Light and Day
I’m not sure, but that might’ve been a panic attack.
I’ve been bouncing in all directions for the last few weeks, so I guess this probably wasn’t the best time to watch The Light Between Oceans, an incredibly moving story that I thoroughly enjoyed, though I’m sure some people would dismiss it as just a tear-jerker. Fuck them.
The film tells the story of a couple living in a lighthouse in post-World War I Australia, who make an understandable but nonetheless disastrous decision when a boat containing a dead man and a live baby comes ashore on their island.
It’s painfully ironic that people who are entrusted with providing this guiding light could stumble down such a dark path, but so many of us have trouble finding our way even at high noon.
The thing had me weeping and wailing as the inevitable confrontation takes place, but I also found an excuse to conjure up all these terrible thoughts about what a lousy son I was, how I caused my parents all kinds of worry and misery with my constant screw-ups.
What all this grief has to do with a lighthouse in Australia I have no fucking idea, but when I’m upset, it doesn’t take much for me to go full-on Chernobyl.
I’m finally switching to a new bank after months of rage and madness at my old institution, which is gleefully screwing me over the hacking of my accounts.
Light the Way
I was hoping for a quick resolution to our dispute, but it’s looking more like the siege of Leningrad.
One of the managers at the new place sat me down Saturday for their version of 20 questions. He smiled when I told him my mother’s maiden name.
“She’s Italian?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, wincing at his use of the present tense.
My mother’s been gone for 15 years and I still miss her terribly, especially when there’s bad news on the doorstep. I was going to correct this fellow, but I thought better of it. Why embarrass the man and make myself miserable as well?
I went out Saturday night to unwind at a happy hour event, but my attitude was severely off.
I had been making improvements with the anger management, I really had, but the banking woes have made me super-irritable, so Saturday’s atrocious train service made my foul mood that much worse.
And while I met great people that night and had some nice conversations, I just don’t think a 60-year-old man should be hanging around in bars.
I got pretty depressed, thinking that I was too old to have fun and destined to haunt the bingo halls and I think many things contributed to my intense (over?) reaction to the movie.
So I think that banker had the right idea. I should think of my mother in the present tense, make her a part of my daily life instead of the fading past, and let her be my lighthouse guiding me through the unforgiving ocean.
I’ve been bouncing in all directions for the last few weeks, so I guess this probably wasn’t the best time to watch The Light Between Oceans, an incredibly moving story that I thoroughly enjoyed, though I’m sure some people would dismiss it as just a tear-jerker. Fuck them.
The film tells the story of a couple living in a lighthouse in post-World War I Australia, who make an understandable but nonetheless disastrous decision when a boat containing a dead man and a live baby comes ashore on their island.
It’s painfully ironic that people who are entrusted with providing this guiding light could stumble down such a dark path, but so many of us have trouble finding our way even at high noon.
The thing had me weeping and wailing as the inevitable confrontation takes place, but I also found an excuse to conjure up all these terrible thoughts about what a lousy son I was, how I caused my parents all kinds of worry and misery with my constant screw-ups.
What all this grief has to do with a lighthouse in Australia I have no fucking idea, but when I’m upset, it doesn’t take much for me to go full-on Chernobyl.
I’m finally switching to a new bank after months of rage and madness at my old institution, which is gleefully screwing me over the hacking of my accounts.
Light the Way
I was hoping for a quick resolution to our dispute, but it’s looking more like the siege of Leningrad.
One of the managers at the new place sat me down Saturday for their version of 20 questions. He smiled when I told him my mother’s maiden name.
“She’s Italian?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, wincing at his use of the present tense.
My mother’s been gone for 15 years and I still miss her terribly, especially when there’s bad news on the doorstep. I was going to correct this fellow, but I thought better of it. Why embarrass the man and make myself miserable as well?
I had been making improvements with the anger management, I really had, but the banking woes have made me super-irritable, so Saturday’s atrocious train service made my foul mood that much worse.
And while I met great people that night and had some nice conversations, I just don’t think a 60-year-old man should be hanging around in bars.
I got pretty depressed, thinking that I was too old to have fun and destined to haunt the bingo halls and I think many things contributed to my intense (over?) reaction to the movie.
So I think that banker had the right idea. I should think of my mother in the present tense, make her a part of my daily life instead of the fading past, and let her be my lighthouse guiding me through the unforgiving ocean.
Comments
I'm glad I have OH though, because I could easily talk myself into 'over 60-year-old women should not do this or that'. Look - if I can rediscover my right to wear a bikini on a public beach at 63 years old, I see no reason why you should not enjoy an evening in a bar!
Your mother and mine are both beyond our reach, having passed away. You and I both grieve about that and wish we'd been a better son/daughter, but this is absolutely normal; we all do it. And I can tell you as a mother of imperfect adult children, that your mother and mine have both forgiven us and would never have us beat ourselves up on that account, because we love our children unconditionally. Mine would have had tears in her eyes if I had suggested otherwise. I'm betting yours would have done, too.
I guess what I should've said is that I don't want to bars to be my only way of socializing. I'm really not enjoying myself as much as I used to. But I'll certainly hang around any bar where you're drinking!
And thank you so much for your kind, thoughtful comments about my mother. I know you're right and that this guilt is something I created in my head.
The price of freedom is eternal vigilance refers to a nation, but it also applies to individuals who are plagued by negative thoughts and limiting beliefs. I'm so glad I have you in my life to keep on the high road!
My good friend Mario, author of the most fabulous blog "A Cuban in London" left a very nice comment today, noting that the last line of my post is a good guide for life.
Unfortunately, dimwit that I am, I accidentally deleted his comment instead of posting it. I apologize to him and you.
Hope all is going well with your bank issue.
Have a great week, buddy!
I really do think you'd get a kick of this movie. I appreciate support on this bank--I'm going to need all the help I can get!
Take care, buddy.
Rob
A good reflective post.
Greetings from London.