Every morning on my walk to work, I pass an imaginary road silently slipped between the harsh, lined streets of 2006 Saturns and Craigslist bicycles, whose drivers wait for nothing but the rotation of wheels they know every morning. The road they never seem to see is stretched with cobbled mosaic worn smooth and brown with age though no one has ever walked it, and the trees it’s lined with stoop like old men under the weight of golden apples unpicked, left pale from the day’s first breath. Every morning the light hits this road differently than it does the other streets that you and I and they have all crossed; this path, placed directly on the pulse of dawn, shimmers with the light of a thousand unseen lanterns nestling beneath the stonework. The path with its glow and the pregnant fruit trees asks for me every morning, coaxing me to step sideways just once. And every morning I force my sleepless feet to fall into the scuffed footprints I left the day before and the day before that, enduring my march towards cash registers and unscrubbed floors and the things that need me to keep walking.
Funny how a few sleepless hours and a batch of bad thoughts can turn you into a cynic overnight.
It’s at the times when I’m most alone- just me and a Monday-night, too-spiked drink, wading chest-deep through college papers, no texts for hours- that I unexpectedly remember how much this bittersweet solitude means to me.
I’ve been told, nearly verbatim, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” When I explained to a close friend my most recent set of elaborate plans, she told me in awe that “You’re crazy! You always seem so sure of yourself in the most complicated places.” I can never tell if these things are said to me out of concern, or respect, or bafflement. I can rarely tell what the hell it is that I’m looking for.
From moment to moment, I’m at a loss. Within each of those moments, though, is confidence: confidence and thrill and peace of mind. “You don’t adapt well to change,” they say. Who needs adaptation when I have such a talent for catalyzation? I instigate outlandish schemes so rapidly that I’ve never had to worry about “adapting” or adjusting, because there’s no time to pause and consider one before I’m already hitching my broken-down wagon to the next.
All of these isolate experiences- fashion school, Philadelphia, getting in cars with strangers and wandering unfamiliar streets- collectively amount to some sort of absurd, wonderful, exasperating quality I don’t think they’ve created one tidy adjective for yet. It provides me the kind of spirit you find charming yet can’t help but roll your eyes at, shaking your head amusedly and inwardly thanking God your head’s screwed on a little tighter than that.
I say that if my head was half as loose as it is, I wouldn’t be able to turn it nearly as far.
…while I’m upgrading to a ‘real’ blog on Wordpress. Be back soon, I hope!
EDIT: My impatience exceeds the amount of time and energy my newer, more professional blog requires for start-up, so I’m going to resume (semi-) publicly scribbling out my thoughts here. At least, for now.
The beautiful thing about finding yourself cornered on the steepest, bleakest cliff you’ve ever met is that there’s nothing left to do but throw yourself off the edge and see what happens.
I play memories like best-loved records over and over, particular ones kept alive so that I can slip them over my head like a child’s blanket when I’m scared of the dark. Why do I need anyone now when I’ve got a stock-pile of ghosts waiting to be pulled out, dusted off and reconstructed on another night alone in my bed? I can get lost in memories for hours just by shutting my eyes and sinking backward, letting the past fold in upon itself and taking me with it. Re-imaginings might not gleam quite as brightly as the real thing, but with a little polishing on the hem of my nightshirt, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.
The past few months have been a lovely mess of chopsticks, train rides, forgotten photos, blistered feet, guitars, shared cigarettes, card games, late-night drives, spilled drinks, forehead kisses, oversleeping, hellos, goodbyes, getting lost and finding more.
It’s all so bittersweet, and I’ll never know if I did the right thing by coming back (or even leaving in the first place). I’ve traded a fridge full of 40s for one of skim milk and fresh fruit; traded a mischievous four-year-old for an even more mischievous puppy, and a city of anonymity for a small town of almost unbearable recognition. I’ve cried too much over boys who don’t care as much as I do, and never will. I’ve fielded embarrassment, disappointment, neglect with a canine loyalty, taking every blow with pride and gritted teeth and dishing it out just the same. And no matter where I am, I still feel like I’m missing something else. It’s incredible how quickly things can jump back and forth between beautiful and disastrous.
But don’t you dare think I would even dream of altering a single moment of it.
I will not become bitter. I will not become bitter. I will not become bitter. I will NOT become bitter.
Now keep on repeating it until you can make yourself believe it.
Midnight on my tired old porch, the back one with the white, flaking supports I promised to repaint years ago. Tonight I’m thankful for the thermos of liquor-bottle dregs wedged between my palms for giving me something to hold onto, and for the lazy rain polka-dotting my arms for the well-timed shot of tranquility.
