Off and Running

Off and Running

 

 

 

Well, I seem to be more interested in adjusting the little screw in the arm of

 

my spectacles than in responding to the dropped flag that signals the start

 

of this writing race.

 

 

 

"You're off!" says the flag. And there they go, down the straightaway, around

 

the first curve, back along the far straightaway. And while those engines

 

roar and those wheels spin, devouring the territory with speed—while that

 

takes place, one lone car, as sparkling a racer as any of the others, is left at

 

the gate, its engine idling.

 

 

 

The hapless driver (don't you love that word, hapless?) jiggles with the

 

starter button, revs the engine as she holds the clutch in, and then slowly

 

releases the clutch and guns the accelerator. To no avail. The car doesn't

 

move.

 

 

 

This continues for too long—long enough, in fact, for the pack of other

 

writers (er, cars) to have circled the track two times. The lack of movement is

 

a mystery.

 

 

 

Until someone on the crew realizes: the chocks are still blocking the back

 

wheels. Well! Well, it's the work of a moment to kick the chocks out of the

 

way and finally the car is off and running, though no longer IN the running,

 

having lost too much time to win, place, or show.  Nonetheless, she (it) is in

 

motion, hurtling down the gravel track, slowing slightly for the curve (notice

 

the skill with which she slide-skids the rear wheels on that curve—the work

 

of a real professional).

 

 

 

And the race is on. But as with most car races, the crowd is losing interest.

 

Even diehard fans admit (when their third or fourth beer coaxes honesty

 

from them) that the greater part of a car race is boring beyond belief. Round

 

and round. Round and round. No indication as to who is leading, since

 

some of the cars have lapped others. The dominant feature of the race is

 

noise. But if you look closely you'll see that many in the crowd are wearing

 

earplugs. Or even, in some cases, earbuds connected to a Bluetooth device

 

so they can listen to the baseball game on the radio for entertainment while

 

the race does its interminable thing.

 

 

 

And if the excruciating languor of a baseball game provides more

 

entertainment than a car race, well that's all the measure you need of the

 

tedium of today's race.

 

 

 

Nevertheless, let's give a little praise to today's last-place finisher. At least

 

someone finally remembered to kick the chocks out of the way and the

 

driver actually left her starting gate. We learn one thing from this fiasco: this

 

driver must be nice, 'cause those are the ones who finish last.

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2025  Ann Tudor

Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

 

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Elation

Elation has been rare.

Moments of happiness, yes,

because that is accessible and can be

stimulated from the outside.

But elation is an inner thing.

One might say you either have it or you don't.

Truer to say we all have it—

it's one of those birthrights,

like creativity.

 

At a young age you might have been squelched

by the killjoy who,

wittingly or not,

felt it his/her duty to take you down a peg—

over and over

or just one time at a crucial juncture.

When sat upon, the joy of a child

learns to suppress itself

and that joyful energy, frustrated,

turns to misery and depression

or to a sharp-tongued defensiveness

that, like the thorned thicket

round Sleeping Beauty's castle,

repels all suitors.

 

Healing can happen,

in the right circumstances,

re-opening the possibility of elation.

Aim for it.

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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Choosing Idleness

I seem to be playing a little game with myself these days: how far can I go? I'm assuming—rightly, I hope—that the answer to that will become clear at some point.

 

How far can I go in dropping activities before I dissolve into a big puddle of indolence? I don't have a lot of experience with this. I've spent my life doing, sometimes from necessity, sometimes to counter what I fear is an innate laziness—the kind of laziness that brings shame if someone else sees it.

 

This fear's long history dates back to my childhood. In my memory (which may not be reliable), all I ever wanted to do was read. I see this now as an escape mechanism to avoid my more extroverted, noisy family. But maybe I'm making this up. At any rate, I do know that as a child I read constantly. I did other things: practiced the piano, made good grades (essential if you wanted parental approval in our family), and performed my chores no more reluctantly than did my siblings. Nevertheless Eileen, my mother, saw me as lazy. So she called me, whenever she saw evidence of this trait, "Queenie."

 

Carrying Queenie in my subconscious for these many decades made me pretty sensitive to the question of laziness, so I've always worked hard. I've not ever been a decent housekeeper (though I did used to vacuum, I'm sure) so I deliberately did other things to compensate: I made all our bread and cooked our meals from scratch, sewed clothes, knitted, and volunteered. Now we have the blessed Cristina who comes twice a month to do the cleaning that I won't do.

 

My game these days consists of dropping one activity after another, leaving my days (and most definitely my evenings) as empty as I can make them. I think I want to see how I will fill my time once I have, say, two or three weekdays totally empty. Will I just read more? Do more Ken-Ken puzzles? Or will I remove myself to a quiet room and practice my tai chi or meditate for longer periods? Or perhaps I'll rebel, leap up screaming from my chair and race to the kitchen saying, "I can't stand this idleness! I'm going to make six piecrusts and a new batch of walnut-buckwheat crackers. I'm going to make bread until the freezer can't hold another loaf. No more lolling about! Time's a-wastin'." And so much for idleness.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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Saying a Hearty Yes! to Adventure

Leaving the house to go to the opera. The adventure of it. Clutch (oh, lightly) the railing as you go down the steps. Look at the flowers and see the weeds--but still, look at the flowers. Here's the next set of steps. Railing. Sidewalk.

