And I couldn’t help but wonder: if I love life and my outlook is usually brighter than most, what’s happening now to those folks who scowl and snarl and moan because they’re still trying to figure out how they always end up with the winning ticket in the crap-on-me lottery? Even worse: how’s all this impacting that poor soul who’s teeter righting on the edge of sanity, struggling to stay away from the suicide note with his name at the bottom?
The world had beaten me up. Bad. I wasn’t sure how to get back up and, me being me, worried that those who stayed on the mat waiting for the count might never get up. Not even a blog entry for me . . . I figured no one wanted to hear my cyber-whining. I semi-desperately whispered/apologized to a friend at work, ‘This is not a good time for me.’
So I’m at work last month, plunking away at my keyboard, bitching to myself about all the things I’d always swore I’d never bitch about . . . those things I couldn’t control. My IPod shuffles to Guy Clark and ‘The Cape.’
Eight years old with flour sack cape
Tied all around his neck
He climbed up on the garage
Figurin’ what the heck
He screwed his courage up so tight
The whole thing come unwound
He got a runnin’ start and bless his heart
He headed for the ground
He’s one of those who knows that life
Is just a leap of faith
Spread your arms and hold you breath
Always trust your cape
I never jumped off the roof, but I clothes-pinned many a bath towel across my super-hero shoulders as a kid. Although I could never get the towel to blow in the wind like Superman’s cape or mimic the intimidating shadow of Batman’s, I was courageous and always managed, no matter how badly Kryptonited, to spring back up for ‘Truth, Justice and the American Way (I may have been considered a little odd in my neighborhood).’
All grown up with a flour sack cape
Tied all around his dream
He’s full of piss and vinegar
He’s bustin’ at the seams
He licked his finger and checked the wind
It’s gonna be do or die
He wasn’t scared of nothin’, Boys
He was pretty sure he could fly
I listened to Guy Clark, and I thought about my own cape. I’d never let life drag me down like it had recently. Where’d I lose my cape?
Old and grey with a flour sack cape
Tied all around his head
He’s still jumpin’ off the garage
And will be till he’s dead
All these years the people said He’s actin’ like a kid
He did not know he could not fly So he did
I guess that’s the problem super-heroes have with secret identities. You have to remember where you hid your costume. I may not be back to leaping buildings with a single bound or stopping speeding bullets, but I remembered where I put my cap, and I try to wear it more often when I’m out on the town. Or buying groceries. Or pumping gas. And I loved it earlier in June when, once again, someone asked . . . no, not who was that Masked Man . . . ‘Why are you in such a good mood?’
Vacationed in Red River, New Mexico, a couple of weeks ago. I feel much better now. Take a look.
