Dropping a Toad into the Underbrush

 November 10, 2024

French Baroque music from the speaker downstairs.

Passing through a time of unusual, and not unpleasant, passivity. Is that the word I want? Maybe “disengagement.” Through the hurricane I was of no use whatever, and did not intentionally inject myself into situations where I could be of use. The time of hauling and digging and battling the current is over for me. I suppose I could have passed out canned goods, but instead I fled, and felt, in a general way, that was the thing to do. It got me out of the way. I did send money. Maybe I was meant to do that. Partially because I have been (and still cursedly am) ill, the Great Disaster has not struck an actual nerve. I recognize every aspect of life will be stained and putrified by these four upcoming years, but the realization remains distant, intellectual. I tell myself that if rage could make a difference right now, I would open the portals of rage. But maybe I wouldn’t. Thinking back on the hour when I hurled the demon to the porch floor and ended years of rancourous inner dialog, I must have known that both good and less good would come from that. But, even if my fury were righteous, what real good did it ever do? Not rhetorical: I actually do not know. When was the last time I felt so many contiguous days of peace? So far, when I’ve felt indignation rising, I’ve managed to ease it back, like dropping a toad into the underbrush. Nothing that crept into my mind seemed important enough to pursue. The fact that influenza gives me two huge naps a day, when I think about nothing at all, may be part, but not all. If I go to church today (which I might try to do) what will I contribute to the inevitable lamentation? Will I have that stupid smile of the peacemakers on my face?