Friday Frags

I didn’t write yesterday. I’m not blaming it on time. I did lots of other things but when I ask myself the truth of why I didn’t write it was not a matter of prioritizing tasks. I prioritized recovery from the day before. Did you ever have a confrontation so unsettling it took the whole next day to recover from it?

I had to call an angry man and deliver bad news. I didn’t know the news would be bad for him until it was delivered so I wasn’t prepared for a negative response. I was blindsided by his rage. Angry Man chewed me out for it. He hung up the phone, let a few minutes pass, called me back, apologized for being rude, and then chewed me out again. When the call ended another few minutes passed and then Angry Man’s Wife called to lecture me. Lecture me at length. As if I was a child, which felt more insulting than the rage.

I was so unnerved by it I had to go home and make a fire. Self-soothing with fire? Oh yes. Yesterday when I drew my daily frag I was still processing the encounter. It took most of the day to process it. I kept the frag in mind but I never made it back here for notes.

Feels like a whisper; a reminder that this is in there somewhere, except it has not been suggested to me before so reminder wouldn’t be the right word. Revelation, maybe. That primal joy is in me somewhere. And if so, where did I put it?  I have not considered joy in a primal context. I know where the other primal things are kept. Where is this thing? Have I not noticed it before or did I misidentify it as something else?

It reminds me of the weird tuning fork incident. When The Chef I and bought this house we found a strange metal object with three twisted prongs lying on a windowsill. It was rusted to hell, not labeled in any way, and not situated near any other object that might have hinted at its use. Someone left it on the ledge of window. We had no clue as to its purpose. If it was an old piece of junk left behind by the previous owners it was the only piece of junk left behind. The rest of the house was completely empty. We were stymied. I joked that it looked like twisted tuning fork with an extra tine, or alternatively, a divining rod to find something other than water. Click the links if you don’t know what tuning forks or divining rods are.

Since I am particularly averse to useless junk cluttering up the place, we eventually gave up trying to figure it out and I tossed it. Years later when tree roots damaged our plumbing and turned our lawn into a lake of turds, we found out the old rusted hunk of junk I tossed out was a tool for shutting off the water supply to the house. The shut-off mechanism for the property is original (ancient), which means the weird twisted tuning fork tools are now hard to find. And I threw one away. The lake of turds might have only been a small pond of turds if the plumbers had been able to find a weird twisted tuning fork readily available. I’ll call that my primal dumbassity.

Today’s frag:

I’ve already argued that joy can’t be quantified. It also can’t be limited. Can it be primal? Yes, I suppose it can, but I’ve probably been calling it a tuning fork.

However, when I asked Google to show me images of primal joy, I got granola bars and something called paleo balls. Paleo balls look like turds. So if you’re also having trouble identifying primal joy, our clues to finding it are snacks and pooping. I’ve watched both my dog and my cat take rapturous victory laps after a good poo. And I mean, really, isn’t snacking already everything?

— Mercy

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