was ready to get ready to go out for the afternoon: I had a ticket for the last performance of "Twelfe Night" a triumphant rendering of the play by a same-sex cast headed by Mark Rylance and Stephen Fry.

     I know the play well by now, but my great pleasure in the production compelled me to see it as many times as I could.  On my way to the theatre, in my mind's eye, I could imagine the production's beginning: a Scottish actor, playing the Duke of Orsino, standing in his nightshirt, putting on purple while declaiming his love for the Countess Olivia, in deep mourning for her dead father and brother.  I could also imagine Mark Rylance, appearing later, in white-face and red lipstick over elaborate Elizabethan costume, playing Olivia, mincing across the stage like a frenzied wind-up doll.  To say nothing of the lovely young man who played Viola, disguising herself as "Sebastian", so as to obtain employment from the Duke.  These characters and many others brought to life by the marvelous actors in the cast I can summon at will, although I thought seeing them in performance again on the last day the play would ever be performed in this production with this cast would be memorable.

     So I walked towards the line of ticket holders entering early to watch the cast being costumed on stage, another of the production's wonderful conceits.  As I approached the line I heard a voice behind me call "Extra ticket? Extra ticket?"  I ignored the first appeal, but at the second, turned around behind me to see a middle-aged African-American man standing a few feet from the stage door.  In less than five minutes, I had sold him my $25 ticket.

     Once I had done so, I felt an enormous relief: I could go home and return to my cave now.  I'd left the wash in the dryer, I could pick it up sooner, rather than later.  I was also $25 richer.  I'd identified some books of interest at the bookstore around the corner: I could now allow myself to buy them, if I chose.  (The jury's still out on that.)  I would be having neighbors come to watch "Downton Abbey" at nine o'clock, but because I'd be back at home three hours early I would not have to rush to walk Beau while setting up for my visitors.

     In a word, I am getting to the point where, during a gloomy winter, I'd rather not be pressed for time than take in again a play I've loved.  Not being pressed for time was more meaningful than the excitement of the play.

     Learning to read the signs that I don't want what I used to want is becoming more and more important to me.  When I don't feel happy, I can't drink to forget it --I only get sick.  Mood-altering drugs aren't as appealing to me as chasing my emotions wherever they may lead.  The days are sometimes hard: the minutes stretch by, my life seems a blank.  However, I get rewarded for my efforts if I can find out one more thing about myself I didn't know before.  Like a dog with its nose in the air, I want to pick up the scent of the track, then, having found it, follow it to its end.