Mood Swingles

I have more to say. More memories to document so as to more easily bring them to the surface later when I need them. Or want them.

Yesterday, the couple who introduced to me the idea of moving to Hot Springs Village moved away. They packed what they wanted to take, left what they didn’t (to be sold in an as-yet-unscheduled estate sale), and left for Texas. As they were preparing to leave town, the female half of the pair stopped by to drop off her Mexican table cloth and napkin set and a salsa bowl; they had been her contributions to our now-annual Cinco de Mayo party and she offered them to us as her way of keeping the party going.

After she left, headed toward the west gate for the last time, I pondered the momentous nature of her visit. It was almost certainly the last time she will ever set foot in our house. It was the last time, at least in Hot Springs Village, I will pet her little dog, Cooper, who was with her on her way out-of-town. While I hope we’ll visit them in Texas in the not-too-distant future, there’s no guarantee of that. Guarantees are subject to circumstances over which we may not have control. It occurs to me that we’d all be a little better off if we treated each moment we spend with someone who matters as if it might be the last moment we’ll have with them. It sounds a little morbid, perhaps, and in practice it could get embarrassingly messy and awkward, but it might change our perspectives about the world in which we live and the troubles that sometimes seem far more significant than they are.

Not long thereafter, my sense of valuing every moment went out the window as I drove to Hot Springs to buy paint and groceries. Idiotic drivers deviating wildly out of their lanes while talking on their phones, among other examples of humanity’s ugly underbelly, helped return me to my antisocial self. I imagined having the capability to force cars to the side of the road by causing their engines to seize. And then, at the paint store, two woefully uninformed clerks could not successfully explain how two identical gallons of paint could show up on the bill with two radically different prices: $54 and $38. The variances were, finally, revealed to have reasonable explanations, but not until I repeatedly questioned whether the information had been entered correctly. The paint will, when the mood strikes, lead to a transformation of the living room and the master bedroom; the former in the hope of brightening the room and the latter with the intent of freshening an outdated look.

Then when we went to the Asian market, we found things we had not found (or had not looked for) at Asian markets in Little Rock, so the world brightened a bit. I left with dried anchovies, miso paste, and mirin. And, after the next shopping stop, Kroger’s, I left with the last few ingredients I’ll need to make bulgogi this week: a very expensive cut off beef and a pear. With those positive jolts of good karma, my mood returned to a moderate level of contentment.

After a nice dinner of grilled Hatch chile burgers and corn on the cob, I allowed the world and its random, senseless assaults on my senses to take its toll. Instead of focusing on the contentment of the day, I allowed myself to swerve toward the disappointments and injustices and meanness that seems to pervade the news. What a rotten thing to do; allow oneself to bathe in a cold bath of rancor. I wonder whether the truth to some of the lyrics to Somebody that I Used to Know (“you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness”) might have a lesser known corollary: you can get addicted to a certain kind of madness.

cof-o-cuppeeBut now, this morning, after my second large cof o’ cuppee, things are looking bright, even before daylight begins to creep into the room. After last night’s plunge into the abyss, I brought in the hummingbird feeders and cleaned them thoroughly, readying them for fresh refills this morning. That, I hope, will delight the hummingbirds, causing them to flock to the feeders in a brilliant dance of joyful reconciliation with one another (heretofore, they have been highly territorial; I suspect they will remain so).

As the sky begins to lighten, methinks it’s time to venture outdoors with said bird feeders, luring the winged beasts to the windows with nectar and bright red faux flowers. Off I go.

 

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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