A Means of My Own Creation

The hard part is keeping my eyes on the road. Training my eyes on the yellow staccato that breaks up the road while focusing out of the corner, always aware of what might be on the other side of the window. It's like Russian roulette every time. I've ended up in the ditch running the length of the highway three times. Twice because of deer I was staring at but somehow didn't notice, and once startled by a rare passing car.

It's not that I'm a bad driver, I swear, it's this particular stretch of highway. Sort of. This jagged black tear through the silent hills outside of town. I've driven it a million times as a part of the ever present duty of a child to her parent. The first time it happened, I thought I must have been exhausted, hallucinating. One of the pipes under mom's place had burst sometime in the middle of the night, and she had called me panicking. I'm not a prissy thing, but I'm not exactly a plumber either. Still, I drove out there to see what I could do.

Silent, peaceful hills rolled by like midnight green sea as I drifted down the narrow road half-asleep, until an unlikely glimmer caught my eye. I'm not sure how, but it's instantly recognizable. The shifting gleam of moonlight on a roiling mane, the sheen of his coat down the arch of his neck, the glinting light reflecting in his eye. I stopped breathing in that moment. I was completely bewitched for those few, brief seconds as I took my foot of the gas and turned to look. As soon as I shifted my eyes he was gone.

Sure, I laughed at myself. I even spent the night out at the old farm, telling mom I wanted to be there when the real plumber got there in the morning to fix what I'd manged with duct tape, but really I was afraid of what I might, or might not see on my drive back.

After that first night my relationship with my mother changed, or at least the frequency of my visits did. I found reasons to go out there in the evenings, to take the chance to see him again. Sometimes I think I see something, but every time I turn he's gone.

Tonight, I'm careful. It's a cautious meander through the hills. I breathe deep and slow and try not to think about the hallucination I'm desperately seeking. It's warm out, so I've rolled down the window and my hair whips around my face. I'm only a couple of miles from the farm and my heart is breaking. I haven't even almost seen him. Nothing. And then I hear it, a steady rolling beat. I turn down the radio, worried I've gotten a flat, but the truck is gliding over the road. In the new quiet I can hear it better; the pinch of metal on asphalt, the rhythm, the deep harrumphing breaths. I chuckle quietly to myself. Of course my hallucination is shod, clinking metal shoes on the road. My eyes are watering as I force myself to look straight ahead. I force a deep breath as I take my foot off the gas and let the truck coast to a stop.

The rhythm breaks into the clip-clop of a trot, but I won't turn to the glinting reflections to my left even as the tears stream down my face. As the truck finally stills, I carefully shift into park, never breaking my staring contest with the road ahead.

My hand trembles as I slowly reach out the window, and my own breath catches when his warm, moist breath cascades over my palm. Suddenly my hallucination is very, very real. He nickers softly and rubs his silken, whiskery muzzle in my palm. I lose my staring contest with the road, closing my eyes in the exultation of this new reality. He nickers again and tosses his head, stepping back from my hand. I open my eyes and look at him for the first time.

He stands facing the truck door, ears forward, expression expectant. He's not black, which makes me pleased with my imagination, but he would be perfectly ordinary if he wasn't a figment of my own creation. He's perhaps bay, by what I can make out in the dim light, not more than sixteen hands, with a mane and tail not overly long, but not rigorously clipped either.

He nickers, tosses his head again, and pricks his ears forward once more, beckoning me. I didn't really think this would ever happen, but I move like my actions were long ago decided. I unclip my safety belt, turn off the truck, and slip out of the cab to meet him. He almost purrs as he rubs his face into my hands. I don't know how, but I know my truck will be found in the morning and I won't be here to explain it.

Please stop throwing grenades at my sun umbrella

Gentle moving water
sunshine
birdsong

WOOSH

dead fish float up like bubbles in the aftermath.


Life seems to tumble along and then suddenly explode every once in a while. I'm not into that whole "things happen in threes" nonsense, but a whole lot does seem to happen at the same time. I would really like life to present me with only one disaster at a time, but for some reason that seems like too much to ask for.

It's not really like grenade fishing, it's more like powerful rapids and swirling eddies, but my skills for navigating such treacherous waters are so poor that lobbing grenades in my general direction probably wouldn't hurt my chances.

Next weekend my brother is moving to Wisconsin, which for some reason he never bothered to tell me. He did have me edit and correct his resume, but why let me know that he got the job and is moving across the country? Sure, my feelings are a little hurt, but it's really great that he got the job. He'll be with his super-awesome girlfriend who just finished law school, and he'll be able to provide her with some support while she tries to get her feet under her. It's all well and good...except that our mom is having half of her colon removed the following Wednesday.

My father is not a great, or even good nurse. His worry makes him restless and short-tempered. I need to go up to Dallas that weekend to help get mom settled in to recover. It would be easier if Colin still lived near them, but we'll all make do. I'm worried that I may have to take extra time off depending on how the surgery goes (I am telling myself that everything will go swimmingly), but I don't really have extra time to take.

