Little Scraps of Wisdom

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“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.”  ~  Umberto Eco

If the illustrious Mr. Eco is to be believed then I have a few choice words for my father. Instead I will sit and wait, and type, until the coffee is ready. One of the oddities that unfolds from depression, as I experience it, is an unwillingness to do small tasks. Like making coffee. Like it’s not so hard, right? Don’t get me wrong, I do it. It’s as if I expect someone to make the coffee for me. The cat won’t do it. Given. What’s the use. I’m so tired. This stuff can’t be good for me. Tiredness is good. But I do it because I love the stuff. So, you may ask, how is it? Bold, bitter, and black, with overtones of heartache.

I lost most of yesterday to depression. Hopelessness, powerlessness, anger turned inward  .  .  .  however you describe it in essence, one thing about depression is that if you can take time to define it at all, and to have appropriate words to do so, you’re not in too deep. Dude you’re okay. I love my intellect. It has gotten me out of some pretty tight spots. Yesterday I got angry at the cat numerous times. A lotta good that does, eh? She vibes in to my moods and when I am high anxiety she is as well. The difference is that she acts out while I strategically sit like a lump. She, in her agitation, disturbs my lump-ness. The whole scene gets loopy, curls back on itself, and the resulting snowball effect is anything but cold.

I did manage to get in a few episodes of Star Trek: Voyager. I’ll tell y’all right here right now, that Captain Janeway is one tough cookie, with a heart of gold, and she slings a Kate Hepburn persona like nobody’s business. She’s a beauty alright but I don’t have a crush on her. My crush is on Kes. Ooo, that voice. Suffice it to say that Voyager serves me on several levels, the most basic being that it gets me out of my own head for a spell. The writer in me gets a heap of help just by taking in the rhythm of the narrative and the sparkle of the plot. Characterization. And maybe – just maybe – I will be left with some wisdom. Last night they even had the Borg in the story, and they had a species, race, whatever, that could defeat the Borg quite easily. And one of the Borg drones gets separated from Collective, is rehabilitated by the holographic ship’s doctor, and joins the crew. Adolescent boys take note, just have a look, k?

And so, in today’s search for the scraps of wisdom my father left me I will venture into town to do my laundry. Maybe stop by the Coffee Spot to get a cup of Joe, and to see Amber the sweet, the barista. She told me to stop by. Girl’s a balm for a heartache, let me tell ya right now. And the rest of the day? That’s anybody’s guess. I have a nagging hunger for some really good magazine style writing – think The Atlantic, The New Yorker. Reading is a balm for heartache as well. And it exercises the brain. The stress hormone created through depression can squeeze life out of the brain. With any kind of luck at all that won’t be so bad today. My father usta say ‘with any kind of luck at all’. Really, dad? Really? Any kind? Dude like thanks.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


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