Winding my car along the road that spans beneath the cemetery I caught sight of mourners and contemplatives making their way between the headstones. At the Jewish cemetery I watched a funeral in progress: mourners were lined up on the slanted hill facing the road and a pile of flowers and items appearedto cover the space where perhaps the body lay. From that pile I saw steam or smoke or incense rising up into the early Sunday morning light and a Rabbi—dressed in a cloak ornamented by a scarf of some sort gesturing before what must have been the deceased. I caught my breathe at the mystical moment before my eyes as a falcon swept past the scene.
It felt holy.
And then the day went a bit strange again—as soon as I arrived at church. Funny how that happens.
It began with our screaming class of two year olds who, rather than being entertained by the Camel Puppet Narrator for the Advent Season, decided to attack it. And I don’t mean just jabbing it playfully, or teasing it once or twice. It was an all-sides violent descent on the poor thing (and my hand) by the most ecstatic (possessed maybe?) two year old children I have ever seen in my life.
The Puppet died of a heart attack shortly thereafter, and the children resorted to rolling around on the floor squealing and kicking in sheer delusional delights.
I’m sorry God, my sister and I were thinking, we realize our sins from this week are catching up with us and this is our punishment.
But to be honest, I actually enjoy children when they’re crazed with happiness— are adults ever like that?
Following that display of insanity I suddenly had another compulsive urge to cut my hair. I don't know why. It rose up like the beast that it is and I couldn’t seem to think of anything else. I tried to brush the urge away but there were scissors for the craft project nearby. I couldn’t resist. Must....cut....hair....I went to put Camel back in her place and tucked the scissors in my back pocket.
Fifteen minutes later I came back with bangs.
A mother who was picking up her child tweaked her head and commented: “Your hair looks so different,” she said “I like it.” But she had a funny look on her face.
“Thank you,” I responded, not realizing my black sweater was covered with my own now-removed bang-hair. Sick.
Several hours later I was meandering through the crowds at the Farmer’s Market after Sunday lunch when I ran into a former colleague of mine from the Studio. He now works at another studio as a production attorney and he is probably one of the more unique characters I have ever met. A squat, bald little man, he speaks with a slight lisps and counts everything off on his thumbs—reference the “nitrate” entry a few months ago. Apparently he is close to selling a script to his new studio.
“Oh,” I said, “What’s it about?”
He smiled.
“Cannibalistic albino mutant midgets who live under Times Square in NY.”
I laughed, “Oh, what’s it really about?”
His face drew to a serious expression. “That’s what it’s about.”
“Seriously?!” I asked, hoping my face didn’t reveal “you’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” resounding in my brain.
He was serious. Very.
It was almost like the holiness was being drained completely from my day….drip by strange, miserable drip. I bit my lip, wished him well, and moved on through the crowd. My sister shook her head. I closed my eyes and did likewise.
As the evening of that day approached, the sky was smeared with pink and purple clouds blown by the Santa Ana winds. I noticed it briefly as I headed to my tutoring job. Just as I reached my car, from the other side of the rickety fence I heard small footsteps clustering near the gap where the boards had fallen out. Five little, beautiful brown faces crowded into the space and called out to me.
“Hey! Where’s yo cat?” One little three year old boy said with his face in a serious pout. “Can you bring it outside so we can play tag wit it?”
I smiled. “I’m sorry, I’m on my way to work guys, and the cat is in the house.”
“But we need it to play tag! Is it lazy? Is it fat? Can you go get it?” the little boy said.
A round-faced little four or five year old girl squished her head over the body of the two year old trying to press her entire self through the space.
“But it’s almost night time! Why you goin’ to work?” she asked. Another one, about the same age added, “We wanna see yo cat! Is it soft?”
Before I could answer, another little girl with tiny pigtails and big brown eyes poked her head through and said:
“You whoop your kids?”
I laughed.
“What? No! I don’t have any kids, but if I did, I wouldn’t whoop them.”
"Why not?" the little girl countered.
"Well....because....it isn't good to...whoop...children...they don't need that.And besides, I don't have any kids." I answered.
“Yeah huh, you gots kids!” she countered “I seen them climbin on the roof!”
“Oh really?” I asked
"Das why I think you would whoop them!" she added. She had a point.
“Yeah- day come play wit us in the back sometimes too,” another one of the children said.
“They do? What do they look like?” I asked with a smile ever-broadening on my face.
“Dey white, like you.”
