When I am quiet on Café Catiche, it is not because I cannot think of anything to say—I have, in fact, the opposite problem. There is much to say, much to write, much to digest. I simply cannot isolate one topic due to the complete merging of so many events that at one time seemed to be completely disconnected and the ridiculously fast pace in which these ideas have morphed into something else. The other problem is that certain aspects of myself I would rather not share, those things seeming to make me more vulnerable than I am already here. Ironic, isn’t it, because the truthful, intimate nature of a good post is what draws the reader to empathize or relate, to receive an impression in some way. It is why you are here reading this.
Tonight marks the completion of a life-changing week, one in which epiphanies were made, losses marked, and progress achieved. I lay tossing about in bed tonight and finally succumbed to rising for pre-dawn hot chocolate and the chance to put on paper the words and phrases that plague me. Some ideas are mundane—like the visit to the clinic where I was told I have been walking around for weeks with severe ear infections (well, that explains a lot), but the biggest was a heartbreaking and humble apology from my ex-husband. I have been intrigued by something else, too--a recent obsession with Deadwood, namely the characters whose curious blend of propriety and malevolence is reflected in often prose-like Victorian speech. Of course, I would find entertainment in this because certain people in my life seem to mirror exactly that union of disparate concepts within their own psyches. And my curious draw to the use of language on the show (not all characters speak so mellifluously, at least half are simply prone to callous and profane discourse) has sparked my interest in yet another topic—the way we express ourselves, particularly in the 21st Century world of texting.
So, having broken the silence here, and having said much and nothing at all, I think I should succumb to the soft whuffling of my husband’s slumber, nuzzle under the covers, and try to find comfort in sleep once again. I need more rest (and antibiotics). Ideas noted, I will likely explore the above concepts later. Here are, however, words directly quoted from Deadwood. Pardon the f-bomb, please. Al Swearengen, who manages a bar and brothel, and whose characteristic offensive language was surprisingly my motivator for facing the world again after my daughter’s therapist gave us each a frank talk, speaks to a printer whose shop and presses have been broken and ransacked as a measure of retaliation. I needed to hear this, even in it's rawness.
“Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back.”