She’s Bi-Polar, Roy.

That’s what we heard Allen say, but he was reading the CVS Pharmacy sale flyer which said “Buy Polaroid 600 film, get 2nd package ½ price”. The mind hears what it wants to, and She’s Bi-Polar fit better with my train of thought, but my brain balked at the “Roy” part. There’s no Roy here, we had just come back from our Sunday walk. We take dogs, kids, we find kingfishers, egrets, black-eyed susans, coots, tortoises, sometimes an alligator. We come back panting and happy, no matter the weather. Allen is twelve this year, his mom says that’s his last one syllable year, and he’s the king of non sequiturs. We talk about the flood of 1971, school board elections or Leon Redbone, and Allen cuts in with “It’s really stupid that squirrels don’t swim, cause if they did, they’d be a lot faster than dogs.” I love Allen.

Back in the last century when I was a kid, I went to a party with an older sister. Someone passed me some acid, I swallowed it, then started remembering that I really didn’t have time for an all night event. I had work the next day, and oh yeah, I was there with my sister, and somebody put on some old 8mm porn films. I started getting a little freaked, and someone introduced me to Phyllis who told me she knew somebody who had some thorazine we could get if things got too intense. She was driving an auctioned cop car painted lime green, so I jumped in and we left. Over the years we’ve been through a lot of shit. Her mom had spent years in and out of mental institutions, had been the beneficiary of 1950’s electroshock therapy, her dad seemed to lose limbs at an alarming rate, her brother died of AIDS, and after giving her two children, her husband began bringing home produce he found in dumpsters. Through it all Phyllis has been a rock. We were once in the middle of nowhere, her piece of shit old car had lost the engine mounts for the generator. She fished around in the trunk, found an old lead rope, tied the generator to the frame, and we somehow made it back to civilization. She was just that kind of person, but in recent years, she had stopped taking my calls. I was broken-hearted at first. I mean, I held her knees while she delivered her second son, because her husband was off howling at the moon when she went in to labor. Her dogs moved in with me for a time when she lost her house and had to move to her parent’s apartment. Who the fuck is she to give Me the boot? The grapevine says things are only getting worse in Phyllis’ life, her last boyfriend died last year, I sent a note of condolence, and didn’t hear back. Two of her three children have been diagnosed as manic depressive I hear. I’m sad, but the distance is growing more comfortable for me.

Last week, I get a phone call from Karla. Karla has remained close with Phyllis and her family. She lives in a leaky single-wide trailer on the fringes of rural Cracktown. In the leaky trailer, she has four cats, three dogs and a grand piano. Not a baby grand. In the yard are a retired show jumper, a worthless old mix-breed horse, two ponies and a miniature horse. She is some level of soprano in the community choir, and has just enough of a trust fund that if nothing goes really awry, she doesn’t have to work, which is a good thing, because you can’t quite picture the work environment that would, um, value her skills. Last job I remember hearing about was a barmaid in a blue-collar dive. I can’t imagine that the clientele appreciated her views on Shostakovitch. So. The phone rings, it’s Karla. She’s heard my husband’s new CD on the Sunday morning radio show, and would like to buy a copy. My husband says they’re selling it online, Karla says I don’t have a computer. So I say why don’t you come over for supper on Sunday, and she says “Well I’d love to, but I’m going to New Orleans for Pagan Week on Sunday. I couldn’t book the place I usually stay, so I wound up getting a place that’s pet friendly, so I’m taking one of my cats.” Well alrighty then. Instantly intrigued I say “Okay, how bout Saturday?” See I don’t actually have those instincts that most people have. I want to hear this stuff. My daughter is horrified. I say, “Go find something else to do then.” She won’t. She stays and stares. I don’t think it’s the witch aspect, or the crazy part, it’s that when my kid answers the phone, Karla starts in talking without letting her tell that she isn’t me.  So Karla arrives, we eat, we talk politics, she tells raucous stories about her terrible neighbors, she tells that the reason for going to Pagan Week is to connect with a woman who runs a prison literacy program. She tells her health stories, she’s battled thyroid imbalances, been through menopause, had a massive heart attack, and manages her bi-polar disorder with weed.

So I feel uneasy. As the evening goes on, I’m feeling proselytized.  I think she’s trying to mend some fences between me and Phyllis. I tell her, we aren’t really in touch any more. I say that was years ago. I say it broke my heart, but now I’m done. I’ve learned to do without the drama and comedy that comes with having nutzoid friends. It’s not that I’m shopping at Talbots or anything (omigod, I am so totally wearing a pair of twill Talbots pants! Who the fuck am I? But they’re a good fit, and well made), but I kind of like a more conventional life.

This is where we got 17th century water tests. Some of our womenfolk go along on a different path. We don’t take shit off our asshole neighbors. Our menfolk have died or wandered off. We take in too many strays. Menopause tells us that the stuff that matters to the cultural leaders doesn’t amount to much of any importance. We might like to stay up late and sleep till two. Some of us howl at the moon, and others of us back very timidly out of the circle.