I used to be a skeptic when it came to Mercury Retrograde. When Annie announces “Mercury Retrograde is going to start” I would loudly dismiss the concept as some frivolous fairy tale, conjured up to make us scared of our shadows. “We choose our own fate and destiny,” I would boast. Lately, I jump in full sunlight, scared by that dark thing that keeps following me around.
August was pretty much a month of nothing but Mercury Retrograde. Odd little things that by themselves would be looked upon as an aggravation of sorts, but when pulled together become as formidable as rainfall at a Burning Man festival.
People will say that I am a “half-cup filled” sort of man, and so, in the effort of detailing each misfortune, I offer some positive aspect of the most despicable of all astrological goings-on that have been going on with me and my family, Mercury Retrograde.
The Great Indian Meal Moth Infestation. I reported lightly on this, in which we started getting moths flying around the house. Turns out that the Indian Meal Moth is the sort of creature that happily lays 400 eggs at a time. They can exist quite unnoticed in your flour or cereal, along with their eggs, waste and larvae. But good news! They won’t hurt you biologically. Isn’t that great news? But once free of the flour, they will fly about, looking for love in all the mealy places.
The positive result is that we cleaned our pantry and I even painted it, since it hadn’t been painted since 2011. We now have this efficient, clean and quite moth-free pantry. Or so we hope as a few interlopers manage to flit about, taunting us. But since this the positive section they sound like angels while they taunt me.
The Truck Tire Tread from Hell. The old saying is that “what doesn’t kill us, only makes us stronger.” That in and of itself is absolutely not true, as I nurse a pulled back muscle, brought on by some strange pain in the hip that made me have to drive to Iowa this past weekend with half my posterior in the air. Last Sunday, Switchback had a concert in the lovely hamlet of Franklin, Iowa. Brian drove from Lansing, I drove from Chicago in the stated condition. I wisely decided to stay the evening at the farm of Switchback fan Doug Seyb and his girlfriend Beth Hammond. The drive would be too long, I reasoned. I would get back to Chicago around 2 a.m. and Annie would be up that amount of time as well, waiting for me to come back. And what if I hit a deer?
As I drove the next bright morning along I-80 near Minooka, Illinois, a semi-truck in the right lane blew a tread as three cars were passing it. I was the third one. The first car managed to miss most of the rubber rainfall. The car in front of me threw a full three-foot swath of rubber in such a way, the tread reared up on the interstate as if it was some sort of living python. I had no choice but to hit it, aiming as much as I could with my left front tire. The tread proceeded to shatter the front left side of the mini van in the spot where we used to have things called bumpers. (What they now refer to in the auto business as a “bumper cover.” Bumpers are so 1979, they tell me.)
When I got home, I wired up the shattered pieces of plastic and now, it really does look like the type of vehicle Switchback usually drives.
The positive result. The adrenaline rush did have a positive effect on my isolated hip pain as I tensed every muscle in my body on impact. Now everything is pretty equally tense, except for my right back muscle, which is just that much sorer from holding half of my posterior in the air while driving to and from Franklin, Iowa. I was lucky the damage was superficial to the van, since it was made of plastic. I need that van for shows and bringing the art exhibit to Peoria. If I ever make it there.
Even my friends are affected. Yes, I said bringing the art to the exhibition that should have been up by now if it wasn't for Mercury Retrograde. You see, the vile thing also had it in for my friend Polly Chase, who when loading her car for the show with the art for the show tripped and fell hard, possibly breaking her foot, getting a bit of road rash and most likely questioning why she is even working with me in the first place. Most likely that occurred in that order.
The positive result. Thankfully, it appears that Polly is OK. I am sure that she is still questioning the why and how she is even helping me out here, but this is a true test of that friendship. I also was able to have the last painting cure a bit longer as it sits, taking over half our living room. And this should now give me a few extra days to get that bumper replaced. Heck, it even allowed me more time to paint the pantry during the dreaded Indian Meal Moth Infestation. And perhaps, it was astrologically preordained to give the Postal Service one last chance to find a lost $675 painting of mine.
Lost Art. I hate it when Mercury Retrograde plays art critic. It has done such a thing, deciding to deep-six my painting of the Grand Canal in Dublin. My first ever painting done in Ireland, and part of my Plein Air colleciton. Even though it was insured (well, for $100) and had tracking, the US Post Office has managed to either lose, fold, spindle or mutilate my first Irish painting. Now, the ironic thing is that the US Postal service’s tracking shows that it left Evanston and surprise! It never arrives at the magical sorting facility that is somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis. Therefore, it is reasonable to conclude that some poor driver was abducted by aliens, mail truck and all, I figure somewhere near Minooka. I received a contrite form letter from the Post Office, telling me that they have no idea what the hell happened. And then another form letter telling me to file to get $100. Then another form letter asking me to rate their service in telling me that they had no idea what the hell happened. (I gave them a great rating.)
The positive result. For this, I have to believe that one day, someone is going to “find” this lost postman and his truck. He will be on some odd central Illinois highway, transported and deposited far into the future, thinking he only stopped to use the bathroom at the Minooka Oasis. This truck will be a treasure trove of amazing artifacts for the curious of that far-off time. Lands-end Catalogs, political screed, maybe even a few letters handwritten (such wish thinking) and my piece of art. That art will be fought over by various museums and collectors, who will question aloud, “why didn’t we know about this wonderful artist?” and “what is it that he actually painted here?” There will be lectures given about the art. Songs written about the art that never made it and prints of the art will be selling for a cool million a pop by the USPS. The USPS will probably hush the whole affair up as they will realize they have to pay the abducted guy overtime.
Annie’s Back Gives Out. For better or worse is the saying, but when it’s Mercury Retrograde time, it’s for worse or more worse. Annie’s back gave out when lugging a tub of laundry up the stairs. This left a half-bent lady who was half-bent in pain and told me to get half-bent, too. Nothing is more dangerous than a woman in pain (any new father can attest to that) and even though Annie was debilitated to some degree, she could still manage to get a good right hook off now and then. Not at me, but those damn moths flying around.
The positive result. Thankfully, Annie’s back has improved and not a moment too soon as I had to do the dishes (all wrong, Annie says) and clean and paint a pantry. I think the getting on and off the ladder might have been the culprit with my right hip being sore, and for a couple of days, we both were limping around the house as if in some modern dance composition. My pain was minimal, and I truly admired how Annie soldiered through it all.
Epilogue. As we go through all this chaos, I find myself awake at 3 a.m. because Capers has this new habit of wanting to go to the bathroom at 3 a.m. Still, even this new twist by Mercury Retrograde will find me outside, thinking about how to maintain that half full glass. The moon high in the early morning night sky. I am tired, sore, befuddled, perplexed and vexed. Yet, I sort of still have my health. We still have that roof over our head. Aine is a treasure. The art that is around will eventually make it to Peoria. Annie’s back will recover, Polly will recover, the bumper cover will be replaced. The tread didn’t go through the windshield. Even that lost piece of art in the big scheme of things is just another opportunity to paint again. And I tell myself that somehow, in spite of Mercury Retrograde, it will be OK. As I walk back in, a moth slowly flutters by me. I smile.
Like this post? I have another one here.