The Key

The key is not to take things too seriously. With this in mind, I thought I'd share a couple of lite thoughts and images today, starting with a motel room key that is actually a key and not a plastic card, an actual object. You insert it into the doorknob lock, give it a turn, pull it out, and drop it on the night stand.

Or, if you're headed out for a night on the town (and who wouldn't be while staying in glamorous Los Alamos?) take it along to jangle and click in a pocket or purse. I have never had occasion to stay in this particular motel, but I am predisposed to liking it on the basis of those keys. I also like the color of the doors, a nice glossy aqua from when they modernized in '62.

You just have to be willing to let silly things amuse you. Like the little boy with a plastic sword and shield who was ready to slay dragons at the Ranch the other day. He's my friend Carey's cousin's kid, and he lives in France, so I drew upon the impressive linguistic skills I acquired in junior high and cleverly said to him, "Parlez-vous français?"

"I speak very good French," he said, making it quite clear that he knew which language to use with me. Then he redirected his attention to the more important matter of the dragons he had seen, scaly flame-breathers all. It was cool to see how easily he inhabited the world of imagination, a trick we lose along the way.

And in the photo above you see him in his striped sweater, trés chic, discussing dragon battle strategy with Carey. I can't remember his name. Something French-sounding.

So I'm trying. (Yes, as Monte would say, you're very trying.) The thing is, that situation I was alluding to in Life Support and other blog posts has not gotten any better. In fact, it is worse, even if only by virtue of its grueling ongoing-ness, and my heart is very heavy. But as my brother just told me, we can't focus on the darkness only.

Yesterday I went into town with Vickie and Cornelia, my two best-est girlfriends, and that's always balm and laughter. At one point we paused in Anthropologie to look at little knit dresses and frilly, complicated blouses, all geared to younger women, and I admit that place makes me miss my daughter so much I ache, but with those two, it was funny. We reminisced about the stuff we used to wear, and the fleetingness of cuteness, and we know we're old and out of it, but we're facing it together, sharing commentary as we go.

Then there was this message from Jennifer: "It's true I haven't seen you in a few months, but apparently, you're beginning to resemble Joey Ramone."

I'm pretty sure she was basing this on Kit's preliminary and experimental sketch of me in the blog post, Picture This. But this evening I found an image of Joey Ramone, and then I stood in front of the mirror, and I gotta say, folks, except for the Beavis and Butthead t-shirt, we're like twins separated at birth. Jen's got a point.

And I had a terribly sad and upsetting phone call tonight, another installment of the afore-referenced misery. But you know what? Out of the blue, an hour or so later, a friend, who is also one of my heroes, called me, which gave me a nice little boost.

Now, Monte and I are going to watch a really stupid movie. I just wish we had ice cream.

The key is maybe don't think so much.