Hannah Gadsby’s “Nanette”

 

The other night I watched “Nanette” on Netflix. It’s billed as a stand-up special from Australian Comic Hannah Gadsby. I had heard she tied art history into her routine and I was intrigued. I like art. I like history. I like comedy. Win-win-win.

 

When I tell people to seek out “The Babadook” because it’s a deep, philosophical take on traditional horror films, I’m not wrong. But to suggest it is merely a deep, philosophical take is bullshit on my part. It’s scary. It’s supposed to be, granted, but my underselling that aspect is still bullshit. I’m telling you this because for anyone to tell you “Nanette” is merely a stand-up special is also bullshit. It’s funny, yes. But I’m not going to lie to you and tell you it’s only funny. Because it isn’t.

 

And I’m wrenched by that. I knew while I was watching “Nanette” that I was bearing witness to something daring. Something smart and moving. And yes, something funny. Gadsby’s humor is intelligent and biting. And I loved that part of this special. But I also loved how honest and real “Nanette” is. It broke me. It actually left me sobbing, friends. Gadsby somehow touched on all the colors of my soul, the lights and the darks. Honestly – I can’t remember any comic ever moving me the way Hannah Gadsby did with her “Nanette.”

 

When I finished watching, I turned to Mister and said, “That may have been the best TED talk I’ve seen in recent memory.” And it was. It is. I’m telling you this, not to discourage you from watching, but precisely because I think you should watch “Nanette.” I just want you to know that if you do, you’re in for so much more than comedy. Your funny bone will be tickled. But don’t be surprised if your heart cracks open a bit, too. That’s nothing to fear. It’s just the ache of making room for more love.

 

How I wish everyone could feel that ache.

Living With an OCD Ghost

 

I’ve been open about the fact (fact!) that Mister and I live with a ghost. Miss Harmon is mostly laid-back, but once in a while she becomes a wee bit assertive. When that happens, we I do my best to acknowledge her and send some attention her way. It mostly works, and peace is generally kept.

 

With Miss Harmon, it’s easy. With other ghosts, not so much. In working through the nut-job bullshit that makes up my life, I very often forget just how many ghosts are floating around in my psyche, futzing about and causing a general ruckus. Sometimes the ruckus is anything but general, and I lose whatever weak grip I have on my sanity and only when I remember the root causes of my thinking/feeling/hurting, am I able to cease wobbling and find some semblance of balance. Ghosts. They’re little assholes sometimes.

 

But that’s not what I’m writing about today. Today I want to share a recent Miss Harmon experience, as that broad can be a little persnickety. Case in point – when an orchid plant in the house reached the time of dropping its blossoms, logic would have seen said blossoms falling randomly to the floor. But when Mister and I found the withered blooms, they had been arranged in a perfect arc. I don’t have any idea why that was necessary, but I don’t have to know. That’s Miss Harmon’s business. I just have to clean up her messes. Like I said – little asshole.

 

Living With a Very Particular Ghost