Something like having the words knocked out of your mouth, over and over again. Something like being told only sissies give up.
Sissies – you know, wimmin. Wimmin break down before the finish line. If they don’t, somebody comes along and moves the finish line further. Play by the rules. The rules say the odds are against you. Your job to prove you’re the one in a million who can beat the odds.
Note how it’s all about being Number One.
Walking out with the dog early this morning, the moon all crisp and clean up in the sky. Four or five stars still visible in the rising light. Crying is a waste of energy, you told yourself because the urge was there. Crying being for sissies, of course.
Two caps during dreamtime. The first, a fool’s cap from a local production. The second from the stage show of an international celebrity – say, one of the Beatles. A cap worn in concert or on an album cover such as Sergeant’s Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
The caps were meant for some kind of museum but the dreamer decided to keep them. The dreamer doesn’t have as many issues with truthfulness, honesty and being a good little soldier who doesn’t complain. Shades of long-ago visits to the gyno, here. The obstretician who always greeted me with the words: “Ah! my favorite patient. Always smiling, and never a complaint.” I was young and more than a bit stupid and trusting. The man had found the perfect way to shut me up and make me store away my list of troubling questions. I smiled. I joked. I made my doctor grin. He got my money too. Hurray, hurray.
Allez. There’s sunshine out there. Words to pull out of a cap for one or another character. Anger to recycle into something else more conducive to… to something a lot better than proving you can stand up again after every put-down. Until the day comes when you can’t stand up no more? Thanks, let’s try something else.