Mary Shelley discovered her Frankenstein monster during a dream. She lived the life of a true Goth, losing her mother early on, learning to read and write by tracing names on tombstones, being socially exiled for having an affair with and eventually marrying Percy, losing several children, then her husband to a boating accident, then finally dying penniless at a young age of a brain tumor. Yet her classic novel Frankenstein endures and despite her suffering, the world has one of its first cautionary tales about the dangers of technology and “weird” science.
Yesterday Patty, who has since moved upstairs next door into Sammy’s old apartment, walked across the street and was pounding on the old lady’s window who had called her earlier while Patty was sleeping. Patty was worried something might be wrong. No one was home though she called and called. I stood on the front porch and swore about the dust that now billows up on our street every time a car goes by because the gas and electric company has dug into the street to replace gas lines. Next door, June threw wet jeans over her front porch ledge and said nothing. Absurdism is alive and well in this neighborhood.
And I continue to wait, though I’m not waiting for Godot. I’m waiting for all my grand plans and schemes regarding this whacky vintage business to take hold, I’m waiting for my partner to stop suffering physically and to stop working so hard. I’m waiting for all the pain in this world to go away and never come back. I’m waiting for ugly to turn to beautiful. Yes, that’s it in a nutshell. I’m waiting.