Click amount to donate direct to CounterPunch
  • $25
  • $50
  • $100
  • $500
  • $other
  • use PayPal
DOUBLE YOUR DONATION!
We don’t run corporate ads. We don’t shake our readers down for money every month or every quarter like some other sites out there. We provide our site for free to all, but the bandwidth we pay to do so doesn’t come cheap. A generous donor is matching all donations of $100 or more! So please donate now to double your punch!
FacebookTwitterGoogle+RedditEmail

Welcome to the Slaughterhouse

Mercurial I am.

Took a walk after dinner last week after submitting my “Annie” article.  Down to the center of the Kingdom.  “Prosecco On the Patio” at Donna’s Café was teeming with flesh, a lighthouse for the lonely, a lantern to the lost.

I made my way to Chris who coordinates these “events.”  “What is this?” I asked.

“Two Meet Up groups,” she said.  “For singles.  Join us.”

The women outnumbered the men at this desperate-times-call-for-desperate-measures-goody bag.

Suddenly, I was talking with a woman.  She was ready-set-go hot.  Plunging neckline.  Cleavage.

At Cindy Sheehan’s Soap Box, I’m listed among the bloggers.  Cindy calls me a “radical” with the caveat, “Looks can be deceiving.”  I thought about this as I scrutinized the Meat Hook Up.  I was wearing jeans and a white, tailored shirt, a veritable anarchist in this tits, ass, perfume, sweat, and testosterone cauldron of carnal opportunity.

Welcome to the slaughterhouse.

A man approached.  He didn’t tell me his name.  Just said he’s a lawyer, divorced two years.

“How long were you married?” I asked.

“Twenty years.”

“And how many of those years were happy?”

“Oh, seventeen.”

“Well, anyone who’s had 17 years of happiness probably wants to remarry.”

“Someday.  Not soon.  All the women I meet want to move in or marry.  What do you want?”

“I just want equanimity,” I said.

“What’s that?” he asked

“I think you should mingle,” I said.

I left for the bank, my original destination, to withdraw cash from the ATM.   Turning, I headed home, walking past Donna’s chaos.  I felt my own.  “I’m not right for this world.”  Nausea.

“I’m not right for this world.”

At home, I poured Pepto-Bismol into its plastic dispenser and chased it with water.  And, then, I imagined a drink for the heartburn-ed:  Pepto and Prosecco.  Hmm, Pepto and Prosecco on the Patio.

I laughed.

Later, I lay in bed.  The positive mantras I’ve said the last few months weren’t there.  “Everything is all right” became “I’m not right for this world.”

Another storm ravaged the Eastern US Friday night.  The ceiling fan faltered, stopped, started, faltered.  The lights flickered.  Then, the outage.  Usually, these are brief.  I awakened early morning to a motionless fan.

Outside, tree branches partially obstructed the road.  I walked with neighbors, surveying the damage.  Someone said we wouldn’t have power for a couple of days.  I said it could be worse.  “What if we lived in Iraq or Afghanistan?  What if we were looking at the aftermath of a drone attack?”

He said, “You’re right.”

Little Ms. Sunshine, I became, spreading messages of gratitude, for all we take for granted.

I walked to the Village Square Café.  No air conditioning but plenty of food, a place to charge batteries, and access email.

Later, I entered my almost dark apartment.  Too early to go to bed.  Not enough light to read. I decided to try meditation.  No, that’s not misspelled.  I did not intend to write “medication.”  Think about it:  Replacing “t” with “c” is a huge difference.

Now, where was I?  Oh, yes, nightfall.

I positioned comfortably, hands on my legs.  And I began to breathe, concentrating on each breath. Breathing, breathing, breathing, focusing on the inhalation, the exhalation.

And, then: “You don’t know what you’re doing.  Okay, picture a STOP sign to prevent invasive and occupying thoughts.”

Breathing, breathing, breathing.

Another intrusive thought.

“Shut up.”

And, then, finally, a nice calm in the smooth stillness of a power outage.

There’s a world I’m not right for, a labyrinth of aging sorority and fraternity rushees.

