How Could It be Different?

I guess things happen for a reason. I didn't feel like doing this tonight, because when I prepare to write a post (or anything) I think about it for a while, and eventually sit down and do it. I get the narrative all whirling around up in my brain, and pick it out when it has come into place. But sometimes I just have to sit down and let the words flow, regardless of the outcome...

I wanted to tell you about Sonya, I girl I worked with once upon a time, but first I need to talk about my last post. I don't like to this, because I am such a fan of puzzles and crosswords, and I hate getting hints to any answers. I like to try and figure them out for myself, only looking up the solution when I'm absolutely ready to give up. And because I am such a fan of riddles and such, I like to put them into my stories, and let you try and figure them out. Maybe you didn't even know they were there... but they are. And who really likes things spelled out for them, anyway?
I saw Joan as Policewoman the other night at Shubas, with one of the Joans, and she sang my favorite song of hers, The Ride. Before she performed it, she told us the song was about Whitney Houston, and her tragic relationship with Bobby. Did that ruin it for me? Maybe a little. I had my own meaning about that song, and it wasn't that. She did add that she forgets her inspiration for it, sometimes, but she told us anyway. Maybe in a couple years I'll forget, too, but I doubt it.
Spoilers from my last entry: these are the hidden meanings I put in the post, but if you saw it a different way, that's ok, too:
About the title, Viva Hate: It come from Morrissey's first solo collection, from the year of my post, right after the ending of the Smiths. I can't speak of his meaning of the title, but besides it being kind of funny, for me it means he has accepted hatred as a part of life, and that can be turned into art, and art has a meaning outside of itself. Also, to me, he diffused any bombs out there about what the world at large may be thinking about his motives for a quick solo release. I know my first thought back then, when I heard he had a new album out, was so soon after the end of the Smiths? And it also put the spotlight on the other Smiths as to who may have ended the group, intentionally or not, because he obviously didn't hate his band. All this relates to how I feel about Consita, my old boss, because hatred can be a motivator, and, although I don't hate the person Consita, her actions, and lack of action, greatly upset me, during a time in my life when I really hated myself, and actions, and lack of action. Sometimes hate keeps you alive. It makes you want to live long enough to enjoy a life without it.
The song in the title link; Such a Shame by Talk Talk: A perfect songs that illustrates how I felt about Consita; also represents being on the other side of those feelings, by writing about it, like they did. Most importantly, he's kept his sense of humor.
The Picture; Gene Tierny. Besides being an inspiration for me to try and write as clean and simply as the photos I choose, her Hollywood story mirrors that of Lana Turner's, (I can't be that obvious and put her picture up, now can I? Oops, I already have. I love her.) in that she was on a tour of a movie studio with her family when she was discovered by a talent agent. It represents one of those classic moments we all have in our life when we think about our pasts, and wonder what if I had never met so and so?, or if I had only turned left instead of right that day. Would we know Lana Turner if she chose to eat somewhere other than Schuab's that fateful day? Consita and Bob are a part of me, and paint the picture of me, like the picture also represents. Like it or not, everyone we've ever known is in the picture that could be painted of our lives.
The last line, I sometimes wish we all had heard him that day, has as much meaning for myself as it does for Consita. I was on a very self-destructive path back then, and couldn't open my eyes to the millions of paths that are out there. Sometimes a little nudge from the people around us is all we need to get off it, and sometimes a giant shove. Hearing John English speak that day in 1987 was my ten thousandth 'little nudge' to date, and I was mainly upset by Consita because I recall no 'nudges' from her.
Ultimately, what I meant by this post is that hatred lives, but it's subjective; illusory, and I ask myself How could it be different? It may appear only as a small blip on our radar, but it can consume us.

I'll tell you about Sonya next time...