There is a scene in Hamlet in which the players have just arrived at Elsinore and the bumbling Polonius bathers about the plasticity of theatre. He vainly hopes Hamlet will be cured by the "best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral.
I can relate to that serious-silly litany because my life is a singularly unique fruit salad of tragical-comical-historical-pastoral scenes. No kidding, I might be one of the few girls of the 21st century who can legitimately lump pastoral in with the history, comedy and tragedy of life. One dizzying day in my 19th year I actually kissed a blond, sweaty Iowa farm boy in the corn field of a hundred-year-old farm while a Murray Gray bull bellowed in the distance over severe lacerations of the penis. If that isn't tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, then the rest of the story is. The two teenagers loaded the bull in a trailer (pastoral-comical) began hauling him to the university of Minnesota up Interstate 35W (historical-pastoral). South of Albert Lea the ball broke and the trailer slammed onto the pavement and ground to a halt miraculously upright on the shoulder of the freeway (historical-comical). In the end, the bull was sold for slaughter because his entire value was in the injured and irreparable penis and the erstwhile sweethearts when their separate ways (tragical-comical-historical-pastoral). See?
This cinematic quality of my life is a constant and the juxtaposition of tragical and comical a given. I surprised my boyfriend with a visit only to be surprised myself by a mostly-naked visitor in his bedroom. I beguiled my new boyfriend into bed, calmed his fears of unwanted pregnancy, only to have to announce I was pregnant after that first encounter. I have a long list of scenes from my life that are tragic in nature yet have a kooky, almost surreal comical twist.
Consider a few more. My nearly estranged parents arriving at the hospital as I was about to give birth to my illegitimate child. My father, frustrated by his helplessness in the situation, rips the clock off the labor room wall because it is taking entirely to long to deliver this child. Pulling in the driveway of my parent's home after learning my finance wasn't coming to our wedding the next day and my father saying, "Then what the hell am I mowing the lawn for?" Oh, trust me, I have hundreds of these tragical-comical situations. My friend Carrie particularly likes the one in which I've gone to Sebastian Joe's, an ice cream shop, to sweeten my sorrows with a peppermint bon bon cone and a bird poops on my new purse.
The last two years have brought new meaning to tragical-comical. The stakes are higher and the tragedy definitely Shakespearean. After chasing my mother around the Fairview Southdale parking lot at midnight last week, I just don't find this stuff amusing anymore.
I can relate to that serious-silly litany because my life is a singularly unique fruit salad of tragical-comical-historical-pastoral scenes. No kidding, I might be one of the few girls of the 21st century who can legitimately lump pastoral in with the history, comedy and tragedy of life. One dizzying day in my 19th year I actually kissed a blond, sweaty Iowa farm boy in the corn field of a hundred-year-old farm while a Murray Gray bull bellowed in the distance over severe lacerations of the penis. If that isn't tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, then the rest of the story is. The two teenagers loaded the bull in a trailer (pastoral-comical) began hauling him to the university of Minnesota up Interstate 35W (historical-pastoral). South of Albert Lea the ball broke and the trailer slammed onto the pavement and ground to a halt miraculously upright on the shoulder of the freeway (historical-comical). In the end, the bull was sold for slaughter because his entire value was in the injured and irreparable penis and the erstwhile sweethearts when their separate ways (tragical-comical-historical-pastoral). See?
This cinematic quality of my life is a constant and the juxtaposition of tragical and comical a given. I surprised my boyfriend with a visit only to be surprised myself by a mostly-naked visitor in his bedroom. I beguiled my new boyfriend into bed, calmed his fears of unwanted pregnancy, only to have to announce I was pregnant after that first encounter. I have a long list of scenes from my life that are tragic in nature yet have a kooky, almost surreal comical twist.
Consider a few more. My nearly estranged parents arriving at the hospital as I was about to give birth to my illegitimate child. My father, frustrated by his helplessness in the situation, rips the clock off the labor room wall because it is taking entirely to long to deliver this child. Pulling in the driveway of my parent's home after learning my finance wasn't coming to our wedding the next day and my father saying, "Then what the hell am I mowing the lawn for?" Oh, trust me, I have hundreds of these tragical-comical situations. My friend Carrie particularly likes the one in which I've gone to Sebastian Joe's, an ice cream shop, to sweeten my sorrows with a peppermint bon bon cone and a bird poops on my new purse.
The last two years have brought new meaning to tragical-comical. The stakes are higher and the tragedy definitely Shakespearean. After chasing my mother around the Fairview Southdale parking lot at midnight last week, I just don't find this stuff amusing anymore.
Hey, thanks for reading this! And I discovered an error - to instead of too. Oh well. I will get to my memoirs someday. And my kids will hate that!
ReplyDelete