This morning, as I was returning to Art Camp from the Burlington airport, I bypassed the opportunity to attend a “Vermont Maple Open House” at one of the many maple shops that you drive past to get to Art Camp. I briefly thought about it, on the off-chance that they had unseasonable Maple Creemies for sale (Maple Creemies are a Vermont summer treat: basically soft-serve ice cream made with real maple syrup, served on a CAKE CONE, because cones are awesome.). The sign said something like “WATCH US BOIL SHIT.” I considered this. I’ve watched many a pot boil water over the years; tree sap was something else. Tree sap, like water, is a clear liquid, so maybe not worth parking the car and getting out of the car to watch clear liquid boil and then spend money on maple items.
Last night at karaoke (Eurythmics “Love is a Stranger” in case you’re wondering), one of the Art Campers told me she thought I hated her because I’m so cool. I told her this was not true, I adore her, and what the hell is this warrantless insecurity? Why would I hate her? You have to do something really bad for me to hate you, like be a boorish misogynist who cuts me off in the food line, for me to hate you. A rare thing around these parts, and even then it’s not hate. I hate hate anyway. Hate is a waste of time. But also, don’t rush in front of me to grab food before me–that’s just tacky and a show of poor character. But also, if last night’s mutiny over running out of cookies is any indication of how things go around here…nah, don’t do that. Lose a cookie, gain a friend.
But I get this. I still struggle with my own perceptions of things, post-abuse. That’s the thing that lingers–the mistrust of my own perception of things. I’ve more or less accepted that I am going to wander through the rest of my life constantly wondering about every interaction with others. I am guilty of warrantless insecurity. It feels different now, though. Maybe it’s Post-A (abuse, not asteroid), maybe it’s post-40. Maybe I really am that confident. I have no idea. Kelly S. tells me I come across as really confident, and I believe her, but sometimes I worry that this scares people away from me. My insides are really a bunch of smashed dishes and an old couch smeared with peanut butter and a calf that can’t find its mommy. Like pretty much everyone else who makes art or breathes.
After karaoke, I went to sleep and had a dream about Abuser. In the dream, I had apparently moved into a shitty apartment with him and was trying to move out, and he kept unpacking my boxes and I was rushing around trying to get help to get out of this situation. The apartment, notably, was a really ugly, square Soviet block jobber that was part of a dead shopping mall. Why this dream and why now?
The actual wisdom here is, no reason, doesn’t matter. It will be some years yet until I no longer have getting-away-from-Abuser dreams, and that is okay. The important thing is that I did that in my waking life, once.
While I did not stop for Maplegasm 2017 or whatever that event was actually called (there were a couple of maple celebrations I did not stop for on the way back–one seemed kind of high end, at the winery down the way–maybe they were serving pancakes? Was it a high-end pancake thing? The “watch us boil shit” event was at a little maple store–definitely no pancakes.) I did stop at a Maplefields to gas up the company car and use their bathroom, which, in the grand Maplefields tradition, contained an arrangement of fresh flowers:
Which made me feel very special, but also sad for these flowers, who are trapped in a windowless gas station bathroom!
Before that, I popped into City Market in Burlington, where this exciting product was available (and no, I didn’t buy any. It was $16!).
But I would have if I had a seder to attend. Are we having an Art Camp seder?
Can we have an Art Camp seder? Lose a cookie, gain a matzah?