Recurring dream: a viaduct from my childhood town appears, I drive over it and something magical happens. One side of the viaduct is safe (the side that goes to my home). The other is some kind of slightly off Terabithia, magical but not always in a good way.
In real life, the viaduct bridges over railroad tracks. Under this viaduct I once kissed a self-identified dirtball. "Why are you hanging out with a dirtball?" said he. I was a practically invisible nerd with braces and hair I did not yet understand how to manage. It was actually a nice kiss, all clandestine. Have you ever been under a viaduct where the slope meets the underside of the bridge and you can tuck yourself in behind a pillar and hide?
At the beach today there were truck tire marks all over, by the water, on the dunes. THE truck in question was stuck in some impossible position in the sand, truly I do not think it will be able to be extricated unless a crane is involved. The hair on the back of my neck stood up when Dog and I passed by them, as they were doing some maneuver with a rope to try to, well, try to do something that indicates they slept through physics class. We went along our way and spent an hour by the ocean on this luscious day. September on a Northern California beach is a balmy, gentle time. Today was a good day for a beginner surfer, with small, organized sets of waves pealing in regularly. Dog is almost 12 years old and he cannot really run like he used to, but he enjoys this beach as much as anyone can ever enjoy anything. Like joy with a fluffy top knot and 4 stick legs.
We were passing by THE truck, still stuck ass backwards in the dune, and in that way that any woman on earth can understand, I took a wide berth around it with Dog on short leash. Still, I was surprised when the dog of THE truck rushed us and attacked my old boy. THE people of THE truck screamed at the attacking pup and finally pulled it off, and I just got the heck out of there as fast as I could, in self-preservation mode. I did not even realize till we were part way home that Dog was injured, and bleeding.
A vet visit, $300 and some antibiotics-Dog will be OK.
This past week a governor enticed some traumatized immigrants onto a plane and dumped them at Martha's Vineyard, then laughed and crowed about it to a rally of supporters who cheered out loud, in public. This is America. Grown ups take joy rides on a serene beach and have animals in their care they cannot handle. People taunt women and children and men who have literally walked hundreds of miles at risk of death to reach our country. Little girls are raped and forced to carry the subsequent baby to term. This is America.
I am nearly 53 years old. I was thinking by this point in life I would have a grasp on what's happening around me. That somehow it would all make sense. But I still do not understand why people are mean. What is the point? And why is it so often worn as a badge of honor?
When I was 8 or 9 years old, a man called our home and I answered. He said "I'm going to come and kill your Daddy!". Apparently this was related to Dad allowing a group of gay men to meet in the church where he served as pastor. In my dreams, the home where I grew up represents the safe side of the viaduct. But in reality, it was where 8 year old me was introduced to the way someone can assault your space with hate. My parents died long ago (of cancer, not wing nuts, though perhaps their cells mutated in response to the stress of trying to be kind in a fucked up world). The childhood home has had many other owners since. It is reported someone has even cooked meth in my mother's old kitchen. Where we used to eat our breakfast cereal, and bake cookies, and where you could stand at the window over the sink and watch the deer eating my father's garden.
In my dreams, the viaduct has led to Zion National Park, where I was trying to take a run and kept getting lost. Once it led to a VA clinic that I had to work at and for some reason deliver babies. In reality it still leads to the IGA and from the top you can see my old high school, just sitting there and still demoralizing new generations of teenagers. I never graduated from high school, so maybe the viaduct dreams are the deep anxiety that someone will pull me over on this road of life and require me to complete my PE classes. In my old uniform.
The Terabithia I seek probably doesn't require driving over the viaduct where a dirtball kissed an invisible nerd. Might be that all the magic I need is accessed by paying kind attention to the people around me. That's pretty much what my parents taught me. How we respond to the constant assault on serenity, otherwise known as being a human on earth, is a choice we make. You can cook meth in my Mom's kitchen, but you cannot diminish the lovingkindness she brought into this world. You can want to shoot a man of Christ for being kind to others, but it won't heal your own despicable despair. You can drive over the beach crabs and make a perfectly nice dog whimper in pain, but you cannot take away his pure joy that only seems to increase even though the beach trip has happened a million times before.
You can be mean. I wish you wouldn't be though.
