|
|
|
["Lucky James: he died as he had lived, his pen in his hand."]
My mom used to tease me for never knowing when to let go. Like so many other instances where she was completely right, I fought her blindly. They say babies don't come with instruction manuals, but I think mothers have blueprints in their souls for just knowing things. Like how I should have tried to get tickets for the train earlier. Or how I would miss them. Or how tender I am.
So tender, there's a rub. Imprinted in me is every person I ever spent time thinking about. And I can't help but think about him, or her, or he and she. Depending on what mood the day finds me in, I may be upset, or lonely, or filled with a nervous anxiety. Today, I am exhaustingly happy.
And so this is a good day for me to wake up to several revelations. Because I can now listen to track two, on either of those cds, and not feel a pang of regret for things lost. Instead I can be absolutely adoring for this time, and elated at How Lucky I Am.
And now my eyes are opening gradually, and ever more alive to possibilities of life, and even as they are puffy from allergies from this strange spring, I see better every day. I always underestimate the experience factor, like with my mom, and dismiss my intuition when my mind tells me to.
But being able to see that I am seeing more, being able to admit that, well, it makes it clearer who I am talking to. Their motivation, their truth. I can tell a fickle nature better now than I could before, and I can recognize when sometimes I have the upper hand. I can also see when I don't need it, and when I'm holding on to whisps of air, and when I can open my fingers and feel nothing and smile. Now I can use my hand as a positive tool like I never could, and this is all very fascinating, isn't it?
I had an interesting weekend, full of firsts. ( ). I can't say enough how desperately alive I feel, but this past few days have been spent clawing at reality and smiling with open arms. The weather is getting warmer.
I want to move around! I want to do all of it, everything I wanted to and never knew about before. I want to open that door at the 6 corners and tell someone inside how the place gave me a jolt. I want to listen to that lost voice as I pedal as hard as I can and then fall—free—down the hill. I want to read that whole building, eat it up inside me. I never want to let go of her hand, as she travels millions of miles away to start new. I'll be their vicarious occasion, sit on the lawn at Randolph and Michigan and watch "Roman Holiday." I make it my business to learn how to skip work, or deal with uncertainty. I'll laugh so hard at that comment that you will laugh to, and wonder why you said it at all. I'll make out wildly at the front of a party, and then stay in on a Saturday night to watch the cars go by and make up stories about their lives. I'll steal a boat, and then bring it back, and it will be changed for the better too. I can't wait to see his, or his face, and feel what it feels like to have finally let go, clean slate, to be finally sure. I can't wait to open up to something else, and feel what it feels like to hold on loosely. I can't wait to apologize, and get ready to change this hum-drum conundrum.
You're beautiful, I'll always remember that.
I'm beautiful, and if I'm gone, it doesn't matter who remembers that. My fingerprints are in the shape of a circle on the window.
["He looked", she told me, her voice trembling in disbelief, "just like an ordinary person."]
|
|
