Holding steady
February 2
And I got Paul to set up the computer. Whew.
And I begin to collate some of the material, to order it in my mind and on paper, knowing full well that how I manage is to make sense of things, and to learn. And I remember from my work with trauma victims and PWA (people with AIDS) that bad things happen to good people.
And this whole thing had been a crash course in the cost of power and powerlessness.
And I begin to know some other things.
Like the stuff in itself is not so great a loss for me except as it represents in its order that thing that we call home, and the loss of my home is that thing which almost is more than I can bear.
There was an article in the paper about the psychological sequela of the flood and it talked about the kids who were reluctant to go to school because they were afraid their house wouldn't be there when they got back. (Or be red tagged or yellow tagged. Like the moonshining days when people went to ground just ahead of the revenuers, we were ducking the county building inspectors and their goddamned tags, you know.) Made me think of when I was living in Spokane with Luke, and how I was always amazed at the end of the day when I came home that the house was still there, literally. And interestingly, it wasn't until just recently, in the telling of this, that I realized that at that time it was a metaphor, perhaps for the relationship. And now it, the loss of house and home, is a thing quite real. It, a home, is one of those things that somehow secures us, fastens us, you know. A thing not to be snatched as if it were a hat. Anyway one of those big category losses.
And I know that sometimes I can't talk about it because it is as if to reexperience it. This is an important concept. Again, a thing to remember when delving into the bloomings of another's soul, and I revisit the unabashed vicariousness that others enjoy, especially in our business. It is true too, that sometimes it is helpful to talk about it, and now, when they ask, well they asked, and sometimes the innocent get more than they bargained for. Hence the pitfall of the question how are you.
And I think of how it was when Jake&Leila and Paul&I ran into each other. We somehow, not surprisingly, cross connected so that Paul and Leila talked and Jake and I talked, saying those things that perhaps in the end needed verification, or clarification, or airing, but could not yet be said within the confines of the primary partnership. And for all of it I saw that same look on Jake's face, that Paul had been walking around with ever since the water started rising.
Failure in a personal sense for not having been able to defend the castle, to protect the queen. And he saw in my face that I had seen and he had watched me see. And all the while we were just talking. He was talking about how hard it had been to talk about it and how hard it was to be with people who had no sense of what this had been like, really. But he did allow me to touch him and to, without a trace of pity or weakness, hold him. And of course this assuaged my sense of powerlessness in not having been able to succor my king, not having been able to foster hope, nor redeem with fecundity the unremitting destruction that was all around me. And he saw that on my face and I watched him see. And all the while we were talking. And I was talking about how hard, just plain hard it was, all of it. And without demands or confusion about my pain or his pain he held me, without pity and without indebtedness.
I imagine that Paul and Leila had done the same thing.
And I must say I have learned new respect for the expressions God willing and the river don't rise, come hell or high water, and especially, misery loves company. And I've developed a sensitivity to the expression when it rains it pours. But I decided that I would not experience post traumatic stress every Goddamned time it rains. No ma'am. (yeah, right, hmm...)
And I know that you can just never know until the time comes what you will or won't deal with, what you will or won't do and you just never know how durable you might be, or not.
And I know that you just can't always imagine what it might be like but it's not necessarily the same as not being able to understand just because you haven't gone through it.
And we begin, Paul and I to talk about it, the feelings not so dense, not so crushing, not so killing.
And yesterday February 9, fully a month after the beginning of this was the first day that we did neither work at the house or go to work. And it will be fully another month before we are able to move back into our home. And there is no roller coaster anywhere in the land that comes close to the ride this has been.
And today February 16, I went and got my hair cut, and over the weekend we bought couches and appliances and carpet and linoleum and sinks and vanities and countertops, and the big wall in the living room has been rocked and will be taped as soon as Carl comes back from Hawaii and some of our furniture was delivered and now there is a sense of the future. There is an excitement about how it will be, a sense that it will be, that it is. And less of a sense of loss and how it used to be and is not anymore.
And there are daffodils and narcissus and quince and the fruit trees are blooming. And of course there is still mud and rain and it will be a while before the flood of '95 is over and done with but we are over the hump.
Smells
How interesting that I missed it earlier when I was thinking about the other sensual aspects of all of this.
Like the rain and the helicopters, the smells became so oppressive and so ever present as to be inseparable, indistinct in their own right, almost. Even now, I drive down the road, or walk in an alley, or into a store, or get into the car and like the sunrotting garbage in Bangkok, it is a smell that is pungent and permeating and stays in your nose, you know for hours. Not fresh like a damp forest, or rich like mushroom soil, but instead reminiscent of putrefaction and spoilage. Musty, dank, fusty, the thesaurus suggests stale also, one only wishes stale but stale brings to mind dry. Ain't nothing yet that is dry dry. Hmm.
