This Side of October

On the cusp of November we are, Halloween festivities and a morning chill... the city bloated with marathoners and their families... lines everywhere just a bit longer and some extra celebratory brink with the added hour tonight as we fall back into standard time's premature evening...

At 5 AM I toasted one of the Yesterday's Bargain Bagels and provoked a distinctly Proustian memory of eating morning rolls in Sweden in the late 1990's.  Stockholm-baked goods, even from the local Konsum or Coop, were a superb and economical treat... not sure what precisely triggered that particular breakfast-flashback-- maybe the newly cold air... but I could taste the French press Gevalia 'mörk' and warm buttered roll... a kitchen window in Blackeberg where I woke with my young boyfriend then, in his mother's flat, with a vague sense of doom but the international comfort of coffee.

There are days when I begin to reel the reality show of my own life-- in seasonal episodes-- some endlessly drawn out, some brief and bright.  Still counting the weighted number of Halloweens I played gigs behind a mask or wearing wings and navigating smoky spooky stage decor. As a girl it always surprised me how the jack-o'-lantern candle would often burn until morning.  For some reason I felt guilty hitting the neighbors up for a handout. I don't particularly love candy but I relished sorting it into piles and types and colors, separating them into the old apothecary jars my mother saved for these occasions, storehousing them as bargaining chips for my sister's constant machinations and games. Candy insurance.

I've been reading Anna Seghers' 'Transit'.  It's a well-written personalized account of a group of internationals-- with varied narratives-- convened in Marseille, poised to leave German-occupied France, jumping through various red-tape hoops and Visa requirements... like a kind of obstacle course. The leaving becomes sort of metaphorically resonant... escaping, going toward, changing nationalities, identities... there are mysteries and enigmas-- intrigue, lies and sorrow. It's wonderful

One begins to think about one's own transits... where I was going, where I was, what I did not know. It's nearly thirty years since Stockholm and from this distance there is a kind of clarity to my relationship decisions which in the moment generally seemed indecipherable and unfathomable. 

History does reveal itself-- repeats itself, it is said, but not really. Looking back, walking in old tracks changes things; each time we revisit the past we've altered it.  What was not there the first time round was us-- our retrospective self, looking back with wisdom or stupidity... with no choice.  It happened; it was left. We can change the way we think about it, but it's permanent.  

I was thinking, as I gave out piles of candy today... there is no trick 'or' treat-- it's a one-way transactional exchange.  And it does little good to review my mistakes.  As for the present, we are learning daily that all of this artificial intelligence, piled on top of the excessive media blather, is not really getting us closer to any fundamental truth.  I read today that fully 21% of scientific data may have been altered to fit the researcher's narrative. Who really knows how many cases of whatever disease-of-the-month exist, since half the country is afraid to report illness, for fear of being deported? The most accurate medical data is generally derived from analysis of sewage.  What can one think when this is our most reliable source of truth?

And all those years ago... what if I'd stayed in Sweden?  Or London? What if I hadn't listened to some whispered suggestion of dismay or infidelity or whatever it was that changed my heart, my marriage, my engagements? The tiny 'veer' that throws one off-course as the miles pile up?  What if my sister had been a kind, supportive sister and not a conniving backstabbing sort who reshaped the innocent family dynamic into a sort of car-crash with casualties? Why does the word 'casualty' begin with casual? It seems fully deceptive. 

So I messed up, in so many ways.  I bled the injured narrative, the fragile vows, the broken promises.  Was that not within my rightful options?  Was that not on the life-ballot? It's done, and not much benefit in going back, at this ripe age, to learn from old missteps. And yet, these tiny moments come back to us, like the scent of buttered Swedish rolls in a New York City morning, when half the world is walking the streets in some disguise, pretending to be a hero or a ghoul or a celebrity... as though they've been built-in, premeditated, already ordered to make some kind of sense or internal rhyme.

This November cusp feels so familiar-- I remember so well anticipating my son's birth, the early chill, the first premature EST sunset... me praying I'd get through Halloween without contractions... the marathon energy and annual FOMO on my part. My son was eventually born on Election Day-- no choice there, and I'm still here, not running but dreaming of it-- a spectator, a Visa-holding citizen who seems to do most of my transit internally... plenty of space to cover, plenty of parade here and runners to celebrate... a little costumed-out... (was it me or were there an inordinate number of Tigers today?) but glad to have made it to this side of October.