Outside my window, branches touching the surface of the glass, is a quince tree. When the wind blows, it rakes back and forth like a bow against strings. The resulting screeches are those of a beginner violinist. It's a reminder of the elementary school spring concert and all its excitement and enthusiasms.
The other day I was out in the barn, hooping all my steroid angst out, when a friend texted me the phrase, "when the pandemic is over," and I wrote back, "That's the title of my collection of essays, written in invisible ink on the inside of my ribcage."
That afternoon, grey and rainy, I retreated under a blanket to read Dario Fo's Mysterio Buffo. I laughed, and sort of felt sad at the same time. How am I almost 52 and I never knew of this play? My father would have loved it. I've been watching clips of Fo's performances on YouTube, in Italian, and then reading the English translation of the play, much in the same way I read poetry by my favorite Spanish poets, a delighted flipping back and forth between the original language and the translation.
I'm glad to be off of steroids now. My energy level was high at first, and then that tapered into a sweet, sweet rage for absolutely everything. The other night as I watched Dan put seasoning salt on his food I yelled, "Enjoy your early death!" What patience I have normally (which isn't much, I have to say) was whittled to a shard of a toothpick that I'd be inclined to stab into someone's eye if given the chance. It was ugly.
I feel ugly, all around. This would have been the perfect time to take that Bouffon class I had scheduled that was canceled. I'm ready to work with my rage, to sing out the tones of what is written in invisible ink on the inside of my ribcage.