Stay on the road. Keep going. That was the message I am taking away. I’m taking it under my arm and sheltering it through this storm.
I can do things if I can allow myself to do them like hell. Let them happen as monstrosities happen, flapping and flailing to everyone’s aghast expressions. We see the faces, we don’t know what’s in the heads. I can do them if I can do them illogically. Irregularly. With reproach from within or without. Not perfect, not right, not gliding, not pearlized, not gleaming and slick with ell sounds.
Therapy was good. It was good because it was depressing and deflating and it drew me up from the bottom of the river to sit on the top, float with it as it moves again. Not flying in the heaven cities above the river, not stuck still as a rock rounded off in its bed, eroded by it, but moving as it moves. A hundred thousand gallons a minute.
When I said that one of the worst compulsions when I drive is to stop. Even in the middle of the street when I feel myself start to leave my body. To stop and gather myself in case one hair falls out of place as we raft down 32nd, so that I remember to breathe. When I said that, she said that was the lesson. I can do this messily, I can be bad. Have bad days, but continue on this journey. Keep going. Stay on the road. And today, I half-did it. I kept going, but stopped, but kept going. Imperfectly. I didn’t use my logic to fly up, I didn’t use my heart to sink me down, I just went.
So tip your cup to this brave ol’ girl. Standing here at the mouth of hell and listening to it sing. Opening my own throat to sing with it. Ride this river, too.
Now, the rains have come after a screaming, sinister thunderstorm. Lightning still flashes intermittently. The hail comes again, angry. Gushing, pouring, sobbing sky, a bleeding Niagara overhead. I am wanting to write on this story because people in group want to hear it and I am nothing if not a glutton for a few kind words, though I find the pattering and clattering euphonious and distracting as it plays behind Laura Marling.
I am tired.
Everyone wants to know where it begins, but it that doesn’t seem to matter so much as it did. It did and it spilled out in a hundred different directions so if we care about it…whatever it ever was, we have to care about all of us who were drenched by it, made to turn a hundred different ways than we might have without it. It’s fate, it’s water, it’s somebody else’s river.
It’s not so far off. Tomorrow’s Friday. That’s good. The rain will eventually stop. I have a book or two to read. I have a story to work on. I have an email to send. I have