there’s a piece of me that is a hard, flinty old man. the man who cuts up the tennis balls that land in his yard, to show those young’uns what ‘respect’ means.
you wouldn’t know it to look at me, but it is there, and it is strong. it is most assuredly NOT the strongest of the bunch, but he does show his head often enough that I know him. He’s really quite reactive.
If I’m cold, he comes out ranting about how I can’t start a fire because it is too early in the season and I’ll run out of wood when I need it most. And I can’t turn on the heat because I’ll run out of money when I need it most.
If I’m lonely, he runs out into the yard to wave his stick at all my faults, including my introversion, which is a bit of a mind-bender. “If you weren’t so damn picky, you’d have more friends. If you go out with those people, they will really learn about how weird you are.”
curmudgeon. filled with fear and lack… not-enoughness.
I think most people know it, certainly have seen it in others. its a whole way of explaining American culture right now. I hate you because you might take what I have, someday, somehow, because I really don’t have enough, and I’m scared.
And how do I address that mean old bastard? The more I respect the pieces of me that have developed, the more I realize I can let him rant, and fling his fear around. I can. no big.
as long as I don’t do more than that. I can let him, I don’t need to burn down his house. I may not want to have him over for dinner but I don’t need to ‘become him’. I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t work. So, i’m just going to go to the beach and pick up pretty rocks and use a hanky to save the world.
and he can rant, and I can let him. and when he is done, I might bake him some apple crisp.
but guess what? he’s lost his teef.
more for me.