Got my Tolstoy-Russian-peasant on

This past week’s been chock-full of letdowns or, rather, that’s how it felt yesterday.

Freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoy's Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city's reservoir, he turns to the cupboards, only to find the vodka bottle empty.
~ P.G. Wodehouse

Yup, I had my Tolstoy-Russian-peasant on somethin' fierce yesterday.

How do I cope/deal with disappointment? I get sad and pissed off and plain pissed (or, now that I’m old and trying for smart healthfulness, just tipsy) and then determined. I want to fix things, remedy shit and, when I know there’s no solution, I get busy. I start a new painting, hit the gym (HARD), clean and I attempt to find new avenues.
Sometimes it’s those fresh roads which bring discouragement. Fer instance, I’ve contacted two different music schools in hopes of, at the least, having someone play a few notes on the cello for me (to see if I can feel the music). If I can, then I’ll rent one and take a few lessons. If I can’t, I’ll move on to Plan C.

One school wrote back saying they don’t teach cello (just violin and viola). The other, which very specifically says they give cello instruction, never wrote back at all. Is that because my request is so odd and they’re such socially unskilled and poor businesscritters that they couldn’t even respond with a simple – gee. gosh. dunno. That would’ve been fine. Acknowledgement is always a smart biz move – a conversation begins. Even if it’s no dice, chica from them, other options could’ve possibly been found. AND I could've come away with good impression of their set up and recommended them to others.

Are they just rude motherfuckers or have I scared the shit outta them? Ya know, us old deafies are scary as hell – right up there with Godzilla after he’s stubbed his toe on some suicidal Honda.

Today I will write to one more place but also begin exploring Plan C.

Other fizzles include my utter foozle footedness which has led to the busticatedness of beloved crockery. There’s also my inability to be anything/anyone other than who I am. I routinely disappoint myself with my not-ready-for-primetimeness.

Wouldn’t it be awesometo wake up each day and be able to  don diffrent, better, more exciting personae?

Tomorrow, I could be a Zelda Fitzgerald-esque libertine.
On Friday, I'll walk out my front door as a wise, determined and heroic Edith Cavell.
Saturday, I‘ll rival La Pola’s daring, revolutionary feats and help save this country from those blindingly assholian, jackbooted Republican boys and girls.
On Sunday, I’ll get my Frida Kahlo on and paint my aching heart and head.
Monday will be Amedeo Modigliani Day. Painting and pageants of vitality.
On Tuesday I’ll dance so wildly, I’d make Isadora Duncan jealous (if she wasn’t, ya know, all dead and shit).
And on Wednesday, I’ll be studious but oh so chic – ya know, like Hedy Lamarr (Hedy NOT Hedley!)

Isadora Duncan – Abraham Walkowitz

Disappointment

Can do a couple things.
It can drop you into a giant
sucking sinkhole of

depression,

a place you have to fight
to climb out of. Or it
can trigger an epic

mania

to overcome the odds
and transform failure
into success. Say you

swing

as high as the chains will
take you because you seek
the thrill of flight, and on the

up-

kick, you lose your seat.
Injury is likely. But if you
worry about falling

down,

and never chance "up,"
the sky will remain
forever out of reach.”
~ Ellen Hopkins