She woke up and in the chilled morning air, quickly pulled on her clothes. She looked outside at the flakes swirling down in the winter wind and bundled up in boots and coat and hat.
It was a snow day for the whole world around her, and the usual weekday routine was thrown off course completely. There would be no trains, no cars, few people. She went outside with the dog to enjoy the frosty solitude wrought by the storm.
She tensed alive against the cold and breathed in the pink hues of dawn. She listened to the intense quiet. She thought about her footsteps in the fresh snow, the dog jumping in the white drifts and nothing else.
She found herself amazed at – and grateful for – the vast beauty of this nothingness.
She was grumpy.
All day long.
She did try to make things interesting by popping in Disc One of her French language set during the morning commute :
Pouty lips fumbling over tricky sounds. Phlegm bubbling up in her mouth with throaty new words. Her mind shifting between driving carefully and thinking strangely.
Actually, now that she thought about it, maybe that’s why she was so grumpy. She was busy being French in America….
Sometimes, the tiny lizard thought she would lose her mind from the long commute. Little did she know she should have been more worried about the random high heel shoe or curious dog.
(No tiny lizards, real or plastic, were harmed in the making of this blog post)
she asked and
he answered and
she resolved never
to ask again because
she knew his answer
would always be
less than she wanted
and in time :
she asked and
she answered and
she resolved ever
to be her own question
and her own answer
would always be
what she needed
She was steeped in the practice of mind wandering, a realm within which she could draw out a different autobiographical sketch, one that didn’t include deeply held neuroses, nearly impenetrable fears of imperfection – or an overwhelming disgust of marshmallow peeps.
She had always wanted to be able to eat those cheery puffs of sugary happiness but for the total ICK of them.
In that moment, when deep down she wanted most to cry and rage, her emotions were muted by a thousand layers of familiar disappointment, like too many warm blankets lulling her into a mistaken comfort and eventually suffocating her feelings.
Tonight the past reached out
to let me know I had done something
right once – and that felt especially
good because the past is most often waking me from a dead sleep
to remind me of what I have done wrong.
I am not myself,
je suis charlie,
offering some small truth
without which I am
She has no idea who I am.
Actually, she has no idea who she is.
But neither do I – on both counts – so that makes two of us. I sit next to her and dwell on the meaning of existence
while she wastes away quietly, her body carrying her forward despite the absence of her mind – which is sometimes how I feel, too.
And I wonder which of us is dying.