I feel as if I'm standing on a station in a black and white film in someone else's imagination, watching a train chug out of the station.
There she goes. Byyyye! Off into the distance. Byyye! Send a letter when you have a chance! Take my New York Times with you!
And as the train rounds the far corner, it occurs to me that if it were to crash, or derail or get stepped on by a Japanese monster wandering in from another movie, as long as I didn't see it, I really wouldn't care. It's puffing around the bend. Chugga Chugga Chugga. Look at all that black smoke curling up into the sky. And look how it disappears into clear air just above the back of the train. I know I'd feel bad if my Dad died in pain or in fear, and he's probably on that train too, so I don't wish it ill, I'm just struck that all of my ability to care about the train and its passengers is simply beyond my ability right now.
To everyone who commented this week, this horrible past week, with the laundry queen, the museum fights, and the police back-up, I need to say thank you. I kept meaning to respond to individual comments (I certainly read them repeatedly), but somehow I couldn't find anything other to say than, "Thanks" and "You don't know the half of it." I've been industriously doing laundry, my OWN laundry, you'll be happy to hear (although that means folding it), and I've retired behind the pages of a PG Wodehouse collection. (Where is JEEVES to sweep my mother out of my life using only a chance encounter with a toy dog and and an opera ticket? Must hire a Jeeves immediately.) My son is doing much better, although Dear Butcher and I had a Most Frustrating meeting with his case manager on Friday morning after The Incident. Even the principal thought she was ridiculous.
(Best quote of the meeting: "Perhaps a round of anger management courses is in order." Oh My God. Thank you, Jesus, for sending down this messenger from the heavens with this pearl of wisdom clasped in her tiny little wrinkled hands. Because in eight years, it certainly never occurred to his parents or to any of his teachers that behavioral control methods might be an option! Anger Management! Wow! And to think that neither one of the psychologists nor the psychiatrist nor the pediatric nurse (Who's Reports You've READ already!) ever would have thought of that. ...... The Principal started chuckling, actually. Dear Butcher turned to the Case Manager and said, "I appreciate that you're new to our son, and that you haven't been around him long, but you need to get educated about him real fast. Right now. We've been doing this for a loooong time already.")
This week the snake, Cloudy Sky, pooped on Saul. Saul took that as an insult of the highest order. Take him away. I hate him, etc. Then, yesterday, Cloudy Sky pooped on me. Never has my son been so delighted. Now he has a pet which is a wealth of poop-jokes, and it pooped on Mom. The world is spinning properly on its axis once again. There's a metaphor to this entire week in there somewhere.