Velveteen Rabbit Agonistes
Apr. 2nd, 2005 08:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraI went to the cathedral to light a candle for my mother (four years dead yesterday.) It was filled with old Italian ladies praying for the Pope.
My mother – a secular humanist by conviction, a Jew by birth – no doubt would have been appalled. But for me, all religious observances are interchangeable.
I like the Pope though I don't agree with most of his beliefs and dictates. He seems to have been a genuinely good human being – a real reformer in the first ten years of his papacy though that changed after he was shot. Understandably. Even in the last conservative eighteen years of his reign, he invariably came down on the side of freedom and peace, if not always truth. Hey! Two out of three ain't bad.
"Ask me anything at all about Kurt Russell or John Stamos," I said to Ben this morning. "Go ahead! Ask me."
"Why is Kurt Russell such a right wing prick?" asked Ben.
"I'm glad you asked me that, Johnny. As a young lad under an exploitative contract with Disney, Kurt's only taste of freedom were the summers he spent learning to fish and hunt and gut things in a rural outpost in Maine under the tutelage of his grizzled and outspoken but kindly grandfather."
"I see," said Ben. "Well, if you're gonna learn to dress a deer, the place to do it is Maine."
"Oh, I don't know about that," I said. "I'd like to see how Austin Scarlett would cope with the assignment. Maybe a flowing gown in a tasteful, Loretta Young green."
"Why did John Stamos ditch the supermodel?"
"Ask rather why the supermodel ditched John Stamos! He's a no-talent loser with a pretty face. He was probably starting to get wrinkles."
Ben sighed. "I like it better when you watch Dog the Bounty Hunter when you have insomnia."
"We don't get to choose what the cosmic veejay plays," I said primly.
Depression descended upon me like the proverbial sack of bricks around 1 pm yesterday. I can actually track the exact moment although it's a bit embarrassing. It was the email from Marybeth. Blah, blah, blah, she'd just returned from a fabulous trip down the coast, the wildflowers were amazing; she was about to go up the coast for two days to see Susan's play – was I going too? – but wanted to fit me in this Sunday –
I didn't initiate this email exchange, I thought, furiously squinting at my computer screen. Marybeth and I haven't seen each other since early last summer. For a while her name remained on the official roster of Close Friends, but every time I called her, she had something else to do. I got the hint. My feelings were terribly hurt but after a while, I stopped thinking about it. I have no idea why she emailed me now – Susan must have asked how I was.
"She inherited a million dollars," Ben pointed out, reasonably enough, whenever I broached the issue with him. "Of course, her life is all about travel and fun. Wouldn't yours be under those circumstances? You're still her friend."
But I don't feel like her friend. I feel like the Velveteen Rabbit.
Envy. I do not covet my neighbor's ass. I covet her stock portfolio.
Envy is a really difficult emotion to work through. It blanches out all joy in the moment; the mantra becomes, "Loser!" The store actually did well last month – much, much better than I forecast it would do at the beginning of the month – and I love the little store, it brings genuine pleasure to the people who come through its doors, it's as much a creative accomplishment as a novel or a painting. But I am tired of living on the margin. Tired? Try exhausted. You're invisible when you live on the margin, and more than anything right now I want to be seen and valued –
My mother – a secular humanist by conviction, a Jew by birth – no doubt would have been appalled. But for me, all religious observances are interchangeable.
I like the Pope though I don't agree with most of his beliefs and dictates. He seems to have been a genuinely good human being – a real reformer in the first ten years of his papacy though that changed after he was shot. Understandably. Even in the last conservative eighteen years of his reign, he invariably came down on the side of freedom and peace, if not always truth. Hey! Two out of three ain't bad.
"Ask me anything at all about Kurt Russell or John Stamos," I said to Ben this morning. "Go ahead! Ask me."
"Why is Kurt Russell such a right wing prick?" asked Ben.
"I'm glad you asked me that, Johnny. As a young lad under an exploitative contract with Disney, Kurt's only taste of freedom were the summers he spent learning to fish and hunt and gut things in a rural outpost in Maine under the tutelage of his grizzled and outspoken but kindly grandfather."
"I see," said Ben. "Well, if you're gonna learn to dress a deer, the place to do it is Maine."
"Oh, I don't know about that," I said. "I'd like to see how Austin Scarlett would cope with the assignment. Maybe a flowing gown in a tasteful, Loretta Young green."
"Why did John Stamos ditch the supermodel?"
"Ask rather why the supermodel ditched John Stamos! He's a no-talent loser with a pretty face. He was probably starting to get wrinkles."
Ben sighed. "I like it better when you watch Dog the Bounty Hunter when you have insomnia."
"We don't get to choose what the cosmic veejay plays," I said primly.
Depression descended upon me like the proverbial sack of bricks around 1 pm yesterday. I can actually track the exact moment although it's a bit embarrassing. It was the email from Marybeth. Blah, blah, blah, she'd just returned from a fabulous trip down the coast, the wildflowers were amazing; she was about to go up the coast for two days to see Susan's play – was I going too? – but wanted to fit me in this Sunday –
I didn't initiate this email exchange, I thought, furiously squinting at my computer screen. Marybeth and I haven't seen each other since early last summer. For a while her name remained on the official roster of Close Friends, but every time I called her, she had something else to do. I got the hint. My feelings were terribly hurt but after a while, I stopped thinking about it. I have no idea why she emailed me now – Susan must have asked how I was.
"She inherited a million dollars," Ben pointed out, reasonably enough, whenever I broached the issue with him. "Of course, her life is all about travel and fun. Wouldn't yours be under those circumstances? You're still her friend."
But I don't feel like her friend. I feel like the Velveteen Rabbit.
Envy. I do not covet my neighbor's ass. I covet her stock portfolio.
Envy is a really difficult emotion to work through. It blanches out all joy in the moment; the mantra becomes, "Loser!" The store actually did well last month – much, much better than I forecast it would do at the beginning of the month – and I love the little store, it brings genuine pleasure to the people who come through its doors, it's as much a creative accomplishment as a novel or a painting. But I am tired of living on the margin. Tired? Try exhausted. You're invisible when you live on the margin, and more than anything right now I want to be seen and valued –
