Existential Angst

If one were to look for an underlying, intertwining theme in my writing, I think it would have to be 'angst.' But for those who may read this and have no idea who I am or what years I have lived, I should confess that I am sixty years ... of age. Neither young nor old. I have lived on this earth for that number of years plus some days

Angst is more tolerable when one is a teenager. Charming, at times. Most definitely expected. Sexagenarian angst just doesn't so easily roll off the tongue. It would, no doubt, be obnoxious if not for the philosophers who saved those much like myself by supplanting the word "teenaged" with the word "existential."

Existential Angst. Now, doesn't that sound better?

I am most heartily delighted that the existential field of philosophy was invented. One can get away with sounding just like one knows what one is talking about - just by adding one word. Existential.

Existential angst. An hours long intellectual discussion plus months and months - maybe years - of therapy are summarized in those two words. And the really great thing is, the meaning is so vague, no one dares to question too deeply lest one should appear less learned.

So, here I sit, wallowing in my existential angst, eagerly anticipating the evening shadows that lend a certain sophistication to the next glass of wine. Because wine too early in the day would be, well, gauche.

It's not fair ...

...that I should inspired to post two writings in one day when I go for so many days without a word to say to anyone. But I have been watching the movie, "Julia and Julie", and wondering if I could do something out of the ordinary every day for one year that would be worthy of writing about. No sooner had I wondered it than I decided, "no". Not just "no" but an emphatic "NO!"

I often feel as Julie felt - that I have ADD. I only wish I had felt it first. At least if I had claimed it first, I would have a really great excuse for not finishing what I start. If I claim it now, I will be perceived as a copy-cat.

Yes, much better to have an excuse that is not of one's own making than to admit that I lack the courage to see things through. Because, you know, once something is done, it is done. Others then feel compelled to pass judgement on the completed project. I don't know why that is. I don't finish things to suit others, but it seems they invariably feel it is so. Therefore, if one can postpone completion, one can postpone judgement day.

I knew a writer, once, who made the commitment to write one poem a day. The courage in that was his willingness to accept his own imperfections. He was willing to show himself less than perfect.

I still struggle with imperfection. I see it in myself readily enough. But I enjoy the comfort of deluding myself that others do not - cannot - see it.

So, what did I do today that is worthy of being put to paper?

I drank two glasses of wine while watching Julie channel Julia.

Different for me because I usually drink one glass - when I drink at all. Different because I usually don't drink at all.

Although I seem to be able to write much more when I do.

Perhaps the wine will encourage me to channel a writer. Yes, at this point, most any writer would do.

But Dorothy Parker would do best.

It took me awhile ...

.. to figure out how to sign into blogspot without going all the way around the web and back. You see, they changed the sign-in somewhere along the way - while I was on one of my many hiatuses - when they apparently became part of google; but I don't even know if that is true. I only know that when I request to sign in I am automatically taken to a sign-in page for gmail. I tried to switch my sign-in procedure to my gmail account, but I was rebuffed. Yes, rebuffed. At every turn. In frustration I entered my original yahoo sign-in address into the gmail box and wah-la! I am in.

Yes, I know that is not the French way to spell that word, but I am not French. My name is a misnomer. A direct attempt to fool the observer. Trompe l'oiel! I seriously do not believe I have even one cell of French blood in my body. I am French in name only. A poseur, as a writer friend of mine would have said some years ago - when that was his favorite word. His 'word of the day' word. That hung around for more than a day. Ad nauseum, actually. And that, I think, is Latin.

So, this is the disclaimer. I am not French. I am many things, a collaboration of things, a veritable melting pot of things! But, mostly, I am Polish. Long o.

Mostly only because fifty percent of my genetic makeup came from a father who was 100% Polish. At least, as far as I know. Legend has it that my grandparents met on the boat coming over from the 'old country.' But that legend came from my mother who most likely heard it from my father. I met my paternal grandparents once, apparently. When I was about three months old. Part of the legend.

My mother was a lot kinder than I am. She was fond of creating legends that leant a gentleness to life that did not otherwise exist.

Are there any real legends out there? And do any of them really matter? I am not my grandparents. I am not my mother. And I am sure as hell not my father. Just as most everybody else, I am who I am. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But always, and forever, just that - who I am.

And a couple of glasses of wine make that somewhat better than it really is.

Ahhh, dysFUNctional!

Seems a woman was arrested today in southern Louisiana for assaulting her boyfriend with a frozen piece of meat.

The boyfriend told police she became angry when she went to chill her mixed drink and the glass wouldn't fit in the freezer. So she slapped him in the face with a frozen beefsteak. They booked her with aggravated battery.

What exactly does that mean? Wouldn't you have to be at least a little bit aggravated to batter somebody? And, even then, isn't aggravated a bit of an understatement?

Just one more reason for becoming vegetarian. I doubt my package of frozen broccoli would have had quite the same impact. Nor would it have made such a good story.

Although it might have been as good as the burglar who was arrested after leaving his cell phone at the scene of the robbery ...

My friend Eileen was right ... we sure know how to put the fun in dysfunctional!