damn little perfectionists.
(copied exactly as it was
Note: as I typed, I realized that most of what I wrote was really terrible.
I am fighting with myself over whether or not to post it...
maybe I'll post it, then write a new post immediately following...
tricky little thing, I am.
the clouds below me look like a bowl of spilled popcorn--
tiny things, spread over the neat, even checkerboard of midwestern farmland below me.
a perfect spot for skydiving...
hello Lake Michigan!
and now there are real clouds........
I could swear I smell a fresh peach right now.
an island with a sandbar tail--
looking like a conversation bubble in a comic....
I love possibilities--
beginnings, fresh & new. I believe that every minor decision impacts so much more than the obvious--pausing for a moment to glance up at a striking city skyline, for example, could lead so easily to a shifting of all the events of that day, and therefore negate the possibility of ever knowing what would have happened differently if that pause had been avoided--or had lasted longer. But really, I love the idea that each person I see, each stranger, has an unlimited potential to be anyone under the rainbow, until I meet them.
I look around at the world and wonder how it can be so different from one place to another. Cities all seem the same to me--because I don't know any one more than another. they all are big & busy...and dirty and fast and full. The country, though. The country is full of emptiness--which is not the same as loneliness. That seems more prevalent in cities to me. Green grass, rustling trees--
(this is a further rumination on a thought I mentioned last week in a post)
Zipper in the fabric of time--
Open it, step through, take a deep breath. I would look around, and my surroundings would come into focus--my mind would create them, and being believing in them in waves, in the moments to follow. There would be trees, and a waterfall. Birds chirping, butterflies lazily wandering from flower to fragrant flower. I would almost giggle at the serenity of it, the scene-from-a-movie quality, but just as the giggle formed, my conscious mind would finish the transformation from creator to blissfully ignorant occupent, resident, inhabitant, and the giggle would turn gently into a yawn. Stretching, this new me looks around. She is looking for someone. She doesn't know who, or that she is looking, but when he steps into the clearing, her whole body--straight on through from her heart to her soul--feels it, knows it. He is what she was waiting for, he is the reason she came here--even though she doens't remember being anywhere else. Their eyes meet. He blinks, not knowing quite where he is, and the landscape shifts slightly. He is changing it as he enters more fully into his new body, in this new location. She is walking toward him
I lose myself too easily, which is why I have to be constantly aware of the changes in my environment & self.
I should warn you that this is a love story. The epic proportions of it may overshadow the simple, quiet truth of it, but don't be distracted. The core of this tale is the most beautiful perfection to ever be played out by human characters in any story, imagined or real. This story happens to be real. Though real, this story has no discernible beginning and hasn't yet entirely ended. A good startging point, however, would be that June morning. Typical? Sure. Typical at a glance. The birds were doing their thing--singing, chirping, etc, the breakfast dishes were rinsed and resting in the dishwasher. My coffee mug was half-full, and the house was quiet. There was no plan, no forethought--no warning, as my family would shockedly agree. I shook the last of my shoer from my hair and stretched, almost yawning. It could be argued that this incomplete yawn was the proverbial straw, breaking a 37-year-old housewife-shaped camel's back, but I'm not entirely sure that there were enough other straws already in place to allow for such a thing. Or maybe it was the week before, when my birthday was forgotten by my whole famly. That stupid day. I'm sure you've heard it all before--the housewife who devotes her life to her family and gets sick of getting nothing in return? Well, that was not me. I had heard it before, too, and it didn't strike me as a way to live. Me, I preferred the idea of enjoying every day of my life while making my famly as happy as I could. It was working out pretty well for me, and the birthday incident wouldn't have left much of a bruise if there hand't been a much deeper injury festering. Yes. I'm taking my time in working back to the first step I took away from my life. It isn't simple, this part of the story--the prologue.
To journal is to add ink to memories before they've yet left the present, before they've faded. Having let the truest nature of journalling lapse--my habit of daily writing going to practice for fiction and chatter about silliness, the memories have taken on fuzzy edges, many of them flying away on the wind, entirely lost.
(some lyrics of Jack Johnson I jotted)
There's no combination of words
I could put on the back of a postcard,
no song that I could sing but I could try for your heart.
It was not a dark and stormy night--but I would end up wishing it had been. It was, in fact, the tail end of sunset--twilight--when I finished fighting with my father. I stomped and slammed my way out to the driveway, discovering that I had no shoes, no car keys. Since returning to the house would have underscored my heartily-held position of victory, I continued on. The gravel scraped at my feet, but soon I reached the smooth pavement, still warm from the last rays of sun. With each fight I was getting stronger, and it had been months since he had dared to hit me. I was wearing him down with words--someting I would not have thought possible only a year before. I padded my way along in the fading light--little forethought or worries in my head. I had won another battle, and if his drinking didn't kill him soon--
Well. The sky was streaked with so many beautiful colors, and a gentle breeze made the trees whisper. I lost myself in the quietness of it and tried to find some peace inside.
well, there it all is.
it sucks, but then...
so do I.