Yet, there’s this place I entered, a shelter from the storm, where I was able to cast off some negatives, for a while.  I know they’ll reappear, leave, and reappear.

Equanimity.  It’s possible.  With practice.  On purpose.

Missy Beattie continues to work on meditating in Baltimore.  Email:  missybeat@gmail.com    

More articles by:

Missy Beattie has written for National Public Radio and Nashville Life Magazine. She was an instructor of memoirs writing at Johns Hopkins’ Osher Lifelong Learning Institute in BaltimoreEmail: missybeat@gmail.com

Weekend Edition
October 19, 2018
Friday - Sunday
Jason Hirthler
The Pieties of the Liberal Class
Jeffrey St. Clair
A Day in My Life at CounterPunch
Paul Street
“Male Energy,” Authoritarian Whiteness and Creeping Fascism in the Age of Trump
Nick Pemberton
Reflections on Chomsky’s Voting Strategy: Why The Democratic Party Can’t Be Saved
John Davis
The Last History of the United States
Yigal Bronner
The Road to Khan al-Akhmar
Robert Hunziker
The Negan Syndrome
Andrew Levine
Democrats Ahead: Progressives Beware
Rannie Amiri
There is No “Proxy War” in Yemen
David Rosen
America’s Lost Souls: the 21st Century Lumpen-Proletariat?
Joseph Natoli
The Age of Misrepresentations
Ron Jacobs
History Is Not Kind
John Laforge
White House Radiation: Weakened Regulations Would Save Industry Billions
Ramzy Baroud
The UN ‘Sheriff’: Nikki Haley Elevated Israel, Damaged US Standing
Robert Fantina
Trump, Human Rights and the Middle East
Anthony Pahnke – Jim Goodman
NAFTA 2.0 Will Help Corporations More Than Farmers
Jill Richardson
Identity Crisis: Elizabeth Warren’s Claims Cherokee Heritage
Sam Husseini
The Most Strategic Midterm Race: Elder Challenges Hoyer
Maria Foscarinis – John Tharp
The Criminalization of Homelessness
Robert Fisk
The Story of the Armenian Legion: a Dark Tale of Anger and Revenge
Jacques R. Pauwels
Dinner With Marx in the House of the Swan
Dave Lindorff
US ‘Outrage’ over Slaying of US Residents Depends on the Nation Responsible
Ricardo Vaz
How Many Yemenis is a DC Pundit Worth?
Elliot Sperber
Build More Gardens, Phase out Cars
Chris Gilbert
In the Wake of Nepal’s Incomplete Revolution: Dispatch by a Far-Flung Bolivarian 
Muhammad Othman
Let Us Bray
Gerry Brown
Are Chinese Municipal $6 Trillion (40 Trillion Yuan) Hidden Debts Posing Titanic Risks?
Rev. William Alberts
Judge Kavanaugh’s Defenders Doth Protest Too Much
Ralph Nader
Unmasking Phony Values Campaigns by the Corporatists
Victor Grossman
A Big Rally and a Bavarian Vote
James Bovard
Groped at the Airport: Congress Must End TSA’s Sexual Assaults on Women
Jeff Roby
Florida After Hurricane Michael: the Sad State of the Unheeded Planner
Wim Laven
Intentional or Incompetence—Voter Suppression Where We Live
Bradley Kaye
The Policy of Policing
Wim Laven
The Catholic Church Fails Sexual Abuse Victims
Kevin Cashman
One Year After Hurricane Maria: Employment in Puerto Rico is Down by 26,000
Dr. Hakim Young
Nonviolent Afghans Bring a Breath of Fresh Air
Karl Grossman
Irving Like vs. Big Nuke
Dan Corjescu
The New Politics of Climate Change
John Carter
The Plight of the Pyrenees: the Abandoned Guard Dogs of the West
Ted Rall
Brett Kavanaugh and the Politics of Emotion-Shaming
Graham Peebles
Sharing is Key to a New Economic and Democratic Order
Ed Rampell
The Advocates
Louis Proyect
The Education Business
David Yearsley
Shock-and-Awe Inside Oracle Arena
FacebookTwitterGoogle+RedditEmail