The real victims

Had dinner with mom and she said the housekeeper from the Arabi nursing home showed up the other day in Harvey having finally returned from Baton Rouge. She was describing her harrowing evacuation in which she lost everything and then was taken to the dome and then left there to get across the Crescent City Connection whereby she was turned away and then put on a bus and shipped to Pineville where she got off and the sheriff holding guns said get down in the grass, lay down in the grass, which was wet, and when everyone, shaken, didn’t respond quick enough the sheriff said, “Nigger, get down in the grass” and pointed his gun at her head. And here in our swirling fishbowl drama we thought we were all victims of something – but that is unadulterated myopia.

Mom went on to talk about S and asked how he was handling things. She said she wanted to tell him last time she saw him that he grows more handsome with age, and he does. I read her N’s mother’s email and she began to cry and I began to cry and then we were crying up a storm and she said, “What a wise wise woman!” But she said, “Rachel, I have looked into N’s eyes and I know he is a beautiful soul, but you must remember that you are a rare person and he would be lucky to have you.” Mother talk – got to love it. So then L read the email to his mother and she had the same response. I told N I would like to publish it on the blog but she said no. One day I’ll email J and see if she minds – it is so beautiful and wise, it should be put out there.

N told me that Sundays are rough for him because of his childhood and the uncertainty that came with where he would be for the week. We left for Charleston on Sunday and I told him I hope that would lift the gris gris off of the day. This Sunday was a manic day for me, lows like gulches, peaks like sierra, and finally a settling into neutral by evening. I asked how his Sunday was and he said watching W run through tree forest and setting up tree made him forget it was Sunday. Gris gris gone. Hooray.

N told me he is going to quit reading the blog again for a while – I told him it’s the casualty of being involved with a writer, you become material, or a muse – just think if I had been a painter his nudes would be gracing the living rooms of all friends and strangers.

S said today too that he wants to quit reading the blog because it made him jealous to read about my feelings for N – I told him I was sorry – P said to me one night at Pals when he was viisting from Texas that Eskimos have 200 words for snow why don’t we have 200 words for love – I wish I had 200 words for sorry right now.

Meanwhile N says he is uncovering emotions so deep it is like a nuclear waste site – keep them coming and don’t let anyone else’s agenda stuff them back in was my response. I still think of the word J used to describe him – “contained” – and it makes my skin crawl.

N is meeting with S to talk today – I hope they can reach some point of clarity or forgiveness or at least get to neutral.

W may finally go to NY for new year – hip hip hooray – he will fall in love with the city and want to back again and again. I hope he can come light the menorah one night but I will see how the days go before asking.

My friend S in California talked me off a ledge Sunday morning – and made me laugh as we formulated plans for a career change – she also talked about her dog Lois being her source of comfort when she left Dick and I told her I could not get thru the day without the Bean who provides me with the unconditional love I need right now. I told S if he wants the Bean to visit he should just ask – he needs unconditional love too.

K is coming to visit L soon. The new year is coming soon. Time passes.

One Response to “The real victims”

  1. 200 Words for Sorry | GrahamdaPonte.net Says:

    […] Rachel is an amazing writer, capable of sweeping through a range of emotions in a single paragraph. This is one of my favorites, describing how she felt at the end of the affair that laid bare her […]

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