Loving me crazy
After consulting my cat regarding three existential conundrums in the space of one day an idea of myself begins to unfurl. Persistent. Growing. Spreading gossamer wings and then hardening feathers for flight. Nameless but not shapeless.
Standing on the platform, waiting for the last train home, I scan my fellow travelers. To the left and to the right. Uniform black and grey merge with the dusky light of the night time tunnel abyss. I feel the prickle again. A small bead of sweaty knowing inside my neon robe.
It’s Mercury retrograde. The alma mater of fuck ups. So when computers crash and logic fails, it is with impeccable timing I say. What other explanation could there be? I ask. Rhetorically. To the thick air of skeptical indulgence.
The palm reader numerologist astrologer on the street in Yangon is unequivocal. I meet his steady gaze, slow blink dueling in the Burmese midday heat. Your lucky colour is colourful and you must not wear black. I have to steady myself. Wanting to teleport back to my bedroom closet. Scanning with my minds eye the entire contents of my wardrobe. OK. There is the requisite black dress, jacket and pants. The wardrobe of the dead and grieving for days when I must behave. Be invisible. Draw into the shadows. Maybe I keep those. For safety. For armour. For self defense.
Off and on. On and off. I’m having this conversation about crazy. Like I’m a theme park exhibit, an art installation. Life isn’t neutral. Living is a big and colourful thing to do. And brave. And beautiful. I’m talking it up to myself. Seriously. Can you be taken seriously? Calling on the deities, pulling a finger at the planets and not having a single, sensible thing to wear? The black dress goes but the black jacket and pants stay. I wonder if I should paint the house beige and start to talk about Fifty Shades of Grey with my hairdresser. I can do serious.
Then I’m walking…..thinking about a black briefcase I might buy. And I see them. Oh no! Look away. Step back from the window. My friend says, ‘you’re loitering’ and I realise I’m staring. Standing close. Breathing heavy. Staring. Decidedly dodgy. Staring. In front of a sex shop.
It’s the Burmese palm readers influence. I want to feel lucky. All over. Particularly on my legs. I want to walk lucky. I want to dance lucky. I want to do the lucky Salsa. The colourful kind. Next I am inside the shop. My friends stand as sentinels either side of me so my gaze won’t drift. They shuffle me to the appropriate rack, guard me while I pay for my purchase and then shuffle me back onto the street. It sits inside my bag. During the evening I hear the crinkle of the cellophane wrapper. Lucky is calling to me. It’s a fabulous evening. I’m almost distracted by the great company and excellent theatre. On the train home I hear the crinkle again. L.U.C.K.Y.
It’s a cold Sunday morning. I’m lying in bed thinking about the day ahead. Conversations to have, meals to prepare, papers to read, cats to consult. I feel pretty excited. Today I drink champagne for breakfast and again for lunch and tea. I spend the day weaving in and out of my happiness. It’s partly the alcohol. Each encounter is prefaced by a flourish of my rainbow clad legs, designed for seduction, repurposed for happiness.
At one point in the day someone looks earnestly at me as I parade them for the hundredth time. And in genuine awe they say ‘You are so lucky’.
Yep, that’s me………L.U.C.K.Y.