Dan Rico: Noon Game (1935 - 1943)
United States. Works Progress Administration

"My emotional crankcase drained …"

I had not remembered that ease when I'd suited up, even through the weeks leading up to the disruption. I'd undoubtedly struggled to suit up when I was down, but then I was not even pretending to enter any game. Suddenly, the act seemed more effortless than I ever remembered it seeming. I was BackInto the game again!

I feared my week's idleness might permanently eliminate my acceptance as a player. I'd secretly hoped this might be the case when still in the depths of the stillness. I decided that it could be okay either way. I would let the cards fall where they may. I went about my day as if unencumbered by outside obligations. I ran a few errands, and everything unfolded as if intended. Midafternoon, The Muse called me in for cross-examination. Was I still interested in contributing to the campaign, and if so, how? I surprised myself by saying I guessed I might still be the best person for the position, and the candidate agreed. I swore to avoid those GoogleApps® whose use had so offended and wounded me. Everyone around the table quickly agreed.

I fled to my phone and quickly completed a few much-delayed connections, righting some obligations I'd abandoned in my Seasonal Affective Disruption-ness. There might be salvation still possible, I marveled. How bottomless might be the well of forgiveness if even my egregious trespasses could so easily vanish? Surprisingly, I finished some long-stalled possibilities that still seemed to hold genuine potential. How easily I switched from job to job, ridding my world of clog after clog after clog. I had not imagined any world could be so easily conquered. I felt supremely rested, refreshed, and enabled.

Once the dreaded ReEntry dance concludes, an alternative universe emerges, and potential might explode. The thing about potential, though, its contents never become evident until well after it visits, never before. Later, when enjoying that cold shower, its contents became visible only then. I live in dread of what I can never foresee. I mistake my foreboding for my potential, and my possibilities shrivel before harvest can even begin. I see definite benefits from imagining successful engagements, from believing, even delusionally, of the possibility of occasionally winning a round, taking a hand—a prophylactic delusion holding some space for Grace to re-enter the game. Of course, not every hand will be winning, but it's just as sure that not every hand will be a losing one, either. I need not get too full of myself in either instance. I can as believably presume myself a winner as a loser. Which belief better encourages my engagement?

The best preparation might lie in resignation. I've long contended that nothing influences more effectively than dedicated indifference. It might not matter whether I believe anything in any case. It might matter more that I just show up. I can inflict no influence unless I'm in the game in the first place. A resignation might most effectively preface a renewed presence. I can neither win nor lose unless I'm BackInto the game again.

I missed myself in my absence. I idled away my absence, feeling as though I was second-order gone, absent from my absence, too. If I was trying to be through with my disengagement, engaging in any alternative might have somehow violated my intention. It wasn't the particular game I had been fed up with, but the whole concept of engaging in any kind of play. When play becomes punishment, what should have felt like punishment might seem like play. I somehow managed to transcend that troublesome dichotomy and engage in nothing for a change. My emotional crankcase drained, spark plugs regapped, and air filter replaced; Grace suited up with unaccustomed ease and stepped BackInto the game.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Grace, #PureSchmaltz