The barrage of questions didn’t end and finally I just had to drive off with the kids dangling their faces through the fence, much to my disappointment. I would rather have stayed and played with them.
And then, as I drove off and thought about my day I suddenly felt like that holiness feeling from the morning (in spite of odd people and strange compulsions) had crept back in to the day.
It felt holy.
And then the day went a bit strange again—as soon as I arrived at church. Funny how that happens.
It began with our screaming class of two year olds who, rather than being entertained by the Camel Puppet Narrator for the Advent Season, decided to attack it. And I don’t mean just jabbing it playfully, or teasing it once or twice. It was an all-sides violent descent on the poor thing (and my hand) by the most ecstatic (possessed maybe?) two year old children I have ever seen in my life.
The Puppet died of a heart attack shortly thereafter, and the children resorted to rolling around on the floor squealing and kicking in sheer delusional delights.
I’m sorry God, my sister and I were thinking, we realize our sins from this week are catching up with us and this is our punishment.
But to be honest, I actually enjoy children when they’re crazed with happiness— are adults ever like that?
Following that display of insanity I suddenly had another compulsive urge to cut my hair. I don't know why. It rose up like the beast that it is and I couldn’t seem to think of anything else. I tried to brush the urge away but there were scissors for the craft project nearby. I couldn’t resist. Must....cut....hair....I went to put Camel back in her place and tucked the scissors in my back pocket.
Fifteen minutes later I came back with bangs.
A mother who was picking up her child tweaked her head and commented: “Your hair looks so different,” she said “I like it.” But she had a funny look on her face.
“Thank you,” I responded, not realizing my black sweater was covered with my own now-removed bang-hair. Sick.
Several hours later I was meandering through the crowds at the Farmer’s Market after Sunday lunch when I ran into a former colleague of mine from the Studio. He now works at another studio as a production attorney and he is probably one of the more unique characters I have ever met. A squat, bald little man, he speaks with a slight lisps and counts everything off on his thumbs—reference the “nitrate” entry a few months ago. Apparently he is close to selling a script to his new studio.
“Oh,” I said, “What’s it about?”
He smiled.
“Cannibalistic albino mutant midgets who live under Times Square in NY.”
I laughed, “Oh, what’s it really about?”
His face drew to a serious expression. “That’s what it’s about.”
“Seriously?!” I asked, hoping my face didn’t reveal “you’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” resounding in my brain.
He was serious. Very.
It was almost like the holiness was being drained completely from my day….drip by strange, miserable drip. I bit my lip, wished him well, and moved on through the crowd. My sister shook her head. I closed my eyes and did likewise.
As the evening of that day approached, the sky was smeared with pink and purple clouds blown by the Santa Ana winds. I noticed it briefly as I headed to my tutoring job. Just as I reached my car, from the other side of the rickety fence I heard small footsteps clustering near the gap where the boards had fallen out. Five little, beautiful brown faces crowded into the space and called out to me.
“Hey! Where’s yo cat?” One little three year old boy said with his face in a serious pout. “Can you bring it outside so we can play tag wit it?”
I smiled. “I’m sorry, I’m on my way to work guys, and the cat is in the house.”
“But we need it to play tag! Is it lazy? Is it fat? Can you go get it?” the little boy said.
A round-faced little four or five year old girl squished her head over the body of the two year old trying to press her entire self through the space.
“But it’s almost night time! Why you goin’ to work?” she asked. Another one, about the same age added, “We wanna see yo cat! Is it soft?”
Before I could answer, another little girl with tiny pigtails and big brown eyes poked her head through and said:
“You whoop your kids?”
I laughed.
“What? No! I don’t have any kids, but if I did, I wouldn’t whoop them.”
"Why not?" the little girl countered.
"Well....because....it isn't good to...whoop...children...they don't need that.And besides, I don't have any kids." I answered.
“Yeah huh, you gots kids!” she countered “I seen them climbin on the roof!”
“Oh really?” I asked
"Das why I think you would whoop them!" she added. She had a point.
“Yeah- day come play wit us in the back sometimes too,” another one of the children said.
“They do? What do they look like?” I asked with a smile ever-broadening on my face.
“Dey white, like you.”
The barrage of questions didn’t end and finally I just had to drive off with the kids dangling their faces through the fence, much to my disappointment. I would rather have stayed and played with them.
And then, as I drove off and thought about my day I suddenly felt like that holiness feeling from the morning (in spite of odd people and strange compulsions) had crept back in to the day.
-
|