And it's Edmund's birthday that weekend. If there is any man who deserves a great birthday, it's him. A great birthday would not involve a trip to the great vacuous metropolis. It would involve Schlitterbahn, a nice dinner, presents and fun. I am not exactly sure how we will fit all of these things into the same weekend.

Oh yeah, and my truck still hates me. She may or may not want to make the trip.

So that's the bitch part of this ramble. Bitching about it won't change anything, so we will try our best, and do what we can. Either Edmund will come with me to Dallas or the universe will align in my favor and I will finally beat him at Rock Paper Scissors, winning the right to take his car to Dallas.

If I have to take extra time off, so be it. I'm looking at going up every weekend or every other weekend for the first couple of weeks, but if things don't go as well as possible in surgery I will stay with my parents. Perhaps I can tug on my boss's heartstrings. Doesn't she hope that when her daughters are grown they will come home to take care of her if she needs major surgery? I feel like it's a legitimate line of reasoning.

We can go out to dinner in Dallas for Edmund's birthday, and hopefully we can go to Schlitterbahn the next weekend. It's not perfect, but what is?

With all of this awesomeness going around, I keep coming back to a video Edmund shot while we were moving him into the apartment. We were tired and sweaty and almost finished when Pudgy decided to help. It still makes me laugh, so I'm going to probably be watching it a lot over the next few weeks.

Just tonight, let me believe that you will

Day 26

It's the pain of always. It's the years of fights about how my best friend should have the surgery that might make him a cripple. I have begged, reasoned, fought and swore for years.

It might finally happen. He will be crippled by his neck injury if he doesn't, but he has always put off the surgery that might make him whole, just in case it does cripple him.

Finally, there is a real chance. He's actually open to it. He has a girlfriend who loves him. It could happen. I almost can't hold myself in, for the hope of his future.

There is no greater hope, than that one you love will be able to meet their potential. It hurts, how much I want it. I want to never see him favor one side of his body again. I want the pain gone. I want his freedom. If I'm wrong, I am more than willing to give up my own. Tonight, I heard the best chance he's ever had. I could suffocate if he doesn't take it.

Swords in the forest

Day 15 Assignment

One swift slice across his complexion
The blood drips slowly down his face
As if he does not know death
But all the dead bleed slowly
His open skull asking
Who can really die
When none truly
Honestly
Really
Live

Try

Day 9 Assignment

When I first read today's assignment, I thought "what philosophy?" It seems sometimes that my philosophy changes moment to moment. Sometimes I'm cautious, careful and thoughtful. Sometimes I'm impetuous, thoughtless and brazen. Not just swinging between extremes, but all across the field of possibility. I had to think about how the variety of ways I act and react are connected.

I think my philosophy might be to try. I don't understand statements like, "don't try; do." Everything takes effort, and sometimes failure is just as dazzling as success. For other pieces of life, there simply is no "doing." Instead I must continually keep trying. Other times, it is finding the courage to try again. My most surprising joys and jaw-dropping failures have almost always occurred because I tried something new.

I dislike myself the most when I feel like I didn't try. Or I didn't try harder. Or I didn't keep trying. Perhaps I have low expectations. I don't expect to succeed often, but the opportunities I don't try to take end up eating at me. I'm able for forgive myself a little more if I can say that I tried.

Sometimes it's difficult to even try at all. I'm trying right now to correct both some bad habits and a disregard for my own health which, if left unchecked, would take my kidneys, my eyes and my life. It's ridiculous that this is difficult to try, but I frequently feel like I'm fighting myself...that I don't want to try. I have to keep reminding myself that I do. That trying is a victory in and of itself. I sometimes have to remind myself.

Even if I don't succeed, at least I tried.

Movies have soundtracks, life is on shuffle

Day 7 Assignment

I am terrible at creating play lists. My iPod is almost always on shuffle, bringing me random surprises throughout the day. I think a soundtrack for my life would be the same way. I mean, I have some idea of what would play, but just like life it would shift and change without notice.

There would be a lot of Iron and Wine, but only from The Creek Drank the Cradle, Our Endless Numbered Days and Around the Well. Those songs are all warm evenings outdoors, summer days swimming and joy. I've been told this music is sad...but I don't understand that. It's calm and blissful for me.

There would also be a lot of Max Richter, for quiet time alone, mild sadness and for the person I wish I was. Someone who leaves things unsaid.

The Presets' I Go Hard, I Go Home would be there for mania and dancing...sometimes at the same time, sometimes not. Leslie Hall's Gem Sweater and Zombie Killer would be there for personal embarrassing ridiculousness. Calla's It Dawned On Me would be there just because it's my fight song.

Add to that a smattering of 80's pop for friends and fun and silliness, and I think that about covers it. Except of course that songs I never dreamed would be there will pop up from time to time, changing the rules and my expectations.