How It All Turned Out
Sorry if anyone is disappointed by the “complimentary copy” accompanying this image… I get a strong feeling that most of my readers want to see photos of Mitt Romney. I really don’t spend much of my time thinking about him, but all you people from overseas whose command of the English language isn’t the best, this is a shout-out to you. Thanks for tirelessly telling me how wonderfully I write while commenting on the same images from one of my pre-election posts. (Also, I’m taking a break on a big project for school which is due this coming Thursday, so this is going to be pretty random.)
Got an unbelievably raging sinus infection right now, or something… taking antibiotics for it. The air hits my breathing passages wrong on occasion, and I just can’t stop coughing. More than one doctor has prescribed antihistamines claiming it’s due in part to allergies, but unless I really want to torture myself I avoid taking them as if they were cyanide or arsenic pills–they only make the problem much, MUCH worse, especially before bed. During the day, my post-nasal drip reduces my appetite, makes me gag and vomit and causes me stress incontinence, and it has been like this nearly non-stop since two or three days before Christmas. I’ve had insomnia for the past 2 weeks or longer due to coughing fits, and my voice by now is so hoarse that sometimes when I answer the phone I pretend convincingly to be someone else. About 15 years ago, I nearly became someone else. I was a trained singer, and the other night I had a dream that I had my old voice back. I was singing a song from The King And I and loving every second of it.
At this writing, my respiratory issues are making it pretty tough to work, but I love being back in film school after twenty-five years. In fact, I had another dream awhile back, the night before a really amazing writing class. In the dream, I was walking down a long country road. My journey had been long and I was returning to a land I hadn’t visited in awhile… a land resembling rural areas in Northern Germany, actually. In real life I don’t think most of us would be walking down such a road so far away from any kind of public transportation, but I knew where I was going. There were people there waiting to see me, a whole village full, a township in fact. I was a decorated war hero, as strange as it sounds, and when the townspeople saw me, they ran to greet me and threw me a feast. They knew I couldn’t stay long, only one night, so after dinner, they sang to me. Apparently they do this each time I visit, though my visits are rare, because one of them, the mayor or a prominent citizen, asked me if I was sharing their songs with the waking world.
I was sorry to tell them that it had been difficult to remember the melodies and the words of all the magnificent songs we all sang together, boisterous victory songs and songs of togetherness and brotherly love. Waking up tears these things away, I explained, and they understood. So they tried to make it easier for me on this particular visit.
“Surely you will remember this simple folk song and take it back with you,” one of them said. Then he and all the adults began to sing a children’s song. All the children joined in. Death came calling on a Saturday night, the song went, so I went upstairs to change my dress. “You’ll have to wait,” I told Death. So while Death waited in the foyer, I promised the wait would be worth it because I was making myself beautiful for him. The little boys sang with gusto about “putting on their makeup and fixing their hair,” which made the song even more classic. I began to wake up while they were singing this well-known folk song to me, trying my darnedest to remember the melody, but it faded moment by moment as I returned to my waking world.
I haven’t visited my township where I was a celebrated hero, since then. I can’t sing anyway anymore. But at least I can write, and it’s Saturday night. They’re talking about the Grammys on TV, in fact (LOL). Death, don’t come for me, because I won’t fix my hair or put on lipstick and a dress. I can’t sing like Whitney Houston and I can’t make myself beautiful.
But if you strangers are still reading my blog, you people out there from foreign lands, post comments for me in your broken English way and tell me I’m wonderful. I’ll think of my dreamtime friends and I’ll believe you, and somehow I’ll feel like a hero just a little bit, whose songs are still unsung.