Ah, the monsters that we invite into our life. That phrase pricks the cross-wires in my brain, blipping me back to my twenties and my attraction to that dirtily handsome band of friends, each astride their vintage British motorcycles. “Break my heart! Here it is!” I was so eager to love and yet so far removed from it, wrapped up in the armour of my own sartorial choices. Leather jackets, winged eyeliner, silver skulls on every finger. Tiny, personal sized monsters. No lasting harm was inflicted by any of them thankfully, just the pangs of youth. Such contractions between wonder and fear. As little as I would show it, I was so impressed by New York City and its residents. Having grown up in small towns, I couldn’t help but wonder, “How did we all manage to get here?” and be rather proud that I had. Rather natural then with that outlook that I would attract some bad eggs along the way.
Isn’t it amazing that at some point dangerous people just naturally become less attractive? Out of nowhere, to remember, to dig up a distant memory of trust. And to find that beautiful and for beautiful to suddenly become much more attractive than “cool”. Typical end of twenties, early thoughts. But I remember wondering if it was even still possible at one point, to trust fully. Living in Manhattan from such a young age can take its toll. But of course it is, it always is. Our tender hearts. And then, I got lucky, I know that too.
For the past few years that longing for trust has spread out beyond Remi and my family to my friendships. I find it a more slippery slope somehow. Or that I am not as good of a judge as I would like to be, especially as I would prefer not to judge in the first place. And if they are not monsters, the pain of realizing that I have trusted where I should not is monsterish, as it is for us all.
The ghoul that I brought home from the market this morning is, fortunately, of the vegetal kind. When I saw it, I gave out a little “eee” of delight. What on earth? I had never seen anything like it! Much to my flower seller’s disappointment, I insisted on only buying two branches (very bad taste indeed as flowers should only be displayed in odd numbers) but I was purposefully after a Punky Brewster/ Pippi Longstocking effect. And sadly, despite a million attempts, my photos do not begin to show how ginormous they are. Really, I am ready at any moment for them to crack out like a whip at me when I pass or sneak towards Ben’s ear as he lay sleeping. Delightfully creepy, these. So I suppose that I shouldn’t be so surprised that their common name is “Love-lies-bleeding”(!) nor what I ended up typing when I sat down to write about these odd flowers. A desperate bid for normalcy is scattered elsewhere about the apartment: Stargazer’s for my Balinese friends, cream roses for the Chinese Buddha and one last bit of lavender for the kitchen window sill. And yet, the eye goes directly to the Amaranthus Caudatus nonetheless.
Now, on to the other side of the proverbial coin. The monsters that we do NOT invite into our lives but that intrude on our well-being nonetheless. In this case, I am talking about the neighbors and especially, their children. Now, don’t get your hackles up, I am not some sort of Slugworth kid-hater. But these not so little ones are driving me insane. Today they were throwing some kind of mini firecrackers under the feet of passer-by, undeterred even when one woman shouted out “ça va pas, non?!” Their skateboards resound against the building walls. I have been told that their family is linked with well, if not the actual Mafia then something similar. Sigh. Really most of the time, it truly is the noise factor that is driving me mad. So my dear friends here, such a wise bunch, any suggestions on how to deal with unwanted sound? Yes, I know, we chose to live in the center of town. We did. And yes winter is coming soon but not soon enough. Any thoughts?
