Buffet Table, Chafing Dishes

I assume there is widespread general knowledge that Las Vegas is replete with buffet restaurants. In "the day", some of these establishments constituted fine dining at a bargain price and were a kind of "reward" or thanks from the house for the gambling money left behind by the tourist. I'm sure there are still some fine ones, but if I had to take a stab at how many there are, I'd say three bazillion, mostly identical, and they serve up shlocky food for big bucks. These are a kind of "reward" or thanks from the house to say "Leave more of your money behind in exchange for little or nothing. Leave it for us to line the pockets of the fat cat corporations that do little or nothing to support programs and infrastructure in Nevada." Does the reader get the mood I'm in?

I've been emotionally dining at a buffet that serves only beef jerky, corn on the cob, overcooked tortilla chips and taffy (for dessert). I am emotionally toothless and suited only to yogurt and vegetable broth. I've had a lot to chew on and it has given me verbal constipation. I can't write. Forget "can't write". I can't even organize my thoughts. I'm not only down. I'm up and down and up again. This is unusual and I don't know myself, for mostly I'm pretty level, pretty routine.

Last weekend I was giddy. I'm a woman who loves a holiday celebrating love. There was a hint of spring in the light and the feel of the air and the temperature. I actually managed two days in a row off from work. I got the good haircut, entertained people I care for, exhanged Valentine cards and little gifties.

Monday I shifted from giddy to shitty. I was unkind in a way I cannot believe of myself. Oh, I can tell anyone the reason for it. It's that I simply cannot believe it of myself. This rendered the middle of the week "shaky ground and shaming oneself". Yesterday I offered an abject and sincere apology and found myself able to look at my own visage in the mirror last night. When I looked at myself I appeared tired and drawn. I reminded myself to be kind and generous, for I certainly want to be treated that way.Someone who cares for me reminded me I suffered a bereavement not a month ago and I still haven't finished the book about dealing with grief that Mother Badger sent me. I'm still wearing the rubber band on my wrist to snap when I want to feel something other than what I am actually feeling. Note to self: Stop trying to run from it. Walk through it, experience it and move forward. It's still there, no matter how fast you run.

Last night I was asked whether it was possible for two people (another person and I, specifically) to behave in a certain way with one another. The question blew me out of my chair. The behavior is a positive one, productive, peace-giving. Not negative in any way. But I was overwhelmed by the enormity of what I don't know. We're complex, we human beings. Layers of phyllo dough built inches thick. Some of the layers are crimped around the edges and some have tiny tears. We're patched in places, with unsightly scars. And we're crispy in other spots that might crumble when pressure is applied. Some of us possess the honey intended to be included in baklava and some of us seem empty, unable to present sweetness. I had to reply that I don't know what's possible between people (the two of us specifically). I don't have it all figured out. Worse - I don't have anything figured out. I got back a good response: "I don't know what's possible, either. We'll just make it up as we go." All right. Where there are human beings of good nature in the mix, the way will be found.

I observed something this week. I noodle around (like I suspect most bloggers do) in 25-30 blogs, adding some from time to time, slowing on reading others. I read the serious and humorous things some very talented sorts write. I read people who are passionate about their avocations and I see the art presented by those with a special eye for capturing and presenting beauty digitally, in clay, with paint. Sometimes I favor a trend that this blogger is following right now, and other times that one over there pulls me strongly. Almost invariably, the bloggers have posted pieces, whether verbal or visual, that tell of the angst they feel from time to time. This is natural I think. We are expressive sorts (that's why we blog), so we express. It awes me that, just as the readers and followers cheer over a happy or brilliant post, they also reach out in kindness when the blogger is troubled. I was touched to see men offering another male blogger comfort this week. Yes, I do know that men can be kind just as women can be kind. I was touched that the male followers reached out to say it.

So, I really do already know the answer to my ailment. One foot in front of the other. Do it again. Inhale. Exhale. Do it again. I think I'll make the appointment for the indulgently long massage and while I lie on the table, I'll think some more. I'm looking forward to a more usual weekend. No visitors, no holiday, no bicycle race. More balanced. I think I'll step up to the buffet table again and . . . Hey! Look there! Mashed potatoes. Applesauce. Cottage cheese and soup. And I feel a new tooth growing in!


In my ears right now: Another important part of the soundtrack from my misspent youth. Written by Dylan, performed by The Byrds. Does it get any better?



Something that charmed me: It intrigues me how friend Kirk often "thinks" in movies, and Tag sometimes in music. The Badger surely thinks in flowerly terms, and Kass appears a multilingual thinker to me, favored reader. Others I follow think in cycling and good writing and things psychological and beautiful poetry within their fiction. I think in food. Not at all times, but often. Food and I have a long and fiery relationship. I understand it very well. So, no, I wasn't starving to death when I wrote this post. At least not in the physical sense.