 

Dog-person coming. Flat-faced stupid dog. Don't be unkind. Cute doggie with humanoid face. That's better. Stop judging. Dog owner overdressed for the job: must be going off to work as soon as doggie poops.

 

Uneven sidewalk. Navigated it well even though ankle twisted a bit. Coulda been worse (our family motto). Delivery van coming. Will it stop at our house? More likely it's for the neighbours because deliveries are usually for them, not us.

 

Crowd of young people around the subway steps. Do they not have mothers? Do mothers no longer teach courtesy? Stop standing right beside the hand-rail, you idiots! Some of us have to use the rails. And may fall if we don't. I don't say such things aloud, of course, but my inner self screams quite loudly. If any of these louts has good ESP they'll hear it and wonder why the old lady is mutely yelling at them.

 

Probably no ESP in this group. Is the midriff really an attractive body part? Well, I guess if you want to show off your navel ring you have to bare the midriff. But still...

 

Lady with stroller at the top of the steps. I used to offer to help carry strollers down the subway stairs. I'd take the front end and the mommy could hold the handle. Now I don't even offer since I'd end up missing a step and we'd all tumble down like Humpty Dumpty, landing with stroller and baby on top of me. Broken bones all around. I feel like an insensitive brute when I walk right past but who wants a dumb conversation like "I'd help you if I were younger but just look at this decrepit self. Hope someone stronger comes along soon..."

 

Subway train arrives. Find a seat. Everyone's masked, thank goodness—and whip out the TLS that will last for this trip. Three seat-units away is a pair of middle-aged men, one of whom has a not unattractive but very loud bass voice. Mansplaining occurs. I thought that was man-to-woman, but apparently there's a version that's man-to-subordinate-man. He never stops talking, giving obvious and marginally offensive opinions on every topic of the day. Can I compete with this by reading an article on classic Greek architecture?

 

Shut him out. Reach the stop and—watch out, lady—don't cut in front of me—are you really in such a hurry?

 

As I walk south, a couple overtakes me, both wearing Sunday best. She's a fashionista, in her knee-length taupe wool coat, cocoon-shaped. Until she's walking ahead of me and I see the kick-pleat in the centre back. She's failed to remove the tacking at the bottom of the kickpleat and now I no longer see her as a fashionista. Or perhaps I'm so out of date that I don't recognize this as the latest thing—to leave in that tacking at the bottom and probably also to leave in the pocket-basting designed to keep the pocket from gaping as it travels from sweatshop to your back. Oh, I'm so out of the loop!

 

Wait. Where am I? I didn't know there was a curve here. Am I lost? Will I have to walk three blocks out of my way? Will I be late? Am I lost? No, there it is, beyond the curve. A familiar sight. I just keep going south. Am I late, though? Will I have time to pee before the opera starts? Anxiety, my faithful companion, enlivens every trip.

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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Baby, It's Cold Outside

I could talk about how depressed the weather is making me this year. It isn't the lack of light; that is not my issue. My problem is the cold. One year I promised myself that I wouldn't complain about the winter weather—and I pretty much kept that promise. But I promised no such thing this year, and I've been making the most of this opportunity to kvetch.

 

Briefly, not to dwell on it ad nauseam, can I just say this? I've figured out how to be warm when I go outside. The problem arises when I reach my destination—say, a restaurant (remember going to restaurants?) or a concert. The maitre d' says, "May I take your coat?" He has no idea! He twiddles his thumbs and smiles fakely while I disrobe: remove the gloves. Set the purse on the floor. Unwrap my big outer scarf and move the hood from my head. Take off the hat and then the neck-warmer (over the head, being sure not to dislodge earrings or hearing aids). Set these aside for the moment. (Where?) Now unzip the coat and slip it off. Insert the hat and neck-warmer into the coat-sleeve, with the gloves in the other sleeve. Give the fully loaded coat to the bored, waiting man, who certainly has things he'd rather be doing.

 

Now I straighten my hair. Tug at my fancy jacket. And voila! I'm ready for my close-up. And then, at the end of the meal/concert I have to load these fifteen pounds back onto my frame.  But it isn't finished yet. Once I've braved the sidewalk and the transit system (please, TTC, let me make it all the way to High Park before you call another system-wide emergency), I reach my own sweet home, where I have to remove again every item of clothing. And put each in its proper place. PLUS boots! No wonder I can handle only one outing a day.

 

I have a dim memory of summer. Of walking out the door in sandals and whatever indoor clothing I'm wearing. I will revel in the summer, should it arrive. Delight in it, even. I promise not to complain about the humidity.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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Remember Me

Say no prayers for me when I am gone

but don't you dare forget me.

Even if all you can remember are

the less flattering moments of our time together--

even then, don't you dare forget me.

They say there's no such thing as bad publicity

and that's what I'm going for here: just remember.

It's little enough to ask.

 

We never, here on earth, fully know another,

so what you will recall of me—

whether good or bad—

is likely to be half true

and just an imagining of your mind.

You'll never be remembering the real me,

but always just a simulacrum, my stunt double.

But I don't care.

Right or wrong, hero or villain

or just plain ordinary schmuck,

I want to linger in your heart

and lie in the depths of your being.

Remember me.

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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