Kind of Blue

It’s easier, for me anyway, to be angry than sad.

I think, possibly this is about fear -- that is, if I allow myself to be sad, to truly experience the great weight of loss, to sink into the devil’s sub-sub-basement of enervated disconsolateness, I may never come back up. This being what I’m anxious about -- being stuck in an inescapable muddy mire, a morass of the deepest Ultramarine Blue (there’d be a touch of Alizarin Crimson and Burnt Umber added in, ‘natch).

I’m afraid I won’t have the energy to pull myself up out of the Sea of Melancholia (located on the dark side of the moon. Not even close to the Sea of Tranquility). Rejoining the day won’t be accomplishable even with the Death Star lifting abilities of the giant Liebherr Crane

I’ll be stuck in a place that’s duller than an evening spent in the company of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Wild Rose, Wisconsin. Nope -- not my bag.

I distract myself with fury inspiring people and events – it keeps me back from the shores of Mournful Loss Springs. Lucky me, the recent elections supplied near endless amounts of that outrage elevation stuff.

The trick here, the key, the big, fat gold ring is to avoid hunting up fuel for this sorrow avoidance trap of mine. There will always be something to awaken the old anima. Always and forever. Living in a constant state of ire is just too painful and draining though (been there, done that. It blows concrete space junk).

It’s time to dive into Lamentation Lake or at least dip in my tootsies.

I really, truly know that I’ll rise to the surface, that I’ll be all buoyantly, purple/orange polka dotted happy again. Mia Madre, Lucia Fanelli Maderer, would have wanted that. Me too.

Where to now then? As my fabulous cousin Gary said, just yesterday, ‘Enjoy every sandwich.’  We never know when our picnic baskets will be short one Dagwood. 

Miles and Coltrane -- Kind of Blue