I expected death, but it didn’t come. It didn’t even brush by my face and so my skin is sort of puckered in wait. I am leaning into the wind, but feel only a slightly cooler air than usual. The right temperature for an autumn day.
Bird by bird, bean by bean.
I am remembering other days. I am remembering a day in college, the first time I had Chipotle, and was there with my new friends and was learning and was feeling and had a solitary sense of joy of life. It has been a long time since I’ve known such unfettered joy. Maybe. Maybe I’m forgetting things. I probably am. There have been a hundred thousand little instances of kindness, of connection, of humanity, of absolutely ghastly black hilarity that I’ve no right to be able to conceive of, of being comforted and being comforting and fannish things and it is easy to forget.
When I look at the wall, what is right in front of me on this bed which I have to make, I see the top of my guitar, I see some haphazard silk flowers which could do with a dusting and refresher but they are giant and necessary and have some long feathers which I find equally necessary, and there’s the box for my ukulele which is actually sitting right next to me on the bed, there’s my Tarot cards, there’s my illuminated map of Middle-Earth, there’s my jewelry box hidden by a dry-erase calendar that hasn’t been updated since January (or Janvier as I wrote at the time), there’s my Mickey Mouse ears embroidered with a blog avatar name (not this one), there’s my bookcase full of books to the point there are sideways ones on the shelf (The Road, Torch, The Complete Stories of Evelyn Waugh, Storm of Swords) along with a beer bread mix in a beer bottle, some exercise DVDs, more silk vinery, a painted top hat with an off-white feather sticking out the side, a poster for the Communion show I saw last year, some sugar-free margarita mix, some handweights, some pretty ceramic tablets with flowers, and a rose photograph from DeviantArt that I got framed, a bunch of plastic tubs filled with random bits and bobs, unburnt CDs, Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab imps, a giant dress with bodice, Christmas Cards, both sent and unsent, an electric candle to match the one to my right, pink sheers that drip on the floor.
At my parents’ house, the room I had never got painted. This wall is white, too, but I feel my presence in these things. I feel like it’s not quite finished or right, but I am home. More or less. Here is a place I can calm down and that’s what I need to do.
No trivia tonight. So I’m off for a bath and that small slice of life between nightfall and collapse. I am lucky, but I will keep my head low.
I think a few things are clear.